Brain-Stanleys

No one knows what a Brain-Stanley looks like,
but this is probably pretty close

When freewriting, it's important to ignore the internal editor. However, the enforced word count on NaNoWriMo results in the writer-brain making some truly dumb decisions, all in the name of trying to squeeze a few more words into what you've actually written.

Some of the more obvious examples of this are things like always writing "Mr Ian Woon" instead of just "Ian", or not using contractions (e.g. always putting "I am" instead of "I'm"). Helpful for the initial word count, I guess, but really kinda useless in the long run.

But the writer-brain finds far dumber things to do - things that actually get in the way of freewriting. Take this for example:

She nodded for me to continue.

That's the line I was going to write. It's not amazing prose but it's perfectly acceptable, especially in a first draft. Anyway, it popped into my brain and my fingers obediently hammered at the keyboard. But as I typed the last word, a little piece of my brain woke up. For the sake of this explanation, let's call him Stanley. And remember, Brain-Stanley is a baddie in this story.

Stanley said, "Hey, if you type 'go on' instead of 'continue' then you get ONE EXTRA WORD."

The rest of my brain replied, "Oh come on, Stanley. Don't be a tit. What's the point of one extra word? Why can't I just put 'continue'?"

Stanley didn't care that the rest of the brain had just called him a tit. He stood there, with his tiny brain-hands on his tiny brain-hips, and said, "Because it's NaNoWriMo, you daft sod. We need all the words we can get."

There was a little bit of shouting, but Stanley won in the end. The line became:

She nodded for me to go on.

.... and I gained that one extra word.

So now I was a step closer to the end of my million words project. Hooray and hurrah?

No.

This is a worrying trend. If my internal-editor-dialogue ("ooh, we shouldn't write it THAT way; we should write it THIS way") is too loud, then creativity stops dead. The moment my various Brain-Stanleys wake up and start shouting editing suggestions, that's the moment I start struggling to freewrite. And all this 'second guessing myself' is what slows things down. It's hard enough to produce 2,000 words per day, let alone with a bunch of Brain-Stanleys shouting at me.

Dear Brain-Stanleys, I appreciate the occasional extra words, but they're really not worth the internal dialogue distraction. Shush for a few weeks, okay? Please? Pretty please with chocolate cherries?

Spirit of the Beanstalk

Illustration by Michael Ilkiw

Story Shack Magazine have published "Spirit of the Beanstalk". It's a fun little piece that came about from an exercise in a writing class. The idea was to pick a well-known fairy tale and write it from the point of view of a different character. I choose Jack and the Beanstalk, and decided to write it from the beanstalk's point of view.

The fun thing with Story Shack Magazine is that they put you in touch with an illustrator. This was a new experience for me and it was great fun seeing what Michael came up with for the story.

Austentatious and Eric "big balls" Hamilton (Mrs)

Mrs Mumbletoes and I had a fun time watching Austentatious last night (an improvised comedy play in the style of Jane Austen). The play is based on a title chosen from the audience's random suggestions. Sadly my title didn't get pulled out of the hat and used in the actual show, but I was very pleased to get mentioned as their "top unused title"! Does this count as being published?

And our top #unusedtitle tonight ~ 'The chocolate bird bath of Eric "big balls" Hamilton (Mrs)' #bemusing #confusing pic.twitter.com/2FOH3448UA
— Austentatious (@AustenImpro) February 21, 2015

[EDIT: It turns out the lady pictured, Alison Thea-Skot, is an old school friend... of the sister... of a friend... of my wife. Only Facebook could make such a random connection!]

Page 58: Love

Here's a very random little piece that I might one day turn into a parody of Fifty Shades of Grey. Alternatively it could just be left to languish on my hard drive for all eternity.

PS Please be warned that some might find this a bit risqué!

#

"I'm not sure I'm ready for this." Peter stood in the middle of the room, stark naked, his hands firmly tied behind his back.

Angela watched him, trying to hide her smile. "Stop whining and kneel, slave," she said.

Peter obeyed.

Angela flipped over to the next page of 'Bondage for Beginners'. "It says here you're meant to fawn at my feet."

