A New Beginning

I've been a bit lax with my blog lately, so I thought I would post some ramblings... I'm fast approaching completion of the first draft of my new book! Having spent years writing half-finished novels, it is a joy to finally have one of them nearing a conclusion (albeit as an intended first book of six).

Let me explain. I took the somewhat drastic decision last year to cease writing my main novel. I had been been working on it for so many years, that I realised it had become a millstone. It was no longer my 'big chance' and had become an unwieldy blockade to progress. I felt like I was getting nowhere.

I do intend to come back to it one day. It's over one hundred thousand words of thoughts and dreams and ideas that I have no intention of ditching. However, it needed to be put on indefinite hold.

My greatest worry was at having done this before. It's all too easy to start something fresh when you have a great idea, but it is often to the detriment of your half-finished work. 'Should I do it?' I asked myself. My lack of major progress in the past few years made the answer simple but no less daunting. How do you put away such a large amount of work to start on something else from scratch?

As some of you reading this will know, my mother passed away last year. At her funeral I reacquainted myself with an old friend. When we were around eleven or twelve my family moved, but we maintained contact on the phone and through letters (No email back then!). In amongst those letters, we drew and wrote stories of our 'alternate' reality. We intermingled our real lives with a science fiction world of adventure in which we were the heroes.

Having been reminded of this, it somehow all fell into place in my mind. My mother used to encourage me in the writing of those stories. Some became primitive comics, others I wrote by hand with occasional illustrations. It seemed fitting that my literary 'fresh start' should be a children's adventure story using the core of those dreams and fantasies that she encouraged. My hope is that since it clearly appealed to me at that age, it will appeal to modern children as well.

The rough structure flowed out into my notebook; A plan for six novels in a series, a chapter-by-chapter breakdown of the first book, characters and creatures... The vast bulk of ideas emptied out in a mass of scribblings over two days.

Since then, I have been writing like mad. My characters have grown, taken on lives of their own and frequently dictate their own paths regardless of my opinion. The story is there, and the first adventure is nearly complete.

What does the future hold for Christopher Tyson and his companions? Well, actually, I know! Will children enjoy reading these adventures as much as I have enjoyed writing them? Only time will tell...

All work is the © copyright of W.D.Lee and/or the respective companies, individuals or organisations to which the work is related. No infringement is intentional. No reproduction or copying is permitted without express permission.

Of Badgers and Burrows

As you may have read in previous posts, I belong to a local writing group. Over the last two years, we have produced two books of short stories and poetry. For the first book, the material was based around our local town. For the second, we encompassed the Yorkshire Pennines.

The cover of
'Reflections of Holme'

The books are titled “Reflections of Holme” (available on amazon.co.uk) and “Pennine Reflections”. Not only did I have a story printed in each, I designed (to the group's specifications) and formatted the books. My story for the first book was 'Badger Collider' and revolved around the world of the 'Burrowers'; The badgers, the moles, the rabbits, etc. who all live underground in a secret world hidden from the humans. The burrowers had built their own Particle Collider under Yorkshire, with the intention of taking back the above world from the humans. The humorous story was only around five hundred words, but it started the ball rolling.

The cover of
'Pennine Reflections'

For the second book, I decided to write a sequel that carried on the adventures of these characters, and fleshed out their world considerably more, in a story called 'Badger Chariot'. I also took the opportunity to illustrate the characters with my own sketches. Unfortunately the finished tale was too long for the allotted space, but rather than trim it down and lose much of the fun, I cut the story off at a reasonable point and added a link to a 'Badger' website. The website carries on not only the story, but provides a fun glimpse into the 'Burrower' world, with character profiles and location descriptions.

Click here to enjoy the stories and characters on 'The Burrows' website. Who knows what the future has in store, for their underground adventures...

All work is the © copyright of W.D.Lee and/or the respective companies, individuals or organisations to which the work is related. No infringement is intentional. No reproduction or copying is permitted without express permission.

Short Story - 'The Train'

Introduction

I belong to a writer's group, based in my local library. We meet once a week, and attempt to hone our craft or simply keep our enthusiasm going and our skills ticking over. Every Monday somebody takes charge of the group with a writing task, ranging from poetry to prose.

