I've been thinking about this a lot recently. For those of you who don't know it, it's an RTE 'kid's' show from the early 90's about three children - Ellen, Leo and Rory, who are sent to live with their mean Aunt Vera at the Rimini Guesthouse after they are orphaned.
Strange things happen at the guest house. There is a talking stuffed toy called Otto with murderous intentions, a cracked painting of two girls in Victorian bathing suits that leads to another dimension and a freaky weird band that has something to do with the older brother. I didn't watch the show. It just happened to be on occassionally when I turned on the tv. They possibly did a repeat on a Sunday evening in some scheduling vacuum.
I think I was too old to be it's intended audience, the puppets were ugly-ass , wrinkly yokes, difficult to look at, I could never tell if they were girls or boys, the clothes were horrific, and they had mad Cork accents that annoyed the hell out of me. Plus, it unnerved me. Even as a casual viewer I could tell something wasn't 'right' with it. That it really had the potential to be genuinely perturbing, hair-rising on the back of the neck stuff (if only I could have gotten over the Cork accents), the best RTE children's production since Fortycoats talked backwards under the sea.
But it wasn't, it never quite cut it, maybe the scripting wasn't right or there was too much going on (that band).
There were imaginary friends, inter-dimensional portals, high stakes of good and evil and the sense that something catostrophic is at work just beneath the surface of your domestic setting and all the other things that matter to a child. Much like this gem, Chocky, that resurfaced in my mind today. I must have seen it when I was 2/3 years old (I shit you not) but remember still. That intro music floods me with anxiety. His voice. Even the font used in the credits. They were communicating without speaking. No one else could heard him. They were best friends but he was somewhat evil so their friendship hurt them. No one believed him even though he was telling the truth (the injustice of that one really got to me as a child.) There was a lot of distress mainly around separation and abandonment I think. They did maths. My mind was blown.
I hadn't seen Chocky since then because I thought it was called Chalky, I was pretty illiterate at the time. And the English accent would have confoundedmy little bogger ears.
I didn't even know it was about aliens. I didn't know it was called telepathetic communication. The fact they were English was probably disconcerting enough for my three year old self.
Anyway, it appears I have subconsciously incorporated aspects of these shows in my novel - inner voices interpreted either as madness or the presence of an 'entity', talismen, portals, time on a loop, predestination, children telling the truth and not being listened too, a savage world thinly concealed beneath a layer of domesticity. And so continues the cycle of scarring the impressionable psyches of children (i hope).
Since I first heard that lyric as a child I wondered what it meant
I wrote my own explanation, included in this piece that was part of novel but which has subsequently been dropped in the editing process. *boohoo* *sob*
It felt like ball bearings in his bowels,
an uncomfortable weight of doom and dread and the sense that he had done
something wrong although he wasn’t sure what.He picked up a spoon, examined it and set it back on the table.He couldn’t pinpoint what he was afraid
of.It was an unnamed thing fopping
about his in stomach and turning him off his cornflakes.
‘It’s too late,’ said a voice, like the
voice of the boy from the radio, ‘there’s nothing you can do.’
He looked at Mammy.Daddy winked at him as he ate his cereal
noisily, each mouthful crunching like he was walking on gravel spread across a
grave.He slobbered in the milky spoons
and the surplus dribbled down from his mouth back to the bowl.
She sipped tea, sucking back saliva not
wanting to scald the roof of her mouth with it. She nibbled the corners of her
toast. Her not eating was an equal irritant to his robust pigginess, she
masticated slowly swallowing in ten minute mouthfuls.
He wanted to get back to his room, to the
radio, to the static, restful and soothing as a lullaby, to the boy and his
voice which broke like a beacon through the fog of his mind.The boy understood him.
Daddy cracked an eggshell with the lip of
his spoon setting Kai’s teeth on edge.He was queasy as Daddy slurped the soft jellied insides of egg from his spoon.Eyeballs, the inside of Kai’s cheek had
ridges.Bite marks on the soft part and
his jaw was sore from the grinding of his teeth in the night.He caught sight of his reflection in the
mirror of the coat stand in the hall and rose abruptly to slam the hall door
shut.
Mammy and Daddy looked at him, Daddy no
doubt sneering but he couldn’t see him, he was looking down at the table again.
It wasn’t his appearance he was afraid of,
it was the space.A lie of 3-dimensions
in something that was flat, the deception of everything appearing to be the
same in the glass only to discover when you examined it closely that was
totally different, because it was reversed.He had a strange notion, one that he couldn’t quite shake, that the
place in the mirror only mimicked the room it reflected for the part of it that
could be seen.That there were other
things there too, hidden at the periphery of sight, unknown things and his
reflection wasn’t safe.They were
waiting to find him when he strayed in the glass.He was avoiding mirrors.