"What?"

Angela stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes. "Here they are. Get fawning."

"How am I meant to take this seriously if you say things like that?"

"You're not allowed to do anything apart from what I tell you to do," Angela said, holding up the book. "Here, listen to this: 'The slave must never query the commands of the mistress.'"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Now that's more like it. Okay, it's fawning time."

Peter shuffled across the floor. He pressed his nose against the sole of her foot, gave her a wide-eyed innocent look, and then sucked fiercely on one of her big toes.

Angela squealed and kicked out at him. "No, silly, that's not until page ten."

"Sorry, Mistress."

"We're only on page five. You don't get to suck my toes until you've sworn to obey my every command."

"I apologise, oh glorious Mistress."

Angela sat up and dropped the book onto her bedside table. "I'm not sure this is going to work."

Peter leant back on his heels and looked up at her. "Bored already?"

"I just don't think I can play the dominant mistress. It doesn't feel right. At the back of my mind I'm still worrying about what I need to pick up at the supermarket."

"Fair enough. Does that mean you'll be untying me?"

"I guess so. Cup of tea?"

"That'd be grand, cheers." Peter waited patiently while Angela freed his hands and then turned to look directly into the lens of the video camera. "Well, that was only our first attempt," he said. "We'll try something different next time."

#

Carrie pointed the remote control at the TV screen, pressed the pause button and turned to the class. "Or so he said," she continued. "In actual fact Peter and Angela have never since tried anything new, and that film was taken over a year ago. So what do we think about that? Anyone?"

She stared out at the sea of blank faces. "Jenny, how about you?"

Jenny's head jerked upwards, startled to have been called upon to answer. She could feel the eyes of her classmates burning into her back and her face flamed crimson.

"What was the question, Miss?"

Carrie sighed. Sex education was never an easy class to teach, especially since the curriculum now demanded they show these bizarre training videos. "Do you have any comment on the fact that Peter and Angela never managed to get past page five of 'Bondage for Beginners'?"

"Er, not really Miss."

"Just anything Jenny, anything you want to say? A single statement, a single word even? Just something to record as commentary given by a member of my class?"

"They were happy as they were?"

Carrie clapped her hands. "Good, Jenny, good. Excellent answer. Write this down, everybody: Peter and Angela were happy as they were. They didn't need the book. Kurt, stop snickering or I'll make you come sit at the front. Okay class, take out your textbooks and turn to page fifty-eight. Today we're going to talk about love."

"Love, Miss?"

"Yes, Jenny, love. It's not talked about very often these days but today we're going to discuss it in depth."

'50 shades of hay' by Rubes

Free writing

Every writing blog needs at least one random post of weird prose. Here's mine.

The blade slices through my shame and fills my eyes with wonder. A tiny step through my life as we live in peace and harmony but, when the storm arrives, only then shall we truly know how we feel. Life takes your dreams and grinds them down, like a small child may crush the life out of a beetle. It’s a struggle, but we never stop, never breathe, never break. I am in charge of what I do, yet there are controls to which I must adhere. Who and what I am is up to me, but how I act is not my choice. I am controlled – made to abide by the laws of society. There is no use in rebelling. You just continue as you have been: swept along in the flood of apathy in which we live. There is no getting out – no quitting – until every last drop of your energy has been spent. The stars shine and I contemplate my future. Harsh and bright, my hatred glares back and I long to break free. My past rushes through me and I bring up the barrier once more. Again I hide behind the mask that I have worked on for so long. So many believe. No one is let inside. I must block any attempts to penetrate my true reality. No one knows or understands what I am, not even myself.

Moorhouse Mouse's Mouse House

This is the first part of an old piece of writing I produced back when I was considering trying to write a book for children. I can see a lot of problems with it, but I think it's worth posting just for the fun of the "Moorhouse Mouse's Mouse House" title. I imagine the sequel would probably involve Moorhouse finding a wife ("Moorhouse Mouse's Mouse Spouse").

