I haven’t been posting…

…and I won’t be for a couple of more months. I decided hibernation and complete seclusion from both the blogging world and the online workshop is what I should do right now. My mind is mush once again thanks to the unavoidable summer finals.

The end of my second year of university….and I have not warmed up to it one bit. I don’t like it whatsoever and I find it a giant waste of time. That’s only because I feel that it’s not helping me improve as a writer and that there is far too much emphasis on political science even though I’m on journalism studies. And we don’t have literature classes (why – I don’t know). And fiction is looked down on (this is my impression of it). And I’ve been asked by professors why I’m not in a different university, on comparative literature. And I’ve been penalised because my sentences were “too literary,” which maybe meant too long, but we were doing a feature story/profile interview, so I don’t understand why “literary sentences” would be a problem. Again, these are all my impressions of my time in uni, I’m not being objective whatsoever (because this is a blog, dammit, and I’m allowed to whine).

So I leave you, for now. I will be back, don’t worry.

Thank you for reading Ramblings :)

Oh, and here are some pretty, shiny things to distract you while I sneak out the back door.

Sir Terry Pratchett: ‘Imagination, not intelligence, made us human’

The Mindscape of Alan Moore

Lovecraft: Fear of the Unknown

Treat writing as if it was a god – Alan Moore

Why do I write?

I have read many great writers and almost all of them are completely unknown to the world. They stay in the shadows, in dark alleyways, in the backs of closets around the world, waiting for someone curious enough to stroll by and accept their invitation to their dream world.

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Idea Hunting

Often, when I’m stuck on a particular scene or even when I feel blank, yet restless, I start doodling. (music often just wrecks my concentration)

Sometimes a character or two come out. Sometimes I use them, other times, they are just a spark that sets everything else in motion. I will share two of my doodles here. They are not proportionate really, but then, I love the imagery of twisted mirrors. And again, these are just some things that help me get in “the writing mood” so they’re not supposed to be that good anyway.

There, you know my secretest secret now.

Also, my obvious love for comics. I’ve been reading a lot of them lately (Ellis and Moore mostly). And I’ve been tricked into writing articles for a national (I think) photography center, so that’s getting in the way of my stories. Busy these days. Can’t remember words. Bugger.

A robotic guide to the gardens of Destimondium

A robotic guide to the gardens of Destimondium

Mr Kerrlain

Mr Kerrlain (remember Baba Yaga? Well, this is the male version)

Edgar (part 2)

Part 1

“And good coffee?” asked Edgar.

“So strong it’ll knock the shoes off your feet.”

Edgar thought about returning home. Then he thought about staying in a muse-free room for the night. “This bed…does it have fluffy pillows?” he asked.

The next morning, Edgar woke up with a headache. He remembered paying for a room at the inn, and something about frogs and phlegm, but the rest of the previous day was a confusing and chaotic blur. He mumbled a “Thank you very much” to the bartender who replied with a cheery “You’re always welcome here, laddie” and made his way back home. Edgar was pleased to find most of his aches and pains had evaporated on the crisp morning air. He did not however appreciate the effect the air had on his memory.

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Writers’ Fears

February kicked me in the guts and strode away with a snigger, leaving me curled up on the curb with a broken lip and severely bruised ribs. I did not like this February and obviously it didn’t like me either. I was neither writing nor keeping up with my studies for a month or so and all it did was make the typical writers’ fears and doubt stronger. How bloody wonderful.

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Hi, hello, I have a new page

For my dear new followers, check out the About the Blog page.

I know, I know, I’m late posting, but I’ve been troubled and busy. I will explain in the next rambling, I promise.I do have some new ideas, I just have to get rid of the insecurity and dread and doubt and all that. Till the next rambling, wordpressers, enjoy

Writing, Plots and Romance

Plot is my weakest point. It’s always either too easy for the character or it’s perfectly clear to me but chaotic to the reader. This is why I avoid basing a story solely on romantic love.

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Sell Your Heart

A few days ago I read Fitzgerald’s letter to a writer in training (like most of us here) and I realised he was completely right. At least, in my experience.

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Since I’m busy with uni and I haven’t had any time/mental strenght to write properly, I’ll just post a vignette that might or might not turn into a story. Enjoy :)

Calliope was said to be a maiden of twenty summers with hair as black as the raven’s feather and voice as gentle as the spring breeze. Sadly this was not true. Edgar found himself staring at a fairly overweight wrinkly crone with a voice of a bullfrog.

“Hello, pretty,” it seemed she was attempting to flirt.

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The Shores of Duiwe

An extract — I’m extremenly nervous about this story. To me, it’s an excercise in bareness, leaving out detail, an exploration of the ice-berg theory. It’s surprisingly difficult mostly because there are only two ways for this to go – it can either end up a massive failure (and completely flat and pointless) or a story with some depth to it. I should get it through my thick head that first drafts aren’t forever, they can and should be edited and changed.

This is only a part of the story, so, please, tell me how it sounds and if I’m actually doing it properly. (I should probably point out this bit comes after the introduction paragraphs)


The captain’s companion called himself Jack. It did not matter to the captain if that was the man’s true name. Many had boarded his ship under a false name before and captain had always been happy to have someone to talk to. Jack’s skin was smooth and had a youthful glow to it, except for a deep scar on his left cheek. The captain never asked about Jack’s wound. It was not his business and, besides, it belonged to the past. Jack, in turn, did not ask about the wrinkles around the corners of the captain’s mouth or the crows feet around his eyes or the calluses on the captain’s hands. It too was a part of the past and neither of them had any interest in it.

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