Andrew Hall's Blog - Posts Tagged "action"
Tabitha: Prologue
Slick petals writhed in the darkness.
Glowing. Feeding. Creaking open in their seeding.
The plant-mass burst in a bloodcloud. A newborn horror scrambled free. It was caught in a capsule; encased in jagged rock. A nightmare seedling; some cellular monstrosity. Carried at once to the firing ducts.
Beyond vile chambers and dim-lit arteries, past its ribbed walls and lurking labyrinths, a living spacecraft slid through the galaxy. A colossus; dark as the void and cloaked in shifting shadows. Crawling on towards a far blue-green world.
The ship’s limbs unfurled in awakening. Among its sea of vast scales, from a sudden small opening, shot a chunk of rock in a spurt of phosphorescence. The seedling.
It was viscous violet. Viral-violent. Nestled inside it,
Death.
[Sample continues in Amazon Kindle Store]
Glowing. Feeding. Creaking open in their seeding.
The plant-mass burst in a bloodcloud. A newborn horror scrambled free. It was caught in a capsule; encased in jagged rock. A nightmare seedling; some cellular monstrosity. Carried at once to the firing ducts.
Beyond vile chambers and dim-lit arteries, past its ribbed walls and lurking labyrinths, a living spacecraft slid through the galaxy. A colossus; dark as the void and cloaked in shifting shadows. Crawling on towards a far blue-green world.
The ship’s limbs unfurled in awakening. Among its sea of vast scales, from a sudden small opening, shot a chunk of rock in a spurt of phosphorescence. The seedling.
It was viscous violet. Viral-violent. Nestled inside it,
Death.
[Sample continues in Amazon Kindle Store]
The most important thing I ever learned about writing
The most important thing I ever learned about writing came from a Tokyo sushi master.
In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow the singular passion of Jiro Ono, an 85-year-old chef and restaurant owner, whose premises in a Tokyo subway station seats only ten.
But the man himself attracts fans, chefs and food critics from all over the world to dine at his seated bar; some wait almost reverently as their food is prepared and served. And while the quality of the ingredients and preparation are paramount, it’s really all about Jiro’s lifelong approach to his craft.
Read the following words from Jiro, as he talks about his role as shokunin (meaning craftsman, artisan, and worker; but also “someone with technical skill and the right attitude; possessing social consciousness; having a deep-seated obligation to fulfil the requirement of their role”).
To me, the following reads like poetry, because it’s so damn simple and sincere:
In these locked-down days, there’s no shortage of distractions to take our mind off things – including those things that truly matter, and that even fulfil our richest purpose and potential in this life.
But when I read Jiro’s words, and think of writing in this way, I’m filled instantly with envy and passion and peace, and simplicity and perfectionism and instant inspiration to start work immediately. I know I’ll never reach the peak of this profession, but I have to try. This is the only work that matters to me, and suddenly all I want around me are the tools of my trade, and some coffee steaming in the sunlight.
And I’m compelled to throw all distractions away, because suddenly all I aspire to is endless hours of writing and rewriting, and choosing only the most perfect words and punctuation for each line. To create the best possible stories I can. All else becomes immaterial.
When we can do that, we feel that elusive flow. There will always be struggle and worry, and the call of those distractions is a never-ending racket around us. Until we get into our writing, and only that.
When I remember to, I like to make certain practices a part of my daily routine. I’ll often forget them, but with that comes the joy of rediscovery – like the time I first heard of Jiro.
Today, I’ve just remembered him again – so I had to write his thoughts down. His words just seem too important to forget, and they feel to me like the most important thing I’ve ever been taught about writing. (By someone who, sure, isn’t a writer… but a craftsman all the same.)
(Also, if you'd like to know more about my stories, you can find them here in the Kindle store.)
I just want to share these following words with you, in case they’re helpful in your practise. Even better if you can make note of them, and try to read them every day. I’ll try too.
“I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
I may never achieve perfection,
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love writing stories.”
In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow the singular passion of Jiro Ono, an 85-year-old chef and restaurant owner, whose premises in a Tokyo subway station seats only ten.