Farmer Budd was a fat old man who lived with his wife on a little farm in the countryside. He was a friendly chap, but he didn't like mice. Mice ate his stores of grain and, as he often said to his wife, he really did not like the way they left their droppings all over his nice clean farmyard.

"Let's get a cat," said Mrs Budd. So they did.

Battered Tom arrived at the farm in a cardboard box. At first he was just called plain old "Tom" but after his first skirmish with Angry Gilbert, the farm's prize pig, the poor cat had earned himself a broken ear and a squinty eye. Good old Battered Tom; he was a lovely cat but he never did manage to catch any of those mice.

Perhaps I should explain who I am? I'm Jon, the farmhand. That's me over there – the young lad with the pitchfork. I've just finished cleaning the horses out for the day and, let me tell you, it's backbreaking work. It's a good life here on the farm though. Farmer Budd lets me sleep in the stable and Mrs Budd always makes sure I have more than enough to eat. Sleeping in the stable might sound a bit rough but I like it. If I didn't sleep in the stable I might never have met Moorhouse Mouse. And if I'd never met Moorhouse then life would have been a whole lot less interesting.

Moorhouse started life as just one of fifteen baby mice. That's a big family! They all lived in a tiny nest hidden behind the skirting board in the farmhouse kitchen. Just imagine growing up in the dark surrounded by fourteen brothers and sisters.

When I first met Moorhouse he was a very young mouse living in that very crowded mouse hole. Back then he wasn't called Moorhouse. In fact, he wasn't called anything at all. You see, mice do not get their names in the same way we get ours. You and I were given names by our parents long before we were even old enough to know about it. Not so with mice. When they are old enough to go out into the big wide world on their own, they choose names for themselves.

Now Moorhouse was a brave little mouse and so one day he crawled to the edge of the nest and peered out. Everything was dark except the half-circle of light that was the entrance to the mouse hole. Outside that hole, all manner of strange and exciting things seemed to be happening. He could hear strange noises and smell all manner of wonderful smells. His mouth watered at the thought of eating whatever it was that smelt so delicious.

Bravely he clambered out of the nest and towards the hole. He peered out into the light. It seemed very bright and busy out there. In the distance he could just about make out Angry Gilbert rooting for truffles in the farmyard.

(To be continued... maybe)

The Funky Chicken

Image from: Marsden Cartoons

I was once sent on a training course on how to give presentations.

As part of the course, my classmates and I were told that on the last day we would be given a random title – made up on the spot by the lecturer – and we would immediately have to give a five minute talk based on that title. 

No preparation time. No thinking time. We’d just have to stand at the front of the class, be given a title, and start talking straight away.

It didn't have to be a formal talk, but talking definitely would be involved. In front of the class.

I was terrified.

Public speaking scares me at the best of times, and the thought of being stuck in front of a crowd of strangers desperately trying to think of something to say for FIVE WHOLE MINUTES left me cold.

The night before, I came up with a plan: the talks did not have to be sensible - in fact they could be as daft as you like - so I would create a story that would work for whatever title I was given. At least then I would have something to say, which surely was better than staring at the class in panic while mouthing like a goldfish.

I needed to come up with something abstract, because I had no idea what title I would end up with. So, I thought, how about a song title? I could say the presentation title was the name of a song, and then make up a long, daft story about the band behind the song.

I've heard it said that the anticipation of a dreaded task is almost always worse than the task itself. That’s good to know, but it doesn’t stop said anticipation churning your stomach and making your heart flutter like a bird in a cat flap.

As it turned out, I never actually used this idea. I ended up waffling my way through the presentation, just like everybody else in the class. That was probably for the best as the story turned out quite bloodthirsty. Perhaps that reflected my enthusiasm for the task.

So here’s the story. It never got used but, for a while at least, it made me feel like I might be able to give a decent presentation... or at least manage to say something without collapsing into a little puddle of terror on the floor.

So let’s say I get given the title “X”...

#

Hello everyone. Thank you for attending my talk about: “X”.

“X”... is... er... the name of a song.

This song was released a very long time ago by a band called “The Funky Chicken”.

That’s a bit of weird name for a band, as I’m sure you’ll agree. And like all weird band names, there’s a good story behind it.

