Sunday 23 December 2007

Anything to declare?

Another piece I wrote sometime between 1988-1991, rediscovered on the waybackmachine...

What is is, and what was is.


"Anything to declare?" she asks, as she guides me from the through flow to a table bordering the green channel.

"No. Just some cigarettes," I mumble, just whoken up, sleapt on the boat back from Holland, wearing my friends jacket which makes me look rough. Rougher.

"Mind if I take a look in your rucksack?"

I have a choice? She works for customs and excise, they have the power to kick down my door and lock me away and maybe explain themselves afterwards. Like I'm going to say "No" and make a break for it.

"Sure," I say.

She opens my bag and finds the video in its garish paper bag. It would have been hard to miss it; its not one of those small compact VHS boxes, but one of those large ones. Like you get in rental stores. Right now it is my rucksack.

"What's this?" she asks. It must be a compulsory question they are taught to ask. She doesn't look stupid.

"An adult video," I reply.

"Do you know its illegal to bring adult material into the United Kingdom?"

"No..."

Our friendly by a table chat comes to an abrupt end.

I accompany her between some screens and disappear from the real world into the realm of customs and excise. I've heard about the strip searches, the rubber gloves, and the room where the toilet empties onto a conveyor belt where people in more rubber gloves have the delightful job of examining your waste products in the hope of finding products that get you wasted.

I'm escorted into a room, while the video is taken away to be viewed. The chances of it being a rip off - a couple of episodes of a Dutch soap, or an hour of a goldfish circling it's tank - are slim, and I think the cover alone is enough to convict me. A lesbian extravaganza that would drive a blind man mad. It sold me.

"Do you have any drugs on you?" A customs guy asks. The female officer has left for the moment.

There is a bag of grass in the video - they are going to have a hard time missing it - so denying that I also have hash on me seems pointless. I give it to them. Ironically, I brought it from England to Holland, and almost back again. Strange but true.

"Anything else?"

"You found the grass in the video?"

"I'm not sure, let me check..."

He returns.

"Yeah, we found the grass. Its being checked in the lab with the hash."

I'm stripped searched. It isn't too bad - I take my clothes off in front of them, they check them, and I put them back on again. No finger exploration to pop my cherry.

I'm allowed a phone call, so I call the number for the family solicitor that my Dad gave me some time ago.

"I don't practice criminal law," the solicitor says. "I'd recommend being honest with them. Do you want me to notify you father?"

Yeah, what the hell. I'm not exactly experiencing a "Salvador" James Woods situation here, but it might be useful for someone to know where I am. I'm sure a call from his solicitor saying I've been nicked for smuggling is going to make his day.

And while you're at it, could you tell me why I have your number if you don't practice criminal law, and, not being married or a house owner or in business - I hardly need a bloody solicitor who doesn't?

Never mind.

I'm taken back to a room to be interviewed by the female customs agent. She is quite attractive in a "it helps if you have a thing for women in uniforms" kind of way, and we hit it off. A friendly "I can see you don't really mind, and I'm just doing my job, so what the hell, why get heavy here?" hitting it off, not a "lets shut the door I've never done this before" hitting it off. Just in case you thought I was that good.

She has written a nice piece about how we met. She reads it to me, and its quite moving, but I correct her on one thing.

"I said I wasn't aware that it was illegal to bring hardcore pornography into the U.K."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

I know I'm carrying enough grass for a small party, but my memory isn't that bad. "Yes," I reply. In retrospect, how I missed my cue, I don't know. But there you go.

She amends the statement.

"What were you planning to do with the drugs?"

Start a major hard drugs distribution syndicate in South London, with the aim of branching out into the South West in the New Year.

"Personal use," I reply.

"Okay, and the video?"

I smile.

I was going to go home and masturbate over it for the next month, but now I'll have to make do with fantasizing about you.

"Personal use." I reply.

"Good."

Good?

She smiles and I smile and we're cool. We're adults here, after all, and I'm not thrown by the female in a position of power vibe. And she certainly isn't thrown by the typical male back from Holland vibe. It would be embaressing if she was.