But the man himself attracts fans, chefs and food critics from all over the world to dine at his seated bar; some wait almost reverently as their food is prepared and served. And while the quality of the ingredients and preparation are paramount, it’s really all about Jiro’s lifelong approach to his craft.
Read the following words from Jiro, as he talks about his role as shokunin (meaning craftsman, artisan, and worker; but also “someone with technical skill and the right attitude; possessing social consciousness; having a deep-seated obligation to fulfil the requirement of their role”).
To me, the following reads like poetry, because it’s so damn simple and sincere:
“Shokunin try to get the highest quality fish and apply their technique to it.
We don’t care about money.
All I want to do is make better sushi.
I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
Even at my age, after decades of work…
I don’t think I have achieved perfection.
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love making sushi.
I’ve never once hated this job.
I fell in love with my work and gave my life to it.
Even though I’m 85 years old…
I don’t feel like retiring.
That’s how I feel.”
In these locked-down days, there’s no shortage of distractions to take our mind off things – including those things that truly matter, and that even fulfil our richest purpose and potential in this life.
But when I read Jiro’s words, and think of writing in this way, I’m filled instantly with envy and passion and peace, and simplicity and perfectionism and instant inspiration to start work immediately. I know I’ll never reach the peak of this profession, but I have to try. This is the only work that matters to me, and suddenly all I want around me are the tools of my trade, and some coffee steaming in the sunlight.
And I’m compelled to throw all distractions away, because suddenly all I aspire to is endless hours of writing and rewriting, and choosing only the most perfect words and punctuation for each line. To create the best possible stories I can. All else becomes immaterial.
When we can do that, we feel that elusive flow. There will always be struggle and worry, and the call of those distractions is a never-ending racket around us. Until we get into our writing, and only that.
When I remember to, I like to make certain practices a part of my daily routine. I’ll often forget them, but with that comes the joy of rediscovery – like the time I first heard of Jiro.
Today, I’ve just remembered him again – so I had to write his thoughts down. His words just seem too important to forget, and they feel to me like the most important thing I’ve ever been taught about writing. (By someone who, sure, isn’t a writer… but a craftsman all the same.)
(Also, if you'd like to know more about my stories, you can find them here in the Kindle store.)
I just want to share these following words with you, in case they’re helpful in your practise. Even better if you can make note of them, and try to read them every day. I’ll try too.
“I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
I may never achieve perfection,
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love writing stories.”
Sky Queen: Prologue ('Astronautica')
A night-black shape, scarred and primal, cut past cold distant stars. Scales darker than the lonely void around it. The creature’s hard white eyes watched infinity slide by. Behind them, an animal mind churned in silent space. Forgotten furies. Raptures long remembered. What it was, and what it was not. The creature’s engines rumbled on; glowing pale ghostfire. Sailing on into the abyss.
Beneath its thick skin, in the cockpit around its heart, its human female lay in deathly sleep. Stone-still tentacles gripped the ceiling above her, dormant in the dark. The unmoving air, cold and glass-fragile, hung in silent hymn to the frozen shrine. Her clawed black hands and feet. Her body tucked and shielded, foetal-funereal. Blood-red curls. Eyelids twitching as she slept.
Black teeth grinned in the moonlit dark. A gliding blade, pushed in, soft as love. Tabitha's heart burst and sparked like a dead star. She woke up screaming and looked around at Seven's cockpit, gasping for sanctuary and the feel of her monsters. His face was still so clear; the blade so real. Scarier still were the feelings she could've had for him, once.
'Fuck you,' she sobbed quietly, hugging her knees to her chest in the pilot seat. Beyond the white flexing walls around her, Seven sailed on for distant stars in the lonely void.
>>>Click here to continue your free Sky Queen sample in the Amazon Kindle Store.<<<
Beneath its thick skin, in the cockpit around its heart, its human female lay in deathly sleep. Stone-still tentacles gripped the ceiling above her, dormant in the dark. The unmoving air, cold and glass-fragile, hung in silent hymn to the frozen shrine. Her clawed black hands and feet. Her body tucked and shielded, foetal-funereal. Blood-red curls. Eyelids twitching as she slept.