For this task, we were all given a single sentence to start with: "Oh dear. The ticket inspector is coming." We had ten minutes in which to write something that utilised those words. Then we were given a second random sentence,"The camel bent down and kissed her." with which to do the same thing, but carry on the story. Lastly, we had to do the same with a third sentence, "Fred Smith found a hoard of whitefly on his cabbage." Obviously the results were often humorous, having to work those into a single coherent (theoretically!) tale. The direction my story took was somewhat macabre, but still perhaps a little amusing in a dark way.

One day I hope to be published, including my selection of short stories. Most of those I wouldn't be willing to post online. After all, there's no point throwing them around if I'm going to try and get them in print one day. However, I'm not so reticent about the quick and fun pieces written in the way described above. After all, they're essentially exercises. They're not particularly original or inspired, but they're fun and great practice. So here is another short story, written in about three ten-minute chunks. I've improved the odd bit of grammar (I hope!) and formatting, but the whole point of this, is the curious results of writing with speed and without time for embellishment or refinement. As such, I have kept everything else the same as it was written by hand. No word changes, rewrites or deletions, so please forgive the imperfections. I hope you enjoy!

Short Story – "The Train" (© Copyright W.D.Lee, 2010)

He gazed out of the carriage window, mesmerized by the spiky crags and the flame filled world beyond. Sweat glistened on his brow, only to gather and drip without notice.
     “Oh dear. The ticket inspector is coming.” The old lady in the seat opposite half whispered, as the door at the end of the carriage slid open with a tired clatter amidst the cacophony of the ancient thumping engine.
     He turned automatically to look at her, wishing he'd remembered his own mental note not to. Her face was withered and torn, the fiery red of glowing embers glimmering between the cracks. A distorted and misshapen figure waddled up to the old woman like an animal. It was bent over almost double by the hump on its back.
     A camel, he thought. That's what this... 'thing' reminded him of. The old woman looked up as the 'Camel' bent down and kissed her. With a hidden expression of repulsion, the man returned his gaze to the burning world outside.
     The old woman continued to talk. “My husband and I are taking a day out. We thought we'd see some of the lower tiers. You hear so much about them.”
     “Tickets please!” The inspector worked his way slowly along, seat by seat. 
     Carrying on, the old woman seemed intent on striking up a conversation despite the lack of interaction. Something buzzed past the window, a pale and horrid mix of man and subterranean insect. The old woman pointed at it, as she spoke to her husband, the Camel. “Look! Ooh, I've heard of these, but don't they look like, you know... when Fred Smith found a hoard of whitefly on his cabbages, back when we were alive.” The Camel nodded, muttering agreement through bestial flapping lips.
     “Will you please shut up?” The man said calmly but forcefully. “I came on this train for a break, and all I have to listen to is you!”
     The glowing cracks in her face brightened and sparked, talons forming from her finger tips. “You'll learn your place, young man!” She cried in a voice like liquid granite.
     Clawed fingers belonging to the ticket inspector clamped down on her shoulders. “That's enough! Calm down!”
     The old woman glared at the inspector, then the man. “You'll pay, once you reach your stop.”
     The inspector clipped her husband's ticket, then hers. “Sir?” he spoke to the man through his sharp toothed maw, holding out his hand.
     Withdrawing a season ticket, the man gave it to the inspector, who promptly bowed before handing it back. “Your majesty.”
     The man waved him on then smiled at the old woman, who shrank into her seat as the cries of the damned outside reached a crescendo.


Last Thoughts

When I was given the first sentence, it obviously triggered the scenario of being aboard a train. However, in an effort to try and think up something a little different, I decided that perhaps the train was travelling through the depths of hell, on a tour of the different levels. The wording of the sentence suggested to me something that would would be said by an elderly woman. The kind of thing you could imagine in an old black and white film. I simply used that thought, and transferred her into my unusual locale.

Given the setting, it was difficult to then work in the camel sentence. At first I imagined some sort of underworld nomad with his skeletal camel, going somewhere on the train. I then decided that was too literal, and chose to turn the camel into a description of something horrid and foul, which became the old lady's husband. 

