Plotting (in the Shakespeare sense, not the Macbeth)

It is fair to say that my plots often consist of one conceit and not much else, a flaw which often makes putative novels come out at about 1,000 words instead of ten times the amount.

But of course there is a simple solution to this: plot your plots! Instead of seat-of-the-pants running from one word to the next in glorious chaotic creativity, sit down, and decide what is going to happen, to whom, why, and what pointless filler sideplots can be made to serve your original wafer-thin idea.

There is one problem to this approach: that of the dread procrastination. Now, instead of merely delaying writing his future masterpiece ~~(its perpetual incompleteness making it’s sure-fire success unfalsifiable), the author can delay plotting the work he will be spending hours, days, and weeks of prime procrastination time on. Now he can delay the roadmap even before delaying the road; in short he can mirror government transport planning departments everywhere, on only a fraction of the wasted budget, as ink or electricity is cheaper than tarmac. Which wasn’t in my initial plot for this post, as there was none.

Sighing into the wind

What of evocative writing? Is it in itself a thing of beauty, as to make it’s actual contents of secondary import to its own brilliance? Can a writer craft words into an edifice so dazzling, so pleasing on eye and ear and mind that the reader is enthralled even as very little is imparted?

One may ask this question, and never find an answer. Shakespeare – for all his presenting elevates the plots that others used themselves, still uses plots of worth. Dickens, a master wordsmith, was master of the plot as well; and as master of characterisation he excels his skills in those other fields. Perhaps one can argue that the lack of brilliant prose with little content but fame is proof in itself; however can one really expect that there are in fact such cases? Perhaps one skilled in the deployment of language is likewise a man who can lay out plot and character with style and grace. There is only one way to confirm: to write a work deliberately empty of all but wordcraft; but who that is capable of both would wish to do but one? These are my thoughts, and these are where I end, my own opinion set but unsaid.

What do you dear reader think?

Ideas

There is only one cast-iron guaranteed way not to run out of ideas, and that is not to have any in the first place. However, short of being born pre-lobotomised this is not really a feasible approach, and so those parts of humanity which like to worry about such things has not had any need to worry about lacking a need to worry. And those people who enjoy worrying about a lack of ideas the most are those in the so-called creative industries, and those facing immediate death.

Now you may say that writer’s block is not as serious as having come to a blank as the water level exceeds the height of your nostrils, but on careful reflection you will note that only the former is going to be a genuine long-term problem. A painter without a muse is pretty much bereft (although the scent of money is sufficient muse for all but the most pure of purists) of all purpose in life. A man who has failed to distract the firing squad is just bereft of life.

This of course leads us to that most thorny of problems: if a writer with writer’s block can just write about writer’s block, is writer’s block really a block? And why isn’t writer’s block the most written upon subject? Is it because the sufferers lack even the most basic of ideas, or is it because procrastination is the real diagnosis?

In truth, I have no idea.

Another year dawns

Or rather, as it started at midnight, it doesn’t.

As the Gregorian new year is upon us (and has passed) it is perhaps time to look at time, and how it appears to fly (the only thing that is able to at the moment, apparently). Tempus, as it is affectionately known, is often inconsiderate -for instance it waits for no man – but perhaps that is to be expected, as it’s character is rather one-dimensional (the fourth, apparently). But it can be generous as well – all children have been at time’s table (although not cheerfully so) – and it heals wounds.

Its contradictory nature is everywhere. Whilst everyone no doubt hopes that 2021 will be a light year, it would then also be an incredibly long one, which no-one eagerly waiting for their next birthday would appreciate. It has seconds, suggesting greediness, or perhaps a duelling nature, yet a search finds no instances where it has been accused of either of those vices. It is perhaps something that we will have to look in the minutes for, if we can locate the place where these (which apparently exist) are stored.

But for now, I think I shall look to end this, as it is getting late, and it’s time to go to bed.

Why it is always the one to go to bed is a mystery.

A long sigh of mild protest

Whilst is should, by all accounts, have been a long howl of outraged indignation, the Primary Character was far too mild for that. In fact she was best described as insipid, and presumably drank very weak peppermint tea whilst being too dull to even bother solving brutal murders thanks to sheer nosiness.

And so when the barbarian invaders rode up into town and began slaughtering, she just gave a sigh as her favourite family members were dismembered, and the crockery set she’d waited two decades to inherit was smashed in single file on the head of the very elderly or she had been very fond of, even with the frequent doubt as to whether it was still alive. As the feeble mewls of protest had stopped some point between the teapot and the large tureen, it presumably had still been and was no longer.

