My Writing

Source

I've been writing a lot over the last couple of weeks, although I haven't yet achieved my target of 1000 words a day, which equals 3 novels a year of  roughly 120,000 words each.  Although I have high hopes of reaching that target soon, as I settle down to retirement.  Even what I have written does mean that I have been able to post a new Majorca Flats episode almost every day.  It's gratifying to see my readers returning.  You've been very patient.  Thank you.

I've almost reached the end of Majorca Flats.  Perhaps another 20 episodes, and then we will have the climax that I've been planning since quite early on.  Not that there aren't several strands to the story--my characters insisted--but this was an important thread.  A gay serial killer, driven to his crimes by internalised homophobia and rape as a boy, entering, and never really leaving the lives of my people.  I wanted to write a story where even those who suffered most from life have hope and find someone to love.  And I wanted it to be convincing.  Happy-ever-after stories need to have the angst and sorrow and suffering but they also need to have convincing pathways out of these situations.  I don't know whether I've done that.  I suspect I will change a lot when I rewrite it.

It will be very strange finishing the tale of these friends and their families in and around a late 19th century Melbourne Victorian Terrace.  When I write, the characters in my novel become my friends, my acquaintances.  I know them.  They tell me in no uncertain terms, no, I'd never do that, or are you crazy? or c'mon, give me a break!  So I shall miss them.

I might go back to do a second volume, but not yet.  I have so many other stories, some requiring rewriting and some requiring just writing--the first draft isn't even done!  I think I will start with ElvenSword.  That was the first novel I wrote, and they say you should write your first novel and then throw it away, because it's with your first novel that you learn the basics of your craft.  I didn't throw it away and perhaps I should have.  Anyway, it needs intensive rewriting, more than any other of my novels.

Here is a list of my novels, some completed, some unfinished, and some needing rewriting:

ElvenSword
DemonThrong
AngelFire
I Get No Kick From Champagne
Footy
Zing Went The Strings Of My Heart
Majorca Flats
The Music Of Love
Dragon's Gift

Nine altogether.  I had no idea I'd written so much, even without counting the short stories.

As I redo each chapter of ElvenSword and DemonThrong, and as I finish AngelFire, I will post the new or rewritten chapter to my website (the WordPress one).  I'll let y'all know here on this blog, and on my website, and on my groups when I do post a new chapter.

One thing I've worried about is whether I have too much sex in my stories.  To be honest, sex scenes are hard to write, at least for me. The pathway between being turned on and finding it silly or risible or just dull is narrow.  However,  sex is a central part of our lives.  Not writing about it is to accept the religious narrative that it is somehow wrong or dirty, and it most emphatically is not.  It's OK to write about murder (Dorothy Sayers or Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh, for example) but not about sex.  Yet we all have sex, often (well I hope we all do!) but none of us has murdered any one.  Sex and sexual attraction is a central part of our lives.

I knew that my sex scenes, especially the gay ones or threesomes would consign my books to one small shelf in the bookshop, even the virtual one, but I felt it would go against my principles not to write them.  Yet recently I read C S Pacat's trilogy--Captive Prince, Prince Rising, King's Gambit--which received rave reviews and were satisfying reads.  The sex in this trilogy is explicit and gay, and she's been published by Penguin, no less.  She's also a Melbourne writer like me.  So I've decided that my sex scenes will be fine.  Things have changed a lot since I began writing, fourteen or fifteen years ago.  The little niche I inhabited hasn't quite expanded to a cavern.  But it's surely bigger than it was.  Even so, I shall probably write less explicit sex scenes in future if only because they take much longer than anything else.

Anyway: there you are.  I'm writing, and I will be writing more.  Thank you all for being so patient over the last five years.

Cadit gladius

The sword falls.

I'm to finish work on 14th of July.  My overwhelming emotion is relief.  But I am angry too.  My boss refused to give me redundancy (severance) pay.  We agreed instead that I would work until the end of September, which is (as my mom used to say) better than a slap in the face with a wet fish.  But then he discovered that by law he has to give me long-service leave, which is one week for each year that you've worked for your employer.  And I've worked for him for 12 years.  So he then said that he couldn't pay me for 3 more months and also give me the long service leave I am entitled to.   So I am to finish in 2 weeks time, but will be paid up until the end of September.  His meanness and parsimony are extraordinary: I know how much I bring into the firm, and I know how I helped build up the firm in the early days.  I was so angry when he told me this that I left the office immediately and went home.

I don't know who is going to do the work that I used to do, and who will look after the clients.  Since I like some of them, I worry.  From now on, though, they're his problem.