The final sentence was the most difficult. It was clearly out of tone with what I had written, but given the characters, I thought perhaps I could make it work. It was a seemingly mundane and everyday sentence that would not be out of place within the absent chatter such a couple in the real world, so in this case I thought it would be used as an utterly contrasting reference. Given more time, I had thought of hinting at some horrific purpose for the man-insects flying around that level of the pit.

Although I didn't get to describe it, I imagined the train to be filled with hellish characters, all in various disgusting states that were symptoms of the reason they were sent to hell. The old couple were the equivalent of tourists, perhaps from an upper level of hell that was less horrific, who's idea of a vacation would be to tour the lower levels and witness what torments and horrors lay down there. Old Scratch is obviously taking an incognito break from his duties overseeing the pit, in order to simply get away from the day to day hassles for a while. I used his repulsed emotions to not only initially mislead, but to hint in retrospect that perhaps running the underworld is more of a job for him, rather than being outright evil. 

Obviously it is a rather disjointed and unusual story, but considering the twists it had to take, I was quite pleased that it came to its end with an amusing and appropriate moment. 

All work is the © copyright of W.D.Lee and/or the respective companies, individuals or organisations to which the work is related. No infringement is intentional. No reproduction or copying is permitted without express permission.

Short Story - 'Through the Mist'

Introduction

I belong to a writer's group, based in my local library. We meet once a week, and attempt to hone our craft or simply keep our enthusiasm going and our skills ticking over. Every Monday somebody takes charge of the group with a writing task, ranging from poetry to prose.

The week I wrote this story, we were aiming to create something with a twist at the end, that turns the tables.

One day I hope to be published, including my selection of short stories. Most of those I wouldn't be willing to post online. After all, there's no point throwing them around if I'm going to try and get them in print one day. However, I'm not so reticent about the quick and fun pieces written in the way described above. After all, they're essentially exercises. They're not particularly original or inspired, but they're fun and great practice. So here is another short story, written in about 25 mins. I've improved the odd bit of grammar (I hope!) and formatting, but the whole point of this, is the curious results of writing with speed and without time for embellishment or refinement. As such, I have kept everything else the same as it was written by hand. No word changes, rewrites or deletions, so please forgive the imperfections. I hope you enjoy!


Short Story – "Through the Mist" (© Copyright W.D.Lee, 2010)

The mist crept forward through the moonlit trees. Slow yet inexorable, what little illumination there was causing it to glisten almost magically. Its fingers crept between the trunks like the probing tentacles of a giant beast from the stygian depths of the ocean.
     I felt like a child, wanting nothing more than to be safe at home in bed, huddled beneath the covers. Then I shook my head. There was nothing to be gained from wishing. I needed to focus myself on the task at hand.
     Then I saw the beast, deep in the shadows, the mist wrapping it in a protective coat of mystery and grey lifelessness. Gently, gently, I told myself as I moved behind a wide tree, my eyes moving from side to side in an attempt to discern any movement. I clenched my fists. I had to get a hold of myself.
     I slid down the trunk, into the winding roots, to lie flat between them, moving to a position where I could watch the beast approach. My breath quickened with fear. There were two. Two of the hideous things, hunting as a pack. I hoped there were not a third or fourth.
     As they neared, I tried to study them. Dark eyes that swallowed the night, pale flesh merged with the mist, a stench that went before them, warning of their evil. Determination took hold of me. A resoluteness of purpose. If I was to stand a chance, I would have to act first. To attack and hope for survival, or die trying.
     I began to unfold my talons from their resting places within my fingers, and as quietly as possible I scaled the tree beneath which I hid, as the monsters approached. Breathing a sigh of relief as they passed unwittingly below me, I dripped thick saliva from my fangs.
     No! My mistake. I have warned the beast of my presence, as it feels the drip on its shoulder and looks up at me with terrifying wide eyes.
     I drop to its back, digging my hind claws into its supple flesh, pulling its head from its shoulders with a sickening squelch of tearing. The other turns. Oh God, this is it. One chance. I dive forward, my tail slashing round from behind me to skewer wetly through its torso. The monster drops to the ground, the last breath exiting its disgusting lips in a dreadful moan that echoes the night.
     I sigh with relief. Safe once again, for a while...


