Master And Commander 2?

If this goes through and happens I would be one happy POB fan.

Master And Commander 2?

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Five Years Time

Oh
Five years time
I might not know you
Five years time
We might not speak
Oh
In five years time
We might not get along
In five years time
You might just prove me wrong

-- Five Years Time, Noah and The Whale (Here at YOUTUBE)


Today I started my re-write of Meaning and Mystery of the Rose, and I use the word re-write exactly the way it means. I tried to remember the original plot line and started over with a clean slate. Glanced at the original copy after I'd written about ten pages, but that was it. And boy, was I glad. I couldn't even bring myself to re-use anything in the original. It was just...terrible.

But then I glanced at the date I published it. October of 2004. Nearly FIVE YEARS AGO. And this taught me something. In five years, I have learned something about writing. I have improved. And that made me feel really good.

I wrote the exact same scene two different ways, and I have to say, the second version reads in a much more fluent fashion. The original first chapter of MaMotR (Ha, I just realized that rhymes with LotR; are my acronyms good or what?) was so busy, so hectic. I changed scenes about six different times in four pages. Obviously I wanted to get to the good stuff. In this new draft, we spend at least a page with each character before moving somewhere else. Also the transistions between those scenes are a little more fluid.

You can read the old copy here. I'm trying to figure out some place to archive the new text so you can compare it with the old one and laugh along with me at how gung-ho I was about my writing at the age of fifteen.

Frank McCourt

It seems I only mention famous writers on this blog when they die, which is sad and unfortunate, really, because Frank McCourt was a writer who probably deserved to be mentioned more.

The recent streak of celebrity deaths has taught me a lot about what we value in America in terms of celebrity. Michael Jackson, the "King of Pop" got the entire first section of the Chicago Tribune (about six pages of newsprint) dedicated to coverage of fallout from his death and wall-to-wall coverage for the next twentyfour hours on every major news network. However, Walter Cronkite, the man who brought us the news for I don't know how many years, got a very nice write up on the front page of the Trib and a mention on the nightly news. I realize, of course, that Cronkite's death was more eminent than Jackson's, but why should an entertainer get more coverage than a broadcaster?

I know that McCourt may not even make the nightly news, even though he won a Pulitzer and, more amazing to me, he taught in public schools for a great deal of his life and then went back to write his three amazing auto-biographical works on his life as an Irish American. He wrote at the beginning of Teacher Man, my favorite of the three books, that you go into teaching hoping that some day you'll write your memoirs and you'll win prizes and someone will decide to make your life into a movie and you'll be famous for teaching, and that inevitably that doesn't happen. Interestingly, his first novel, Angela's Ashes, was made into a movie with Robert Carlyle and Emily Watson and it was nominated for an Oscar. Still Mr. McCourt went on injecting his realism.

He was very realistic about the whole process of teaching, but even amidst the sandwich throwing incidents and the kids who just wouldn't behave in class and explaining the structure of a sentence through the anatomy of a pen and the many, many times he nearly got fired for doing something or another, he always showed a certain humor and humanity in the classroom. That's why I loved his books. He was a great educator and a great story-teller, and I hope someday I can be the same.

Rest in peace, Mr. McCourt. My hat's off to you, sir.

I come bearing pictures!

Well, my summer classes are almost over. No longer will I have to muddle over french translations or worry about what type of volcanic texture the rocks in my backyard have. Needless to say it's been an interesting past few days. I helped my sister re-paint her room blue, and now sitting in there feels a bit like sitting in a box made out of sky.

Over the past week I've been re-reading and re-watching The Lord of the Rings and remembering a lot things in the original text and in the movie that made me want to be a storyteller and fanfiction writer in the first place. One of the other things this project has made me want to do is re-write my first large fanfiction piece, the Meaning and Mystery of the Rose. I'm sure if I were to revisit the concept now (and in my mind, this is not taking the shape of a mere edit, but a whole overhaul of the whole story) Rhoswen would turn into a much, much different woman than she is in the first draft. For starters, I wrote her when I was fourteen or fifteen, and the grand age of 19 seemed so far off. Now I am 19, and it doesn't seem so old anymore. I know she'd take a different shape, and I'd flush out why she was chosen to be Boromir's bride above other more powerful and pretty candidates. In my mind this new version of Rhoswen is strong and forceful and a young woman who knows that she's a pawn and won't allow herself to be completely used like one for the betterment of the House of Hurin.

But something in my mind also tells me that no one cares for such stories anymore, and a rewrite wouldn't attract any readers. So I think it'll have to be shelved for another time.

Another thing that might be shelved is this Cranford fic I posted last time. No matter how many books I read on Victorian England Mary Marshland and Harry Gregson refuse to budge into any more scenes than the ones I've already written. But I did find pictures for the upcoming Christmas special! A link was posted on the Enchanted Serenity of Period Films blog, here. It almost makes me want to write again. Alas, the writer is willing and the fandom is weak.

Another source of inspiration for some doubtless awesome future shenanigans came by way of the Lights, Camera, History! blog here, when they posted in their "Upcoming Period Dramas" scrolling picture box a spoiler pic of Ridley Scott's upcoming Robin Hood movie! Then, of course, I had to go find it for myself...


And I couldn't help being reminded of someone else...