Once finished, the barbarians had looked for anything else other than the cat, but out of sheer blandness – and a tendency to appear as the personification of beige – the Primary Character went unnoticed, and so they went elsewhere to sow destruction. As they set off the Primary Character tutted, looked sadly at the wreckage, and, gave a long sigh of mild protest which was totally ignored by the last departing horse.

Severely Odd’s Absurd Flash Fiction Can be bought on Amazon, and is also available on Kindle Unlimited. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Severely-Odd/e/B00OB4006U/

Sleepy

There’s a place where the mind sometimes wanders when it wishes to switch off and it’s owner has different ideas. This place, which for want of a better word we shall call ‘Sleepy’, is one of wonder and surprise; a place where ones openness to the surreal and absurd is enhanced and where driving is a huge no-no. In short, it is the perfect place to be writing from.

It is hard to procrastinate when you are not really aware that you are writing, and it is harder still to be critical of what you are only vaguely aware of. This means that Sleepy is the ideal place for an author to be, and one to which we wish we can travel at will.

But alas! life is rarely that simple. All too often the ruthlessness of coffee, sheer exhaustion or plain bad luck comes in between our consciousness entering this magical state. And then, with a sigh or a snore, we go onwards without committing anything to paper, and can but hope for another…

Thinking for two

It’s hard to do the thinking for someone else, and even harder when they consistently refuse to aid or abet their assister in any way, shape or form. Thus people tend not to think, since people tend not to think.

This general fact leads to massive levels of default doing, as humans – bumbling like vegetarian zombies – move along through life not really thinking things through, but generally refraining from eating brains. Perhaps that’s because deep down they are scared of them.

However every now again someone comes along who not only thinks, but thinks for two. These people are rare gems, men or women who – out of the kindness of their heart – think, and think on another’s behalf. sometimes the lucky near-zombie is even grateful that his or her thoughts are being handled by another, but most of the time their is low-level resentment or bland obliviousness. Their is a moral in this somewhere, but as my designated thinker is away it will have to wait for another time.

Almost Human

It was almost human, for a plant. Now, some people may say that I was exaggerating, but as it sat their, eyes following ma across the room. I could have sworn it was judging me. I mentioned this to my visitor, who laughed and said IU was imagining things, like her, but I now know better than to pay any attention to them. Especially as the clean up takes days.

I had had the plant for a while, ever since I had taken it home from the shop. I’m a bit vague as to how exactly I came into possession of it then, but it definitely was in a shop. Maybe the commotion made me forget.

Anyways, the pot I had to get for it was large. The garden centre asked me if I was sure it was just a houseplant, but I told them yes, and stared at them until they just let me pay for it.

Filling up the pot with earth was difficult, as it was a big pot, and the roots were unwieldy. It was almost as if the plant was trying to struggle against me. Human again I suppose. I even went to fetch a knife to hack some off, but then things went a bit easier, so I didn’t have to. It’s strange sometimes, how it almost seems to cooperate. Perhaps a plant can be trained?

If so, I may take the gag off even when not feeding it.

Authors, recognition and desperate free givaways.

Author’s love recognition from their, almost as much as they love making money from it. Cynics may say that is because they see recognition as a way of getting more money from their work, but well, cynics do have this annoying habit of being right, or almost right. For Pride (capitalised, as pride has to be Proud) is something almost as good as money – perhaps due to that swelling feeling that it engenders, making one full, like eating.

Regardless, of this, desperation desire to garner positive reviews is a good enough reason to make – for a few days, when I can – many of my ebooks free – and, as now is such a time, for five days you too can enjoy my wonderful writings (they must be good if I’m resorting to giving them away for nothing) at no damage to your wallet.

So, why not download, read, and if you enjoy the scribbled musings (or what to see how far my ego can inflate before it explodes like a whale stuffed with dynamite and FOOF) give it a positive review. I’m sure I’ll read it obsessively.

The UK Link, for those interested: : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Severely-Odd/e/B00OB4006U/

Thoughts

Thinking is to be highly recommend. Experts advise doing it at least once a month, to avoid your brain turning into the sort of mush that makes cheap burgers so delicious. If you do not there is always the risk that someone will trepan you for a quick snack.

But how to think? Luckily, there are whole government departments dedicated to not only help you think, but reach a specific conclusion. These are often so generous that they’ll even do so for people in other countries. Presumably, the budgets come out of foreign aid.

But what if you are not reached by these services? This is a question that was posed to Himm Vaterman, head of vague philosophy at the University of Platitude, who was still saying ‘hmmmmm’ at the time of going to print. This has posed obvious problems for the conclusion of the article, so we instead asked a random person on the street, who said that they ‘didn’t really know what to think.’

Clearly propaganda budgets need to be increased.