Last Thoughts

It is probably guessed with ease from the outset, but the conceit was for the reader to perhaps think this is initially a conventional horror story, of monsters chasing/hunting a terrified human in the woods, only to have the tables turned and discover that the monster is in fact the terrified individual trying to survive. Stylistically there are obviously a few Lovecraftian nods, which is always fun.

It could have been anything, from a traditional monster to a natural beast, but I added the touch of the tail at the end, in order to ensure the implication that this creature isn't natural. Somehow, the thought that it could have been been a leopard or something similar, would have taken the wind out of it for me. I wanted to maintain the horror atmosphere despite the change, with the implication that it was still an unnatural beast.

As for the humans, are they real monster hunters or simply backpackers in the woods? Who knows, I'll leave that up to your imagination...

All work is the © copyright of W.D.Lee and/or the respective companies, individuals or organisations to which the work is related. No infringement is intentional. No reproduction or copying is permitted without express permission.

Writing and Publishing the 'Rebel Review'

My first really concerted effort at producing my own written works, was called the 'Rebel Review'. Since childhood and to this day, I have been a fan of Star Wars. How much of a fan depends entirely on your perception of such things. Some people would consider me an over-the-top fan with a large collection of Star Wars books, a fair sized collection of the original toys from childhood (ebay tempts, but hasn't won yet!), numerous collectible items and various copies of the movies from different releases over the years. Then again, a real Star Wars fan would probably consider me a mid-level enthusiast. I'm too interested in plenty of other things in general, to be a true fanatic (I think!).

Regardless, I was enough of a Star Wars fan in my teens that when I decided to make my own magazine, I chose to make it predominantly Star Wars related with short stories and various movie and book reviews. I'm not sure, but I think one of my sisters suggested the title. In honour of the Rebel Alliance (The good guys, for those of you who have never lived on this planet), it ended up being called 'The Rebel Review'.

What prompted me to this creation? Well, it was an endeavour that combined many of my favourite things.

• Star Wars and Science Fiction? Check
• Movies? Check
• Books? Check
• Artwork? Check
• Story and other writing? Check
• Excuse to use the computer and photocopier? Check

My father produced the local parish magazine on a monthly basis, using the combination of a rental-purchase photocopier and his new Amstrad PCW8256 computer with 9-pin dot-matrix printer. It was my first true exposure to computers, outside of a friend's ZX Spectrum and the limited BBC micros at school. To this day, there's still something strangely hypnotic and unusual about the PCW. The guts of the machine were inside the same casing as the monitor, which itself was green-screen only. I could easily wax lyrical about the hours spent programming games in BASIC from listings in the magazine, creating primitive graphics in LOGO, the unusual 3” disks, or playing Fairlight and Tomahawk into the early hours, only to come away with square eyes and a strange sense of detachment from reality... but those are for another time. For now, its miracle was the ability to write and save files using the LocoScript word processor, and print them.

So it was, that using word processing software that would be considered less-than-primitive now, I learnt to type and write on a computer. I was fascinated with what my dad was able to do on that machine, and I wanted to produce something of my own.

The first issue was put together in 1990, after the release of 'Gremlins 2'. I would've been about fourteen. I continued producing them until the 7th and final issue was released in 1995. It had huge print runs, of perhaps 10, maybe even 20 copies, sold to friends and relatives with plenty of encouragement and praise from my mother. I wrote short stories, created word-searches, quizzes and games, wrote film and book reviews, and gave my thoughts on the latest movie news. I often drew pictures for the covers and the stories. By the final few issues I was even using an art package and mouse on my Dad's PCW to produce primitive black and white computer graphics.

It was all enormous fun, most of which was had in piecing together the various items for photocopying. For example, the first issue sported an image of Gizmo from 'Gremlins 2' on the front cover along with the magazine title and a couple of small accompanying images (See the start of the article). How did I produce that? I had one piece of paper on which I glued two photocopied images from my favourite movie magazine (the sadly extinct 'Starburst'), and drew a large portrait of Gizmo in pencil. On a second piece of paper, I printed the title and a couple of other bits of text. I would then photocopy the title page, then run the same used pieces of paper through the copier again, this time photocopying the Gizmo images. Voila! A title page combing the two.