Black teeth grinned in the moonlit dark. A gliding blade, pushed in, soft as love. Tabitha's heart burst and sparked like a dead star. She woke up screaming and looked around at Seven's cockpit, gasping for sanctuary and the feel of her monsters. His face was still so clear; the blade so real. Scarier still were the feelings she could've had for him, once.
'Fuck you,' she sobbed quietly, hugging her knees to her chest in the pilot seat. Beyond the white flexing walls around her, Seven sailed on for distant stars in the lonely void.
>>>Click here to continue your free Sky Queen sample in the Amazon Kindle Store.<<<
Clutter: the power of tiny things in worldbuilding and fiction writing
Writing stories requires us to build worlds. It’s a conjuring spell; a kind of alchemy.
For the spell to work, we have to make this other world feel real. Play tricks on our readers’ minds and immerse them in it, even just for a moment.
But first we need to understand how people actually see the real world around them. How we see it ourselves. Once we can do that, we can replicate this “way of seeing” in the way we write fictional worlds too. This is how we suspend disbelief.
Think about it: we’re myopic creatures. Our brains are short-sighted. While we’re capable of big ideas and long-term thinking, it’s the small thoughts and short-term matters that make up the vast majority of our lives.
We think of the world as a vast endless place. But in reality, it’s six feet across. The few feet around ourself. In reality, life is lived one moment at a time.
Our real world exists at arm’s length. It’s made up of what we can taste and feel, then reach, then smell, then hear, then see. Maybe a sixth sense too, if our tangible world gets too boring. Each sense detects the world a little further, but everything extends and returns to the centre. Our higher brain, then our primal brain, but most of all our gut feelings. We are, first and foremost, an elaborate digestive system in search of food. That’s the primary reason that we sense the world around us. Our world is whatever’s within reach – and whether we can eat or drink it to stay alive.
But how does this relate to storytelling? Well, the real world, the world within reach, also possesses a pervading sense of the mundane. Most of the things around us don’t shock or excite us. We aren’t thrilled by the novelty of a pen we’ve owned for years. We can use this mundane quality to make our fictional worlds feel real as well, and relax our readers into strange places that are still somehow familiar. We can weave in the boring and everyday with the spectacular, to strengthen that spell. A fantastical world, but one we can relate to through its sights, sounds, smells, and objects. We add clutter.
Most of the time, we don’t see the world as a vast landscape. It’s one room, then another, then maybe a wide open space. While we’re entirely capable of big ideas and huge achievements, most of the time we’re living from task to task. Chore to chore, and person to person. And, crucially, from object to object.
We don’t just “cook dinner”. That’s the wider process. In reality, we wash vegetables. We use a knife. We turn the gas on, and boil it up, and stare out the window, and wonder about our life for a while. Maybe see a small dead fly on the sill or something. Then the dust on the frame. Then decide the window’s due for a clean. Grumble at the ads on the radio. Wonder why gas flames are blue. Hope the meal’s going to taste alright when it’s done. Use a pinch of salt, or a spoon.
The point is, we move through a world of fragmented thoughts and objects. Life’s a constant string of microscopic events. A smell, a sound, a thought. One after one after one. It’s only by building up these tiny events over time that we have what we think of as “life” or “the world”. It’s not one monolithic entity, a single slab of stone, but layers and layers of experiential sediment. To make our stories feel more real, we can use words to build up this sensory sediment of its own.
The more you can focus a reader’s attention, the more you’ll suspend their disbelief. To build a convincing world, try to clutter it up with tons of tiny things that the reader, through the character, can interact with. A tool, or a passing bug; maybe an ornament over a fireplace. A cough, a scratch, a sneeze while someone’s talking. The feel of itchy robes. Tons and tons of tiny things.
Building a world isn’t just about vast landscapes. Paint the trees or buildings in the middle ground too. Make them feel real with cracks and weeds, as if we could walk up and touch them, and bring all that huge world into short focus too. The stuff we know, and see, and could touch up-close.