I'm on leave this week, and already feel more relaxed than I've felt for ages.  When you're totally focussed on your work, it's hard to write, because you don't have the emotional or physical energy to create.  Making up a world and the people who inhabit it takes emotional energy.  And I've been so determined to do a good job at work that I concentrate hard on what's happening in economies and share markets.  When I write I often run scenes and chapters through my mind.  How will the plot develop from now?  How will this character interact with that one?  When I'm working, I'm concentrated on doing my job properly, not thinking about my characters and their lives.  Well, that's over!

So, I've started writing again.  I'm writing 200 words a day of Majorca Flats.  And already my mind is filling with new plot developments, new episodes, and ways to bring all the story threads together.  It feels wonderful!

This beach at the hamlet of Walkerville, is a 35-40 minute drive from our new house.  I'm looking forward to visiting it often.

Depressed ....

.... about my writing.  Or, actually, about my not writing.  I once really believed that I would always write, that I had to write, that I would be in some sense a writer.  I had no illusions: I knew I wasn't a great writer.  Just competent. But my characters spoke to me.  They were real.

Now they are silent.  I don't know whether it was the whole Henrik thing.  Or whether, being the aspie I am, that I've lost interest because I was always going to.  That it was just another of my obsessions, which as they all do, would pass.

I've just finished reading Richard K Morgan's "The Dark Defiles", and it is a quite remarkably good fantasy.  Very dark, very violent, very accomplished.  My writing is so tame compared with his.  I don't put my characters through the hell he puts his through.  And he's so fecking inventive.  Original.   His world sizzles with originality.   I'm in awe.   I hate him.  How dare he be a success when I am a failure!  :-)

 I've been trying to write Majorca Flats--it's just 20 or 30 episodes from the end--but I despair because they're not at my shoulder as they were, encouraging me to go on, or spread out across my sofas being slutty, or suffering and being happy and living as they used to.   It fascinates me how real my creations are--were--to me.  They were truly in some cases more alive than my real, living friends.  And now they are gone away.

Well, I think I must keep on trying, because once there was this pleasure and satisfaction, almost a lust for writing, for inhabiting the world my characters lived in, a world they created, not I, and perhaps it will come again.  Or maybe not.  What I really want to do is get back to ElvenSword and eviscerate it, to make it a fantasy which grabs you by the balls and the heart and keeps you up till 3 a.m. reading it.  I must make it happen, right?  But how?

Majorca Flats 25

The latest chapter of Majorca Flats posted,  here.

Twitter

The Twitter Grundies have suspended my account.  Don't know what sins I've committed.  Perhaps I mentioned the war.  Or something equally unimportant.  Perhaps I was too rude about Tony Tool (the new PM of Oz) and his band of bullies.  Too left-wing perhaps for the newly listed money machine, Twitter.

Anyway.

Voila!  Now I must write to fill my time instead of chatting with my Twitter mates.  Which is good news, because I will add lots of new stuff to Majorca Flats and my other stories.

Onwards and upwards.

All chapters of Majorca Flats...

... are now available here.

Episode 452 ...

... of Majorca Flats is here.

Writing

I haven't written anything, really, for a while.  Lots of reasons; health, depression, time.  But I am in writing mode again, have written several episodes of Majorca Flats, enough to post one a day for week, and in fact I'll be posting one later today.  Thanks for your patience.

Plus I'm working on another writerly project which has me really enthused.  I'll keep you posted.

Another episode of MF

Which used to be on this blog but now has its own home, here.

Back on track

I've spare time again.  At last.  So ...a  new episode of Majorca Flats, here.  My Twitter account, now with 400 followers, here.  Another episode of Music of Love later today (thanks for your patience!).

And meanwhile, a pic to keep you .... happy!

Majorca Flats

MF has shifted!  (As Ozzies say when they move house)

I've started moving it across to a new blog with for the most part just MF episodes, to make it easier to read.

You can now find it here.  And the latest episode is here.

Majorca Flats

I've written over 35,000 words of my soap opera, Majorca Flats.  That's between one third and a quarter of a novel.  I'm astonished.   I started it as an exercise to get me writing again and it's certainly succeeded.  Right now I'm working on issue 8 of Wilde Oats, but I'll be able to start posting episodes again in a couple of days.

Meanwhile, some hints of what's to come in the next 35,000 words:

• A revelation about Jason. The truth at last!
• Cody's back at his old tricks (tricks being the operative word)
• Somebody really evil comes into the story.
• Jason gets into trouble with the immigration authorities. Will he be deported?
• Eleanor Cumberledge needs help.

I don't know from day to day where each episode is going.  The characters tell me in no unceratin terms what's going to happen.  I'm a mere scribe.  That's what I enjoy about it.