Well, I think there's kind of a resemblance there. Maybe it's just the surcoats. At any rate, the movies are directed by the same person and set in the same era and by some accounts were meant to be a sort of prequel-sequel deal, so I'm excited nonetheless.

Finishing

Say, I haven't put any updates on here in a while, have I? I think it's time to rectify that.

Song of a Peacebringer -- FINISHED, finally. People died, people got married, people generally reflected on the whole story. It was interesting. Now I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself. You can read the whole thing, all 33 chapters, HERE.

The Hunting of the Sue -- Up and running at FF.net, and receiving generally complimentary reviews. You can read it HERE. The Summary:

Harry's stories may be over, but his adventures continue, no longer as leader in the fight against the Dark Lord, but as a Jurisfiction agent fighting alongside Thursday Next to defeat one of the most terrifying demons known to the BookWorld -The MarySue. A Thursday Next/ Harry Potter Crossover, produced in conjunction with the BookWorld in storycode WebBook1.0

I found out after posting this that Jasper Fforde does not condone fanfiction in any genre or style, so I assume that's the reason there's so precious little of it floating about the 'net. I wrote this because I wish he'd hurry up and finish One of Our Thursdays is Missing, and I'm not making any profit off of it at all, so there. And I combined it with Harry Potter, so his absolute dislike of fanfiction and Rowling's acceptence of it should make it only mildly bad, I think.

The Untitled Cranford Fic -- As yet unpublished Cranford fic (not a whole lot of them floating around, either) I thought I would post here to get some initial feedback from my Cranford fans in the crowd. (Mom, Dad, Helen, this means you.)


Imagine, if you think you can, a small village in Cheshire preparing, as it always does, for the end of summer. Carts of laborers going out to the fields, the market lane bustling with the comings and goings of the village folk. They are a simple people, unconcerned with the wars that fill their newspapers or the gossip about Queen and crown that is filling everyone else’s heads. If you are imagining, pray do not trouble yourself any longer, for the people and the town they inhabit are very real, and their comings and goings are much the same as yours or mine. The town is Cranford, and the year is 1854. If you are acquainted with the place (as I know some are) it is probably ten years since you have seen the place, but fear not; in its usual Cranfordian fashion nothing much has changed. True, some of the less colorful inhabitants have died or moved on to better climes (though what climate could be better or more healthful than Cranford’s the town’s greatest minds are still undecided) but some who have left are returning, names and faces who were once long associated with the town and the niceties of manner and speech that are still practiced here though they have quite left the rest of England.

See, here is one of them now – that young man there, in the lane, astride the bay mare. Do you see him? Topcoat tails soiled as if from a lengthy journey, trousers tucked inside equally stained riding boots, his body is well-formed and his seat on his mare is good, though he does not carry off the air of having ridden his whole life. His clothes are tailored by a professional hand and everything about him, from the shoes of his horse to the slight jauntiness in his top hat, suggests a young gentlemen home from school. This is of course the case, and the school (or rather the college, he is quite older than school) is Saint John’s College in Cambridge, a long way off in Cranford terms. Yes, this is Harry Gregson, once nothing more than a poacher’s son and sometime street urchin, now come back to his hometown a scholar of serious repertoire, well versed in Latin, Greek, the smallest of smatterings in Hebrew and of course his mother-tongue, which he speaks now with an upper-class city air.

He has learned mathematics, economics, and a hint of law, and – though he never admits to this – some of the other vices common to boys of a certain class: a regard for good company and a fine face, and a desire, however latent, to marry such a face and perhaps retain such comfortable circumstances as permit the fine face to shine even finer...

The Summer of the Re-Read

I think I'm going to call this summer "The Summer of the Re-Read." Being too lazy to find new books to read at the library, too cheap to buy new ones and too lazy, again, to write the books I'd want to read, I'm re-reading many of the better books that have passed through my hands in the past several years. I plowed through the rest of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin books at the end of May, demolished all seven Harry Potter books in a scant weekend (even that one impresses me) and am now working through Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series with my sister in tow.








Let me be frank with you -- Fforde's books are book-reader's books. You know how you have actor's actors? Yeah, well, these are books designed for biblophiles. They're complex, they're filled with jokes and characters pulled from other famous books, and in books two, three, and four, Fforde actually takes you inside the BookWorld where books are supposedly created.

Yes, I know, it's awesome. If I could die and become anyone I wanted to be, living or dead, I'd vote to come back as Jasper Fforde. I can't express how much of a genius I think this man is.

So, while I wait for the fourth Next book to come via Interlibrary loan (I don't own Four or Five, more's the pity) I whipped out a Thursday Next fanfic, because I'm ambitious and slightly suicidal like that. I'm calling it The Hunting of the Sue. It deals with how I think fanfiction might be impacting the BookWorld, which is governed by very specific rules with which the fanfiction world kind of interferes. Coming soon to a Fanfiction Site near you or wherever Archontic Literature is distributed.

Beware the Mary-Sue, my son,
the hands that catch, the eyes that burn
Beware her pretty looks and shun
T’desire to return!

– doggerel attributed to Unitary Authority of Warrington Cat (Cat Formerly Known as Cheshire) after finding a MarySue version of Alice snooping around inside the Looking Glass