They come back with the lab results on the hash and grass. Unsurprisingly - although they all found it quite amusing - the grass from Amsterdam tested higher for THC (the active ingredient) than the hash from the U.K. And they confirm the video is the genuine thing. I think one of them mentions "fisting", but probably just to wind me up.

I finish up with the female customs agent, chatting about how I became a bus driver (for I was a bus driver when this happened), and how maybe I could spend my time more productively. Getting 140 people to work each morning is what? a waste of my time and theirs? Oh, you mean being a bus driver is wasting my talents? And you've known me for how long? A hour? And you can judge me already? Gee, thanks. I'll be sure to drop by for some counselling next career change.

But this is with hindsight. At the time it was all quite civilized and pleasant, and she was genuinely apologetic when her boss came down to confirm that because I said I wasn't aware that it was illegal to import hardcore pornography, I would have to go to court. And get a criminal record as a result.

I'm not too bothered, and thank them all for their time (yeah, I'm like that) and leave.

My friend meets me outside, and we have a joint on the train back home.

A couple of weeks later, I receive a letter from them. "Pay £50 and we will drop the drugs charges. This is a one off offer." Or something to that effect. Signed "Blah blah, Chief Customs and Excise Something or Other".

I wrote back: "I would love to accept your one off not to be repeated offer of a £50 fine in exchange for the drugs charges being dropped, yours sincerely, Blah blah, Bus Driver." I enclose a £50 postal order.

I never heard anything more from them, and nothing more about the porno video. Can't think why.

The moral of this story? There isn't one. "What is is, and what was is," as someone wise once said. Okay, they didn't. I just made it up.

A Review of Battersea Police Station

I wrote this sometime between 1988-1991 for another website, and rediscovered it recently

As police cells go, Battersea Police Station's on suite selection has a lot to offer. Admittedly you are not normally given a choice of cells, but, since to a large extent they are generally the same, this isn't something to be too concerned about.

On the day I was to unexpextedly spend in a cell, I was lucky enough to be collected from my home by a couple of uniformed officers. I would imagine this service would vary depending on your circumstances. If you are lucky enough to be upgraded, no doubt you would receive the full armed response unit, battering ram, helicopters and dogs.

I was only entitled to the Economy Class service, but both officers were polite, well turned out (considering the unearthly hour - 4am), and the ride to the station in a police van was smooth and uneventfull. I would, however, advise against the use of handcuffs, as it can hinder your ability to prevent yourself sliding along the benches if the vehicle makes a sudden stop. But you may not be given a choice. I wasn't.

Upon arriving at the station, the checkin service is smooth and efficient, and the staff seemed well practiced at making it as uncomfortable and disconcerting as possible. Some of the questions they ask can be a bit more personal than you might like, but this adds a certain edge to the experience. I was surprised, but not disappointed, that no physical violence was involved, though maybe this is unique to Battersea Police Station. Your mileage may vary elsewhere. I had no accidental "falls" down staircases, and managed not to catch my head on the edge of a desk.

They have facilities for storing any items you may have brought with, such as shoe laces, any form of jewellery, money, keys and other day to day items. You will be allowed to keep cigarettes, should you be a smoker, but will not be allowed to take matches or cigarette lighters in with you as smoking is not allowed in the cells. I can appreciate this touch of irony.

Once inside the cell, you may be disappointed to find a lack of entertainment facilities. A bed, toilet, and sink is all they have to offer, and the view from the window is ruined slightly by the bars, but since the window is made with thick translucent glass that only allows strong daylight to enter the room, calling it a view would be misleading.

The only reading material is that gernerously supplied by previous occupants in the form of grafitti on the walls, floor, door, ceiling, or any other surface that can be scratched, chewed, smeared, or written on so as to leave some record of ones existance. Some of these personal comments are amusing, some lewd, some crude, some just plain incomprehensible. You would be hard pushed not to find something that would cause you stop and think. You might not be thinking very pleasant thoughts, but you would be thinking...