Majorca Flats -- 37

Queen Anne's Lace

Jason was saddened by Luigi's life. He'd never really understood what it must be like to be such an outsider, to believe that a casual pick up was better than being lonely. He'd never felt that. There'd always been friends, and he'd never done the random pick-up routine. Not if you didn't count guys he'd met at parties. He'd met Brent at a drink-up after cricket one blessed Saturday summer afternoon. Brent had been a star bowler in the other team, a demon with a cricket ball, with a devilish spin. The other side had won mostly because of his aggressive bowling skill. The memory of that afternoon would stay with Jason always: the sleepy heat, the smell of beer and sweaty men, the scent of the wisteria over the pavilion, Queen Anne's Lace a creamy froth of white and apple-green choking the lanes, the click of ball against willow, and Brent watching him, his eyes full of expectation.

Wisteria (on left), Flame honeysuckle (on right)

He didn't know what to say to Luigi. He hadn't known what to say to Brent, either. So he said, “You're beautiful.” He didn't smile when he said it. He was too shy to look directly at him, so he looked at his perfectly flat stomach instead.

“More beautiful than your girlfriend?” Luigi's tone was mocking but when Jason looked at him his eyes were watchful. And sad. Very sad.

“Yes.” Jason didn't waver. “You're incredibly sexy, you know that?” This time he did smile. And it was true. Already he was starting to get a bit of a stiffie thinking about doing it again.

The watchfulness of Luigi's eyes lessened but the sadness remained.

“So,” Jason said, throwing caution to the winds, “can I see you again?”

[The second photo comes from this lovely blog about Saltaire, a model village built by a Victorian capitalist.  Would that the current crop of parasitical plutocrats also produce something at once as useful and as beautiful] 

First Majorca Flats post          Previous MF Post (#36)          Next MF Post (#38)

Majorca Flats -- 26

A masculine role model

But with this guy, he wanted to do the possessing, to ride him till they both climaxed, to have him, to fuck him silly. Was it because he was thinking of this man as a woman? He was embarrassed by this politically incorrect sentiment. Was he some kind of 1950s troglodyte, unable to set aside the outdated and incorrect cultural patterns of that homophobic era? Was he deep down no different to the squeaky-clean pastors threatening homos with fire and brimstone while secretly lusting after the altar-boys? A little ashamed, he turned to the other man, and said, “My name's Jason.”

The other gave him a sudden smile, accomplished but rather endearing anyway, and took another drag on his cigarette before saying, “Luigi.”

Jason smiled back at him, his shyness fading. His frank was as hard as ever.

“You want to come to my place?” asked Luigi, his whole bearing intimate and appealing.

Jason swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Jeez, it was almost as if this really was his first time. He nodded, unable to speak. Without being aware of it, he put a more masculine swagger into his step as they walked from the park.

First Majorca Flats post          Previous MF Post (#25)          Next MF Post (#27)

Majorca Flats -- 23

“Thank you, no, I don't smoke.” Some inner demon prompted Jason to put on his best upper class accent, plummy and orotund.

But it didn't drive away the other man. “Is it OK if I do?”

“Of course,” Jason said, embarrassed by his own embarrassment, and now as frigid as the Queen in the presence of an errant fart.

“You're English aren't you?”

Jason nodded, eyes averted.

The young man got up to leave. “I know you want it, you know. I saw the way you looked at me! I'm not blind!” His disdain was cutting.

This jolted Jason out of his funk. “Look, sorry, I was just, well, I was embarrassed, if you must know.”

The other man promptly sat down again, and drew hard on his “ciggie”. “You haven't done it before, then?”

“No,” said Jason, lying through his teeth. He was extremely unwilling to explain. That would involve going down roads he never wanted to travel again. “I . . . It's just . . . well, to be frank . . . .”

“Yeah, I can see your frank.” The man's dark, liquid eyes were sparkling with lust and amusement and malice. His gaze was firmly fixed on Jason's crotch.

First Majorca Flats post         Previous MF Post (#22)         Next MF Post (#24)

Majorca Flats -- 21

A man, in his late teens or early twenties sauntered past him, looking him boldly in the eye. Jason had come to terms long ago with his sexuality – at the public school he attended in England, in fact. He knew he was pretty much at the gay end of the spectrum, though he'd had a couple of girlfriends, and not only had he been close to them, but he'd had good relationships with them, and a good sex life too. But if he was allowed to choose, if the religious bullies left him be, he would prefer a man. And (he supposed he was perhaps typical of his class) he preferred rough trade. A manly man. Like Brent had been, even though Brent could be as tender and as loving as anybody in private, yet when straights found out he was gay, they were always surprised. Jason was always wryly amused that they were less surprised when they found out that he was gay.