Gradually my expertise grew. Numerous tiny bits of Blu-Tack or Pritt Stick glue kept images, titles and lines of text onto pieces of A4 paper, which were then copied to produce inventively laid out pages. Finally, they were all stapled together to create multiple copies of each issue. The sense of accomplishment at picking up and flicking through a 'magazine' created by myself was fantastic. Sure, looking back on them now it's easy to see them as naïve and primitive, but it's all part of the knowledge and experience that has taken me to where I am today (Or at least given me some fun childhood memories).

In retrospect, it also provided an unusual form of bonding between my father and I. It was at once a solitary process, creating the Rebel Review, whilst also being something we could share. I was using all of my Dad's equipment, from the PCW and photocopier, to his stapler and paper guillotine. We enjoyed our mutual fascination and enjoyment at using the computer, and he was able to help me when I required it. For a few days or more while my life was suddenly consumed with this creative project, I was ever-present in his study, taking up space and no doubt getting in the way while I made it. When I think back, he must have been incredibly patient!

What did I learn? Plenty, no doubt, but the most important factor is the memories. Childhood enthusiasm and dreams that came to life and became miraculously real, with the involvement of family and friends.

In a way that even photos cannot manage, I can pick up one of those old issues with their now-yellowing pages, and a host of memories and emotions come flooding back. It conjures up those times when I felt  accomplishment (simple and minor as it was) combined with naïve optimism, and it was all shared with loved ones and friends to create something that never fails to bring a smile.

Short Story - 'Confessor'

Introduction

I belong to a writer's group, based in my local library. We meet once a week, and attempt to hone our craft or simply keep our enthusiasm going and our skills ticking over. Every Monday somebody takes charge of the group with a writing task, ranging from poetry to prose.

This week we produced some short stories, based around the situation of “What one thing would you tell a person, who was a complete stranger, if you knew you would never see them again?” Along with that statement, we had a series of photographs to use as inspiration for a story revolving around that idea. I chose an image of a woman sitting beside an Asimo robot.

One day I hope to be published, including my selection of short stories. Most of those I wouldn't be willing to post online. After all, there's no point throwing them around if I'm going to try and get them in print one day. However, I'm not so reticent about the quick and fun pieces written in the way described above. After all, they're essentially exercises. They're not particularly original or inspired, but they're fun and great practice. So here it is, written in about 25 mins. I've improved the odd bit of grammar (I hope!) and formatting, but the whole point of this, is the curious results of writing with speed and without time for embellishment or refinement. As such, I have kept everything else the same as it was written by hand. I hope you enjoy!


Short Story - "Confessor" (© Copyright W.D.Lee, 2010)

She looked into its darkly transparent face, a pair of cameras staring back at her without emotion. “I don't suppose it matters to you, that we're stuck here, does it?” She leaned against the cold showroom wall.
     The robotics expo had been well under way when the alarms went off. No doubt some pranksters had been responsible. Unfortunately it was the type of building that was prepared for housing millions of pounds worth of equipment.
     She'd been in the toilets, crying to herself in a cubicle, not caring when she heard the deafening alarms. Too late she had left to investigate, only to discover that the crowds had escaped long before the steel doors had locked down into place.
     Now she was trapped, alone with only a pre-programmed mindless automata for company. The one that stood before her was fully mobile, but off-the-shelf. One of those mass produced things that looked like the future, but couldn't really do much at all.

     The robot's remote link kicked in. Under normal circumstances it was a relatively self contained automotive toy, for science fairs and rich collectors. Just this once, though, a particular model had been bought for real use.
     A group of programmers, frustrated by their failure to create Artificial Intelligence, had wondered what would happen if they remotely hooked up their unwieldy mechanical brain to the inputs and mobility of a standard robot. Model number UIY2249.