Our minds are hungry, and they came into your story to eat. Lay out the whole fantasy banquet, but also give us the reward of that first bite. Lay out the wider meal, then zoom us in on the main platter. Cut us a slice. Tell us about the slight steam on that glazed roasted meat. The homely smell of it, warm and welcoming while the snow falls outside. Tell us how it’s dripping with a rich gleaming sauce. Give our senses the payoff, for paying attention to your words.
As writers it’s our job to present meaning through story. That’s why people read, because it’s also why people think. But let’s not beat our readers over the head with just the big ideas; the big meanings. Present the huge landscapes in passing, and then give people a closer look. Present the whole banquet of meanings, then give them a small single taste.
Walk with them slowly, right up close to the whole vast painting, and point out just one cherry in a bowl. That’s when we switch on their senses.
That’s when the fiction feels real.
I’ve been trying to achieve this with my own science fiction too. If you need a new read, you can try a free sample right here on Amazon. And please, do let me know if I’ve managed to do this, with the clutter in my stories – or what I should do to improve.
For the spell to work, we have to make this other world feel real. Play tricks on our readers’ minds and immerse them in it, even just for a moment.
But first we need to understand how people actually see the real world around them. How we see it ourselves. Once we can do that, we can replicate this “way of seeing” in the way we write fictional worlds too. This is how we suspend disbelief.
Think about it: we’re myopic creatures. Our brains are short-sighted. While we’re capable of big ideas and long-term thinking, it’s the small thoughts and short-term matters that make up the vast majority of our lives.
We think of the world as a vast endless place. But in reality, it’s six feet across. The few feet around ourself. In reality, life is lived one moment at a time.
Our real world exists at arm’s length. It’s made up of what we can taste and feel, then reach, then smell, then hear, then see. Maybe a sixth sense too, if our tangible world gets too boring. Each sense detects the world a little further, but everything extends and returns to the centre. Our higher brain, then our primal brain, but most of all our gut feelings. We are, first and foremost, an elaborate digestive system in search of food. That’s the primary reason that we sense the world around us. Our world is whatever’s within reach – and whether we can eat or drink it to stay alive.
But how does this relate to storytelling? Well, the real world, the world within reach, also possesses a pervading sense of the mundane. Most of the things around us don’t shock or excite us. We aren’t thrilled by the novelty of a pen we’ve owned for years. We can use this mundane quality to make our fictional worlds feel real as well, and relax our readers into strange places that are still somehow familiar. We can weave in the boring and everyday with the spectacular, to strengthen that spell. A fantastical world, but one we can relate to through its sights, sounds, smells, and objects. We add clutter.
Most of the time, we don’t see the world as a vast landscape. It’s one room, then another, then maybe a wide open space. While we’re entirely capable of big ideas and huge achievements, most of the time we’re living from task to task. Chore to chore, and person to person. And, crucially, from object to object.
We don’t just “cook dinner”. That’s the wider process. In reality, we wash vegetables. We use a knife. We turn the gas on, and boil it up, and stare out the window, and wonder about our life for a while. Maybe see a small dead fly on the sill or something. Then the dust on the frame. Then decide the window’s due for a clean. Grumble at the ads on the radio. Wonder why gas flames are blue. Hope the meal’s going to taste alright when it’s done. Use a pinch of salt, or a spoon.
The point is, we move through a world of fragmented thoughts and objects. Life’s a constant string of microscopic events. A smell, a sound, a thought. One after one after one. It’s only by building up these tiny events over time that we have what we think of as “life” or “the world”. It’s not one monolithic entity, a single slab of stone, but layers and layers of experiential sediment. To make our stories feel more real, we can use words to build up this sensory sediment of its own.
The more you can focus a reader’s attention, the more you’ll suspend their disbelief. To build a convincing world, try to clutter it up with tons of tiny things that the reader, through the character, can interact with. A tool, or a passing bug; maybe an ornament over a fireplace. A cough, a scratch, a sneeze while someone’s talking. The feel of itchy robes. Tons and tons of tiny things.
Building a world isn’t just about vast landscapes. Paint the trees or buildings in the middle ground too. Make them feel real with cracks and weeds, as if we could walk up and touch them, and bring all that huge world into short focus too. The stuff we know, and see, and could touch up-close.