And he didn’t trust doors, not open ones
and especially not the wardrobe ones. They had to be shut, closed
completely.It was important when he was
trying to sleep, that the things in the dark spaces behind the doors could not come
out. Even if the wardrobe was empty when he looked inside who knew where it
might lead to when it was shut, some unknown place down a black corridor of
mystery.The world was a dangerous
place.
Mammy was looking at him.He looked up and tried to smile but he wasn’t
able.
‘She knows,’ said the voice.
She doesn’t know, thought Kai, she doesn’t
know anything.
‘She knows about Theresa,’ the voice said,
‘and she lets it happen.’
Kai wasn’t sure what to think.
‘She knows about you,’ said the voice.
She couldn’t, thought Kai, there is nothing
to know.But he picked at the skin
around his thumb nail growing less sure.
She was talking to him.About the chickens.He focused really hard on understanding,
they were laying more now spring was here and the weather had improved.Her and Daddy were away for the day.
‘…can you collect the eggs?’ she asked ‘I
don’t want the hens getting broody!’
He grunted.His nostrils flared.Suddenly
brimming with anger and disgust, he didn’t want to go near the squawking pests
who shit their own beds and cannibalised their eggs given half a chance.
‘We’ll be back late,’ she said, ‘we’ll
probably grab a bite to eat on the way home.’She was looking at Daddy, her features arranged in an imitation of
happiness, a faded carbon of joy.
Daddy looked up and leered at them, the
yellow drip of egg yolk on the front of his shirt matching the nicotine stains
on his teeth.
He nodded.
‘I suppose they don’t care what you have
for dinner,’ said the voice ‘I suppose they don’t care if you want to go too.’
‘It’s a lovely day outside’ said Mammy ‘the
daffodils are up early this year.’
He grunted again.She must be mad.Outside the window was grey and dull and the
flower beds were overrun with weeds choking all the daffodil bulbs.
‘You should go for a walk for yourself,’
she said, ‘get some fresh air.’
‘Yeah,’ he said and nodded, but he left the
table and went straight back to bed.Fully
clothed he faced the wall.
He lay and he listened and he fiddled with
the bandwidth enjoying the repose of the static, waiting for the voice to come
clear.He heard his parents leave, he
watched the shadows move across the bedroom.
‘We’re going,’ she shouted up the stairs
but he didn’t stir.
He must have fallen asleep, he could hear
voices.
‘Help us Kai,’ they said, ‘help us Kai, help
us,’ they squealed.
‘Kai, Kai, Kai,’ like a mantra squeaky and
high pitched, his name transmitted at sonar frequency.
He heard them outside all the way up to his
room where he was lying on the bed.
‘Ick, ick, ick, Kai, Kai, Kai,’ and a scratchy
noise, like nails scrambling against a hard surface.
He rolled over and got up from the
bed.Then he was in the yard though he
had no memory of walking down the stairs and away from the house.They knew his name and they would not stop
saying it.
‘Kai, Kai, Kai,’ like an agony scraping
over his soul.
‘Kai, Kai, Kai,’ they screeched, ‘help us
Kai, save us.’ Their voices grew louder, there was a sound of tapping and of
scratching.
He was in the chicken coop before he
realised it was them, the unborn chickens squawking, chirping from the shells.They were trapped, locked-in, desperate to
get out.
He
pictured them inside, watery with transparent skin, featherless and slippery,
their black pupil eyes swimming in membrane and goop.The claws and beaks that tapping and scraped
were the only parts that wouldn’t run through his fingers.He didn’t know what to do.If he cracked the eggs for them they would
die.He stood in the hen house arms raised
in surrender.
‘I can’t help you,’ he shouted at them, ‘I
don’t know what to do.’
‘You’re not ready to be born,’ he said.
‘Kai, Kai, Kai,’ they said, ‘help us Kai,
it hurts, it hurts in here it hurts,’ a chorus sweeping over him.
‘It’s hurts us Kai,’ they said, ‘help,
help, help, we’re stuck.’
And he felt it, their pain at being trapped
in the shells, the cramping and the desperation to escape.He was wild with the want to help them, to
save them and to make them stop saying his name.
The chicken coop was dark, he switched the
light on and he searched for the eggs in the straw of the nesting boxes and for
the eggs that had been laid elsewhere too.Guided by voices he found them one-by-one.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ said Kai, ‘I have
you, I have you now.’