     She talked endlessly to the machine that stood before her, which made occasional but limited responses to her words.
     Perhaps, she wondered, this was the perfect therapist. It wouldn't judge, it wouldn't tell her what to do. It wouldn't beat or punish her for not doing what it desired.
     She looked at her watch. Who knew when the doors would open, the people rush back in? “I'll tell you.” She half smiled. “My only friend, my confidante, my confessor.” Laughing, she saw it sit down, putting its hands together as though in readiness to listen.
     “I'll tell you my darkest secret, my empty headed little friend. I'll tell you why I was crying, why I'm stuck here with you. You will be the only one in the whole wide world, to know my secret.”

     Later that day, long after the doors had been re-opened, events resumed and finally finished, the building stood empty of human life. In an office full of glimmering artificial lights, a figure moved.
     It explored and wandered the corridors alone, slow yet methodical. It found a kitchen. In the kitchen it found a drawer. In the drawer it found a knife.


Last Thoughts

I might dig out some of my earlier stories of this nature, and use them here in the same way. So keep your eyes peeled!

Obviously the idea in the story is to wonder what the woman told the robot, that has turned it homicidal. There are hints in what she says, but they could easily be misleading. Who knows?

The serial number UIY2249 is completely superfluous and pointless, simply being an amusing reference to George Lucas' first film, THX1138 (Each letter and number has been knocked on by one, in case you weren't sure). I would've left it out, but I wrote it at the time, so left it in for the sake of completeness.

I suppose a possible influence is the robot Hector from the 80s film Saturn 3. Unlike most fictional robots, his homicidal tendencies had a genuine reason behind them. He was directly linked to the mind and emotions of his teacher, who was an obsessed murderer. Likewise, UIY2249 is a child, learning for the first time, and now the strongest emotions from which he has to learn, are from a potentially unbalanced and distraught woman. Who knows what he'll get up to? I'll leave you to wonder...

All work is the © copyright of W.D.Lee and/or the respective companies, individuals or organisations to which the work is related. No infringement is intentional. No reproduction or copying is permitted without express permission.

The First Story I Remember Writing

I know... I can hear you crying out in justified union. “What right does he have to write about writing? He's never been published!” Well, let me explain. Here and there between other books, I have been reading 'On Writing' by Stephen King. Despite being a fan of horror (amongst numerous other genres), it may surprise you to learn that I'm not a huge King fan. I find him to be an author I respect more than enjoy. Most likely that is my loss, and perhaps one day I shall pick up more of his novels and find a new host of gold to add to my treasured halls of mental book shelves. Until that time, however, I will note that I find his observations on writing quite insightful and fascinating. His stories themselves may rarely have appealed to my reading desires, but there is no denying he is a master of the craft and a compelling personality.

In the process of reading King's various anecdotes about his early experiences, I found my own memories triggering and firing. Memories of the things I have written over the years, or the experiences that have built-up to those pages of cramped black lettering. It got me thinking. I need to write down these snippets of my past, at the times I remember them. Put them into words on the page, lest they be forgotten one day.

So really, at this point in time, I am writing this more for myself than for you, my readers (If I have any). So stop complaining about my lack of credentials (You never know, one day some of you may be reading this after I actually have some!). Just let me ramble on for my own sake, and either enjoy or ignore at your own behest.

My first memory of writing, was a short science fiction story called “Richerd and the Alien Prince” (Obviously the character's name was Richard, but my typing or my spelling left something to be desired. I'm not sure which, probably both). If my maths is correct, it was probably 1985. I was about nine, my father was still alive, and we had been in the UK for perhaps less than a year since returning from the Bahamas (Job, not holiday). Being a Church of England Priest, my father had various tasks requiring the use of a typewriter, one of which was the church magazine.

I have little doubt that his creation of these monthly releases was an influence on me. Most likely at its greatest influence when I published the Rebel Review, but I shall go into that on another occasion. At this point, the primary factor was a typewriter, and my love of science fiction and adventure.