You see, there were these four blokes all sitting in some really naff restaurant, getting something to eat.

So imagine you’re there. There you are, sitting at your table, and the weird thing about this restaurant is you’re surrounded by the food.

Not cooked and on plates, but like there’s all these animals just roaming around the restaurant.

There’s a few cows just wandering round, chewing at the occasional pot plant, and at your feet there’s a whole load of chickens just pecking about, and on the wall there’s a great big tank full of fish.

So one guy, he’s the bass guitarist – his name’s Marty – he’s sitting there with the menu trying to work out what he wants to eat. He looks about ready to order and so the chef waddles on over to him.

The chef asks what the guy wants, and all the animals go quiet. Like the cows, and the chickens all gather round the guy’s table and look at him. And they’re worried, because they know one of them’s for the chop, but they don’t know who. And all the fish are crowded up to the glass trying to hear what’s going on; they’re sort of peeking through the glass.

Anyway, so this guy, Marty, he looks at the menu and he goes, “I’ll have the... chicken”.

And the chickens: they’re out of there! They just run for it as fast as there little scrawny feet can move them. And they’re hiding under tables and behind customers, just trying to get as far away as they can from the chef.

And all the cows and the fish are just watching this, you know, like the danger’s over for them so now it’s just kind of entertaining.

But there’s this one chicken that’s not quite as quick as the rest. She doesn’t move. She just stands there by the chef, and when Marty orders his chicken dinner, she takes a while to process it. Or maybe she can’t be bothered with life any more.

Whatever the case, before her tiny little brain can tell her feet to get the hell out of there, the chef whips out a massive machete-type-axe thing, wields it around his head like a crazed musketeer... swings the thing down in a great arc... and he lops this chicken’s head right off.

And so now there’s this chicken’s head lying on the floor, and she looks pretty surprised by what’s happened. Well, wouldn’t you?

Meanwhile the chicken’s body still standing there. And before the chef can catch hold of it, it’s off! It’s scarpering round the tables and around the customers and all over the place.

Now I don’t know why chicken’s bodies do this when you lop their heads off, but they do. Apparently it’s something to do with nerves and things; it sort of sets their legs going. Eventually they stop, but until then it’s chaos.

So this chicken’s body is now running off around this restaurant, and its neck is gouting blood everywhere, and making one hell of a mess. Eventually the chef manages to grab it and he takes it off to turn it into a pie, but not before it’s done this funky little dance on the floor right in front of Marty and the band. And after they’d finished their pie, Marty says, “Right, we’re going to form a band, and call it The Funky Chicken.”

So they did.

And they released this song called “X”.

The song was good, make no mistake about it. It was new stuff. No one had ever churned out anything like it before. And the public went mad for it. The shops were cleared out as soon as it was released; they just couldn’t sell enough of the things. So, of course, this song went straight to number one. And it stayed there for ages. Years in fact.

The lead singer of “The Funky Chicken” could never account for the song’s success, and he never ever worked again. His life was sadly, prematurely cut off only two weeks after X’s release, due to a nasty accident involving a loose wire and a vacuum cleaner. The entire pop world went into mourning after his death, as I’m sure we all did too.

Strangely enough, only one band member survived to see “X” finally leave the number one spot.

The drummer, Crazy-man Percival, was killed, along with Marty, in a horrific motorway accident, and to this day no one has ever found out why their car span off the road that fateful night. Although it is commonly believed that it’s because they were both totally and utterly rat-arsed at the time.

Randy Straddle, the band’s bass player, found himself to be the only member of the band left alive, just two short weeks after their success. Believing himself to be under threat from some supernatural force, he vanished from the public eye and went into hiding on some out-of-the-way island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. There are occasional sightings of him even now, although he hates publicity.

So that’s the story behind one-hit-wonder band “The Funky Chicken”. No other group has ever managed to challenge their success, and I suppose no one ever shall. Superstition carries a lot of weight in the pop music industry, and experts believe it is because of this that no one has ever dared to re-release “X”.

Thanks for listening!

Any questions?