Their pleading mounted a crescendo; he
could not stand it any longer the unborn chicken voices.
‘Do it Kai, do it,’ they said, ‘end it.’
He tugged his hair.Then he caught an egg and threw it.A swift volley against the wall and it
smashed with a thunk.The egg oozed
downwards but he felt a relief as the chicken’s soul escaped its prison.
‘Me, me, me, me,’ chirped the other shelled
foetuses.
He grabbed and shattered another and
another against the floor.The fourth
egg didn’t splatter, he had to stomp on it with his foot before he felt the
release.
Fast and hard, he annihilated the remaining
eggs in an ecstasy of splintering and goop.The voices quietened to silence.He heaved with relief.The
chickens stared at him before they shook and ruffled their feathers and slowly,
slowly one-by-one lapped up their children.The relief seeped and away and all that was left was horror, he looked
around him and the shed was destroyed.
He awoke back in his bed as the car pulled
into the farm, its front lights flashing across his bedroom wall.
It was a few more minutes before the angry
reverb of the steps on the stairs warned him.That Daddy was coming for him, he swallowed, beneath the covers cowering
and afraid.The door swung open and
Daddy fell through it, afterwards Kai remembered the smell of drink on his
breath.Kai felt a kick in his back.
what other musical reference did you find? Kind of relates back to this post Writing Inspiration #1
Pitching isn’t easy and this is one of the best blogs I‘ve looked
at so far with the most concise step-by-step instructions for constructing one.
(and believe me I need step-by-step instructions - first pitch available on request)
How do I distil the essence, the multifaceted nuances and twists, the pivotal plot points of my 110,000 masterpiece to the back of a
Cornflake’s box?
LIKE THIS IT SEEMS:
How to create that 25-word pitch:
(Note: these steps are a framework not a strait-jacket. Adapt if necessary. For
non-fiction omit 1 and 2 and decide what your book is about and who it’s for.)
1. Take your main character (MC)
and give him/her an epithet – eg vengeful divorcee, desperate aspiring author… 2. Identify the MC’s central
mission/problem/fear and what he stands to lose if he fails. 3. Brainstorm words and phrases
that your book conjures up, including themes, moods, actions. 4. Pick the 25-30 that sound
most compelling. 5. Pick the 5-8 of those that
sound even more compelling then the others. 6. Fashion those ingredients
into a tight, heart-tugging 25-word pitch. 7. Include wolves.
Kai - Lost boy (too peter pan)
Becomes increasingly isolated until his physic
pain begins to manifest itself physically as a disruptive presence
*done in my head like the rest of this should have been*
Winter, glass, ice, mirrors, Snow Queen,
Supernatural, Nature, Charmed objects, dark magic, wolves, foxes, friendship,
betrayal, loneliness, isolation, redemption, preternatural, misery,
peevishness, cruelty, sorrow, love, fantasy, imagination, violence, escape,
running, premonition, predestined, neglect,snow, bleak, desolate, warm, forgiving, bonded, medal, crows, trees
watching, birds watching, nature looms in to inspect the scene, the farm is
alive, a voice shrieks out in the darkness, thwarted nature, Kai’s voice is
stolen, he is powerless, the boy is cipher for all the negative emotion he
cannot express makes him self-harm, disruptive behaviour, paranoia,
destruction, girl, longing, farm, adventure, death, magic, protection
Supernatural, charmed, dark magic, betrayal,
isolation, cruelty, destruction, longing
Lost boy Kai becomes increasingly isolated until
his physic pains manifests itself as a destructive presence
Lost boy Kai becomes increasingly isolated until
his physic pain manifests itself as a physical presence.This destructive force tricks him into betraying
his best friend Jimmy.Preternatural
forces surround the farm battling the sympathetic magic of nature, the charm that
Granny left to protect him and the girl who dreams about him.
So, you’ve got your
25-word pitch. Next, swell it to a paragraph by elaborating on that “must-read”
core.
My guidelines follow. It’s hard to create guidelines that apply to every type
of story, so do adapt at least 1 and 2. Again, for non-fiction, use common
sense and omit points that don’t apply.
1. Focus on main plot only. (Obviously, if you have a dual story, or similar,
you might need to mention both but aim for the minimum.)
2. Show MC’s central mission/problem/fear and what he stands to lose if he
fails – and indicate (some) obstacles and journey.