From here on in, I shall refer to my father as 'Dad', being the term by which I remember him. Dad had been given or loaned (I can't remember which) an old blue typewriter upon starting his new position. He was ever the gadget fan, a habit and addiction which I have most certainly inherited, be it genetically or by influence. Finding aforementioned typewriter functional at best, he soon purchased a wonderful new electric typewriter (This was just before the days of word-processing computers, which themselves will garner a few paragraphs in a later article). This typewriter was quite the marvel of modern technology, with gleaming white plastic sides, at least one or two glowing LEDs, and magical buttons that seemingly required little-to-no pressure before a letter was suddenly printed on the page with all the speed and power of a nail-gun on maximum. However, I digress. This typewriter had little influence on me apart from its untouchable wonder, and one other small factor. It freed up the little blue typewriter until such time as it was eventually returned to its original owner (So it must have been borrowed).

I metaphorically (perhaps even literally) rubbed my hands together in glee. Here was my chance! And so was spawned 'Richerd and the Alien Prince'. My ability for thinking up original character names must have been somewhat lacking (And may still be, depending on the opinion of my readers) because Richard was the name of my best friend of the time (Then again, if memory serves me correctly, he was only an acquaintance through church at that point, and yet to become my friend).

Richard is a local guy living a quiet and seemingly solitary life, who then witnesses the crashing arrival of something in the local woods. Of course he investigates, only to discover it contains an alien. Somewhat pathetically (Especially considering the alien prince looks human), Richard faints from shock twice in a row. What can I say, I was convinced that meeting an alien for the first time was so shocking that one's brain ceases to function momentarily, even when they look no different than someone you would pass in the street (Yes, this foolish story element embarrasses and bugs me even to this day). Anyway, despite having different languages, they make swift friends. However, all is not well. The enemies of the alien prince are hunting him in order to stop his ascension to the throne and removal of their power. A car chase ensues, and soon our heroes rather easily steal a jet from the local RAF base, and manage to shoot down the dastardly alien spaceship, saving the day. Not only that, they go back to Richard's house to celebrate by having a meal of chicken and chips. Believe me, I'm not kidding. It was my favourite meal as a kid, so that's what my heroes ate to celebrate. If you don't like it, tough.

I sat on the floor with the little typewriter, that in complete opposition to my Dad's electric counterpart, required fingers to be used like mini-hammers to ensure the letters were typed on the page with legible pressure. No doubt many hours later, a two-page short story was completed with plenty of errors, lots of words stricken through, and unusual grammar that will probably puzzle alien scientists in a post-apocalyptic world when it is the only surviving manuscript they discover, and (probably correctly) lead them to conclude that we were all insane.

The main point, is that I started writing. Adventures, stories, ideas and characters have always been bubbling over in the back of my mind, whether I have taken the effort to write them down, or they occurred to action figures in numerous miniature adventures.

Of all the things that story achieved, one shall never be forgotten. The immortal words of an alien language that meant something along the lines of:  “I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're saying.” Words that shall be remembered in my family alongside immortal movie terms such as “Gort Klaatu Barada Nikto.” Those words were...

“Baggy La Nifnook.”

1st Blog Post! Wow!

So here I go... What, you ask, am I going to be posting in this blog, that will be of any interest to you whatsoever? Of course this is entirely dependent on your personal tastes, but as a brief idea...

1 - Movie Reviews. Yes, okay, everyone does them. I'm a movie nut, and I'm going to do them too. With a little luck, you'll find my reviews informative, thoughtful, and I'll probably stir the pot from time to time with views that most of you will disagree with, but hey, that's half the fun isn't it? (I've already written quite a few over the years, so I'll get them uploaded and very quickly have a full library already to add to. So keep checking!)

2 - Writing. Being an unpublished writer, I will no doubt post many thoughts on this process. Both the successes and failures, the ideas and dreams.

3 - Science. I can't say that I'm a great genius or anything (No surprises there, then!) but being a prospective science fiction author, I often find the latest achievements in science to be rather interesting and thought provoking. If I can think of an interesting discussion, I'll post my thoughts.

4 - Philosophical Musings. Well, since you already know I am endeavouring to be an author, it will come as no shock to learn that I will also be posting my regular thoughts on everything from life and art to politics and society. You may find it profound or idiotic, but that's up to you!

So read, enjoy, and let's get going... :D