The chap – who was now negligently strolling back along the path, towards Jason – was far from manly. Every gesture, every movement, his whole attitude was . . . almost feminine.  And he was stunningly beautiful.  No other word would do.

Normally, Jason wouldn't have found him the least bit interesting, but somehow he oozed sex and lust, and Jason felt himself respond, his whole skin suddenly electric with desire, his cock rigid in his boxers. So much for not wanting involvement!

First Majorca Flats post         Previous MF Post (#20)          Next MF Post (#22)

Majorca Flats -- 20

He got off the tram at a park which would not have been out of place in London: emerald grass dappled with the shadows of plane and elm-trees; those overly neat flower-beds beloved of park administrators everywhere; tarmac paths; wooden park benches; statues of the once great and mighty. He saw that the park had once had railings, just like a London Park, but only the holes in the stone plinth surrounding the park were left. He sat on a bench and watched the people go by, and thought. He tried not to think too hard, because nothing from the past he could think back on could bring him peace. And the future was too unsettled for him to think about that. Love; and Death; and Loss; and Sorrow. These were all forbidden subjects.

A woman, wearing an Islamic headscarf, baggy trousers like a pasha's, and the most exquisite embroidered slippers thickly decorated with sequins and pieces of coloured glass, tripped past, one child in a pushchair and the other tottering along behind her trying to keep up. A genial old man wearing baggy shorts and a weathered polo shirt, trailed by a Fox Terrier just like Bolt, ambled past in a sort of relaxed jog. Some young men, of various ethnicities, were playing soccer in a patch of brilliant green lawn, glowing from the sunlight. Monday morning. Free. Perfect.

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Majorca Flats -- 19

The tram swayed and rattled its way towards the down-town office area. Along the way it passed through streets lined with Edwardian houses, pavement cafés, pubs, bars, restaurants, clothes shops, book shops both new and second-hand. There was an Indian grocery with posters for Bollywood films in the window, an Italian bookshop called Scopo, a Greek video shop, the head offices of Kosmos, Melbourne's Greek Newspaper, a Lebanese pastry shop, a ladies' hairdresser called Euphrates . . . . every culture of the world seemed represented.

In some ways it looked oddly English. In others, the city reminded him more of some southern European city, warm and friendly, with its tree-lined streets and trams and pavement cafés. He heard Greek and Italian on the tram, as well as several Asian languages he didn't recognise. It was wonderfully exotic and interesting. People would stay on the tram for a few stops then get off, and new ones would take their place. Several men gave him that look which he'd come to know, but he avoided their attention. In a way though, he was pleased to see that he was still good-looking enough to draw some interest, even if he wasn't ready to take it any further.

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Majorca Flats -- 18

It was odd that Mrs Cumberledge had no other lodgers. Jason wondered why. After all, if she needed the money, presumably one or two other boarders would not be too great a burden and the money would make a difference. But maybe she simply wanted somebody in the house, so she wasn't alone. But then, why was the sign in the window so faded? He shook his head at his thoughts. What difference did it make? He would only be here for a few months.

 

After he'd stacked away the groceries he'd bought, he set out to explore. Mrs Cumberledge had given him a few suggestions of places to see, but before he did that he wanted to get the feel of the city. The street outside The Lord Grey had had tramlines running down the middle, and he waited at the tram stop on the side which seemed to lead towards the city. He could see the skyscrapers in the distance, about 2 or 3 kilometres away. When the tram came, he bought a three-hour ticket, and took a seat. He'd noted the number of the tram as he'd seen it approaching, and he'd memorised some landmarks at the tram stop so that he could find his way back.

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Majorca Flats -- 17

The next morning, Monday, he met Eleanor Cumberledge as he was making tea for breakfast in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mrs Cumberledge!”

“Good morning Jason. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you! And how are you, Mrs Cumberledge?”

“Fine, thank you. Did you sleep well?”

He had no intention of going into the details of his dreams which had been a mixture of the erotic and the terrifying, sometimes at the same time. “I'm sorry Bolt made such a noise when I came home,” he apologised. “I hope you aren't kept awake all night afterwards.”

“Oh, no.” But she was a bit vague, from which Jason deduced that he did in fact wake her.

“I've used some of your tea. I'll buy some of my own this morning.”

“Not at all!” she said warmly. “Don't worry about it.”

But Jason felt he ought to. He didn't know how much money she had, and obviously, if she had to rent out a room, probably not too much. “Where's a good place to buy groceries, Mrs Cumberledge?”

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