Our minds are hungry, and they came into your story to eat. Lay out the whole fantasy banquet, but also give us the reward of that first bite. Lay out the wider meal, then zoom us in on the main platter. Cut us a slice. Tell us about the slight steam on that glazed roasted meat. The homely smell of it, warm and welcoming while the snow falls outside. Tell us how it’s dripping with a rich gleaming sauce. Give our senses the payoff, for paying attention to your words.
As writers it’s our job to present meaning through story. That’s why people read, because it’s also why people think. But let’s not beat our readers over the head with just the big ideas; the big meanings. Present the huge landscapes in passing, and then give people a closer look. Present the whole banquet of meanings, then give them a small single taste.
Walk with them slowly, right up close to the whole vast painting, and point out just one cherry in a bowl. That’s when we switch on their senses.
That’s when the fiction feels real.
I’ve been trying to achieve this with my own science fiction too. If you need a new read, you can try a free sample right here on Amazon. And please, do let me know if I’ve managed to do this, with the clutter in my stories – or what I should do to improve.
Alex sweeps the floor.
Alex watched him from ruined office windows, a couple floors up. The guy moved fast between the car-wrecks, with a practiced precision. Pulse-pounding pace; perfect pistol posture. Ex-military maybe. Armed to the teeth, from the looks of it. The kind who survived this apocalypse shit, and with good reason. Alex could practically smell it on him. That man was a killer.
…Serious guy, Alex told himself thoughtfully, as he turned from the blown-out window and wandered silently away. Strong. Laser-focused. Multiple weapons. Hungry look. Possible warrior archetype; a model soldier. Weakness: trait openness. Strategy: misdirection through incoherence. Mentally disarm with whimsy. Go with Sage archetype.
* * *
‘Drop it,’ the stranger growled loudly from the doorway. Assault rifle aimed as he crept inside. Glancing around the vast sun-rayed office for any traps.
‘Are you familiar with the practice of zen mindfulness?’ said Alex, as the man stalked in cautiously.
‘…What?’ he grunted. ‘You ain’t got a gun?’ He watched with a puzzled look as Alex swept the floor peacefully with a beaten old yard brush.
‘It’s the ability to do Just What You’re Doing Right Now,’ Alex continued. ‘A pure meditation on breath, thoughtlessness, and the interconnectedness of all things through the negative space between us. You and me, we’re interconnected. We are all One. A beautiful way of seeing the world, don’t you think? …The serenity of enlightenment is right here with us, if we only focus ourselves entirely on the present moment.’ Alex continued to sweep ash from the tiled floor; attentive in his work until he couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction.
The man with the rifle simply watched in silence; searching for a handle on what the hell this was.
‘…Sorry,’ Alex added pleasantly. ‘At this point, I’m just craving conversation.’ He paused for a moment; carefully adjusting the mustard-yellow rags that he wore like a grand mantled scarf. ‘It’s been taking a while, to get this place clean. I apologize. Birds, mostly. They gossip about me, you know. I don’t know why I keep feeding them.’
‘You are one crazy bastard, you know that?’ the man replied. Alex glanced at him, and replied with a gentle smile. Searching the ruined ceiling for a few moments, for his answer.
‘…The ability to make order out of chaos is our most ancient and valuable skill,’ Alex said thoughtfully. ‘Our immediate environment is a direct reflection of our thoughts and behaviours. What could be more true? I was once buried in the ash and rubble of chaotic thoughts, when all of this happened. The End of the World. But now, I feel… swept clear. Untroubled.’ Saving his bullets, the man pulled a machete as he closed in on him; searching all around to check that Alex didn’t have a gun or a blade to hand.
‘Look, just give me all the supplies you got, you crazy fuck. I’m not here to listen to your bullshit.’
‘Have you ever heard of a bo staff?’ Alex pondered, as he continued sweeping peacefully. ‘It’s a very versatile principle. How about Vlad the Impaler?’ In the fleeting second that the puzzled man lunged at him, Alex stomped on the broom head, snapped off the wooden handle and speared its splintered tip clean through the man’s stomach. Snarling and straining, gripping the broom handle in both hands, he hoisted the man screaming over his head. Brought him down hard with a dustcloud smack on the floor tiles, and pulled out the broom handle to strike the man’s head with it in a sudden stunning crack. Dazed for a second, the man screamed a bloody gurgle as Alex drove the pointed handle through his throat.