Breakfast is laid on, and is actually quite pleasant if you enjoy roadside cafe food. And don't think too hard about how it was prepared, and might have been through on the way to your cell. And if you can ignore your surroundings. Its surprising how messy people can be, and how someone can leave a bloody face print on a ceiling I couldn't reach is beyond me.

Anyway, I whiled away the day singing punk songs in the mistaken belief that my friends ahd also been arrested and were in neighbouring cells and I was keeping their morale up. I was to discover later that when arrested, you are all taken to your local police station, not dumped in one.

So would I recommend Battersea Police Station? I wouldn't say it was a bad place, and I imagine it ranks far higher than most Eastern Block ones, but I wouldn't choose to go there voluntarily. But then nobody does, do they?

Thursday 1 November 2007

NaNoWriMo

NaNoWriMo starts today. Can't say I feel thatr prepared, but here goes...

Saturday 20 October 2007

Comic Strip Script

The last comic script I wrote, without a clue as to what I was doing, was three or four years ago: Cookie was interested in illustrating a comic, so while the girl I was stayingg with was away for two weeks, I proceeded to drink as much Jack Daniels as humanly possible and write.

The result of this drunken binge was that I visited some dark places, sometime waking to find the flat trashed (ahem), and wrote a completely fucked up story about an under cover cop who had infiltrated some Colombian drug cartel, screwed all the women, had an affair with a female DEA agent sent to bring him in, then went on a rampage and killed the entire Cartel. Cookie was looking for a children's story, and a look at his site will explain why he (correctly) passed on my incoherent script. Slight difference in styles...

Anyways, last Thursday Bertrand casually mentioned he was interested in doing a comic script while we at the pub, and after too many too strong beers (Leffe is lethal, more so when it's free at a leaving do), I stumbled home pissed as a newt. Then woke at 3am, hungover. After downing anti acids and pints of water, I was still awake an hour later with an idea for a strip that wouldn't sleep. Four hours later I was rushing to complete the script and not be late for work.

It's darker* than I intended, and probably a lot more than Bertrand wanted to take on - even if he is too polite to say so - but at least it has a coherent plot this time (if a little simplistic). But I followed the sample script in the back of the excellent "30 Days of Night", so at least it is a script this time, rather than drunken scrawl and diagrams indicating how I viewed a scene of someone being thrown from a helicopter. I also did away with any speech, for no other reason than the story wrote itself that way.

So, maybe this will see the light of day. Or Bertrand will decide it's just not his style. If he does, I think I'll turn it into a novel for NaNoWriMo.

*one day I'll accept I can only do dark or funny, but have no control as to which way a story will go when I start writing.

Tuesday 16 October 2007

WaOhWnisD prize



WaOhWnisD prize

Again, congrats to Tom Sears for winning the WaOhWnisD competition.

He wins seven days worth of alcohol to help inspire his next novel.

For some reason the perspective on the picture above is a bit messed up, and the bottles look a lot smaller than they actually are. Just thought I'd mention that in case there any problems with Funt's £126.93 expense claim at the end of the month...


Funt

Write A Novel In A Week and a bit : Winner!

And the winner was...

We have a winner! Congrats to Tom Sears whose novel is reprinted below. And could everyone who voted for him chuck me a quid and I'll pop down the off licence tonight. His prize is your hands. ;)

Thanks to everyone else who entered. Don't forget November is NaNoWriMo - it should be a walkover after this.

Though his dialect remained crude, Tim understood from the chief’s broad grin that today was ‘important day’. His initiation as tribesman?

Up in the tree hut, he thumbed his journal: memories of how he’d taught them to use handkerchiefs and play bridge. They’d been reticent; but now they wanted to thank him!

A happy chorus rose from below. Tim donned his headdress and started climbing down. The whooping crowd caught him on their shoulders and carried him like a king. If National Geographic could see him now!

Then the tribespeople rubbed sweet marinade on Tim’s thighs. And roasted the motherfucker.