Lost boy Kai becomes increasingly isolated until
his physic pain manifests itself as a physical presence.This destructive force tricks him into betraying
his best friend Jimmy.Preternatural
forces surround the farm they are countered by the sympathetic magic of nature
and the charm that Granny left to protect him. A girl dreams about Kai.Her home situation mirrors his, it is bleak
and uncomfortable.They find each other
and share an adventure as she uncovers how to break ‘the boy’s’ hold over
Kai.Ultimately ‘the boy’s’ hold is too
great and Kai retracts from society into an inner landscape of cold, desolate
winter (with wolves).
3. Be concrete, not abstract. For example, avoid statements such
as, “This is a book about survival” – show us who survives what and how.
4. Give a sense of the tone. For example, for a humorous book, convey this.
5. Do not praise your writing. It is not for you to describe your prose as
“poignantly lyrical with flashes of genius”.
6. Stay true to your genre. For example, what might sound compelling in a crime
novel may not sound compelling in a romance.
7. Do include a sense of the ending when pitching to agents and publishers.
This doesn’t mean you must say exactly what happens, but we need to know
something of the resolution.
8. Avoid unanswered questions such as “Does Larry save the world?” “Will Ella
ever find love?”
9. Comparisons with other books can work but require great care. They must add
something to our understanding of what sort of book it is. “My book is a cross
between Twilight and Where the Wild Things Are” is not going to work.
10. Hone, hone, hone – imagine each word costs you $10.
11. Get others to read your pitch – it’s amazing how helpful an outside view
can be.
End
Product - Pitch
Lost boy Kai becomes increasingly isolated until
his psychic pain manifests itself as a physical presence – ‘the boy.’This destructive force tricks him into betraying
his best friend Jimmy.Preternatural
forces surround the farm, they are countered by the sympathetic magic of nature
and the charm that Granny left to protect him. A girl dreams about Kai.Her home situation mirrors his, it is bleak
and uncomfortable.They find each other
and share an adventure, she tries to break ‘the boy’s’ hold over Kai.Her compassion and empathy are not enough to
save him as ultimately the hold is too great.Kai retracts from society to an inner landscape,
cold and desolate, bleak as winter.
(maybe a little clunky but workable?)
(bearing in mind i'm leaving out death, an affair, someone getting stabbed with a kitchen knife and other random incidents of violence, sexual assault, knacker drinking and taking yokes!!)
Writers talk a lot about 'voice' and what rings true for their characters in what they say and in what they do. I have thousands of words of back story for my characters. This back story contains scenes which will never make it into the novel but that I felt was important for me to experience as the writer so I would fully understand who my character is, their 'formative experiences' and why it is they do what they do.
If my characters went to Starbucks I'd probably have an idea what coffee they'd order or whether they'd prefer a tea. I know which brand of cigarettes they smoke and whether they wear deodorant or not. This keeps things 'real' so the voice of your character doesn't slip, so you can anticipate their reaction in each situation you place them in and that way you don't end up putting words in their mouths. (so the reader doesn't realise you're putting words in their mouths sic)
This seems like a tragic amount of work and effort for something that will never be read by anyone but you. I found I had to do it to stop my secondary characters from becoming 2-dimensional and flat. After all is not like they know they are only peripheral, they probably expect to be stand alone entities the buggers. But as they say - a picture paints a thousand words.
Next time my plan is to use Pinterest not to eliminate the need to write backstory but as a handy reference guide when I'm unsure, of what word my might character use, what metaphors or similes they'll think in, how they will look or smell.
For example - if someone in the office this person temps in were to show her their new Uggs
'Lovely,' she said, like the word meant something else.
If something upset her?
She reached for her packet of cigarettes and ripped off the plastic wrapping. She sat on the cafe terrace smoking until her throat was raw. She chewed on the corners of the nails she'd spent the last three months growing out. She tried to sip the red wine she'd ordered but it tasted vile. Vinegar. When anyone tried to make eye contact she stared down at the book she'd placed on the table before her. She did not once turn the page.
Snow.Kai’s nose above the blankets could smell
it.Fat, fluffy, flakes of snow in thick
swirls that clung to the air.He sat
upright in bed and pulled aside the curtain to gaze out. He shivered slightly,
with cold, with anticipation, his face pressed against the glass, his breath
formed a fog on the pane and there it was.The snow, lush on the lawn, and there was the world, white and clean,
blunted by snow.
Snow
blanketed the hedge rows and fields, it made a shape of what was the car - it
shrouded the truth of the farm.Drifts
lay heavily on bare branches and the snow was dense in the air still softly,
silently and steadily falling.
A
caw, caw, cawing of crows echoed through the white wilderness of the day.