‘…Resourcefulness,’ Alex said thoughtfully, as it occurred to him. Watching the man squirm and bleed out on the floor. Taking every weapon he had. ‘That would be the best thing I’ve learned from meditation. You should try it. Really. See you in Reincarnation, pal.’ With that, he pulled out the broom handle in a spray of spattered scarlet.
Smiling down hungrily, Alex drooled at the flesh-scent as he watched the man die.
* * * * *
…Serious guy, Alex told himself thoughtfully, as he turned from the blown-out window and wandered silently away. Strong. Laser-focused. Multiple weapons. Hungry look. Possible warrior archetype; a model soldier. Weakness: trait openness. Strategy: misdirection through incoherence. Mentally disarm with whimsy. Go with Sage archetype.
* * *
‘Drop it,’ the stranger growled loudly from the doorway. Assault rifle aimed as he crept inside. Glancing around the vast sun-rayed office for any traps.
‘Are you familiar with the practice of zen mindfulness?’ said Alex, as the man stalked in cautiously.
‘…What?’ he grunted. ‘You ain’t got a gun?’ He watched with a puzzled look as Alex swept the floor peacefully with a beaten old yard brush.
‘It’s the ability to do Just What You’re Doing Right Now,’ Alex continued. ‘A pure meditation on breath, thoughtlessness, and the interconnectedness of all things through the negative space between us. You and me, we’re interconnected. We are all One. A beautiful way of seeing the world, don’t you think? …The serenity of enlightenment is right here with us, if we only focus ourselves entirely on the present moment.’ Alex continued to sweep ash from the tiled floor; attentive in his work until he couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction.
The man with the rifle simply watched in silence; searching for a handle on what the hell this was.
‘…Sorry,’ Alex added pleasantly. ‘At this point, I’m just craving conversation.’ He paused for a moment; carefully adjusting the mustard-yellow rags that he wore like a grand mantled scarf. ‘It’s been taking a while, to get this place clean. I apologize. Birds, mostly. They gossip about me, you know. I don’t know why I keep feeding them.’
‘You are one crazy bastard, you know that?’ the man replied. Alex glanced at him, and replied with a gentle smile. Searching the ruined ceiling for a few moments, for his answer.
‘…The ability to make order out of chaos is our most ancient and valuable skill,’ Alex said thoughtfully. ‘Our immediate environment is a direct reflection of our thoughts and behaviours. What could be more true? I was once buried in the ash and rubble of chaotic thoughts, when all of this happened. The End of the World. But now, I feel… swept clear. Untroubled.’ Saving his bullets, the man pulled a machete as he closed in on him; searching all around to check that Alex didn’t have a gun or a blade to hand.
‘Look, just give me all the supplies you got, you crazy fuck. I’m not here to listen to your bullshit.’
‘Have you ever heard of a bo staff?’ Alex pondered, as he continued sweeping peacefully. ‘It’s a very versatile principle. How about Vlad the Impaler?’ In the fleeting second that the puzzled man lunged at him, Alex stomped on the broom head, snapped off the wooden handle and speared its splintered tip clean through the man’s stomach. Snarling and straining, gripping the broom handle in both hands, he hoisted the man screaming over his head. Brought him down hard with a dustcloud smack on the floor tiles, and pulled out the broom handle to strike the man’s head with it in a sudden stunning crack. Dazed for a second, the man screamed a bloody gurgle as Alex drove the pointed handle through his throat.
‘…Resourcefulness,’ Alex said thoughtfully, as it occurred to him. Watching the man squirm and bleed out on the floor. Taking every weapon he had. ‘That would be the best thing I’ve learned from meditation. You should try it. Really. See you in Reincarnation, pal.’ With that, he pulled out the broom handle in a spray of spattered scarlet.
Smiling down hungrily, Alex drooled at the flesh-scent as he watched the man die.
* * * * *