Write A Novel In A Week : Vote for a winner

There's always one...

And a late entry...

“Its these damn fingays.”

Stunned, Jazz Fusion’s Lance Mincen began to trimble like tender mutton.

His form was free from freeform.

He arrived in Tibet, donned a robe and began to slip into a trance.

Vivid images of Jazz Fusion flickered around the room and through the haze of the 4/3 signature swing beat Old Man Fingers Syndrome appeared.

He pronounced “Sheeet blaaaads, it’s da man dem puritay o lough’ve that’s gotsta flow tru dem fingays. You see blaaad?”

He paused… “Sheeeeeeeeeeeet.” And with that the vision was over.

Mincen came too, lit a joss stick and made love to his oboe in an improvised A minor.

Write A Novel In A Week : Vote for a winner

Well, *you* can't vote, but people did...

Here are the entries to the 'Write A Novel In A Week' competition.

If you thought it would be dominated by the copywriters amongst us, you'd be wrong. A designer and account manager took part. Who knew so many would rise to the Herculean task set before them? Nietzsche would weep at the supermen that walk amongst us.

So take a couple of minutes out of your hectic schedules to read what a week of furious creativity has produced, and then vote for your favourite. And feel free to vote for your own entry - you deserve some some recognition. And I'm voting for mine (might save me having to buy a prize).

Funt - practicing dentistry on gift horses in a kennel full of sleeping dogs




Entry 1

Derek the daddy-long legs was the most frustrated creature of all. He desperately wanted to make an impact on the household like the others - Matthew and Michaela the mice who had wreaked havoc in the larder, Elaine the earwig who had scuttling down to a tee and Walter the wasp who’s buzzing irritated the hell out of the human residents. But Derek was just too wimpy, and when he changed his name to Dirk to try and sound harder, the others just laughed. One day Poppy the dog swallowed him by mistake. And that was the end of that.

Entry 2

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aliquam tempus. Nunc sit amet dui. Suspendisse nonummy augue at nunc. Donec consectetuer, tellus eu mattis pretium, mauris tortor sollicitudin est, euismod malesuada ligula ipsum vel massa. Morbi sapien tortor, fringilla eget, sagittis nec, varius quis, massa. Phasellus et neque. Curabitur lacus. Duis convallis ipsum. Sed sed massa. Nam nec urna eget erat dictum lacinia. Aenean ipsum. Integer lobortis diam a nibh. Mauris placerat urna sit amet arcu. Aliquam nonummy magna non dui. Mauris congue nisi eget purus. Curabitur elit magna, tristique sed, pretium in, sagittis nec, neque. Ut risus. Sed eu.

Entry 3

Though his dialect remained crude, Tim understood from the chief’s broad grin that today was ‘important day’. His initiation as tribesman?


Up in the tree hut, he thumbed his journal: memories of how he’d taught them to use handkerchiefs and play bridge. They’d been reticent; but now they wanted to thank him!


A happy chorus rose from below. Tim donned his headdress and started climbing down. The whooping crowd caught him on their shoulders and carried him like a king. If National Geographic could see him now!


Then the tribespeople rubbed sweet marinade on Tim’s thighs. And roasted the motherfucker.


Entry 4

In the bowels of the government headquarters, Faitherful-Servant-1 eyed the Funster suspiciously, his eye bulging like a worm squeezed through the eye of a needle.



“Fun is ruining the order of our perfectly oiled city,” FS1 barked. “It’s war. On fun, silliness and pointlessness. Surrender, or the missile launches.”



“Never. Life without fun is like a donut with no jam, like a…-“



“RIGHT. The Pointless War begins!” he screeched, pressing the silver button.



The Faithful Servant burst into flames, rules erupted and regulation briefcases exploded. The Funster grinned unharmed. The government had realised too late - sensibleness would eat itself.


Entry 5

I spat sandwich into my hand.

'Go back?' I asked. 'Why would we go back?'

'We have no choice,’ she said. ‘Everything is there for people to find. We have to go back.'

I flicked away the sandwich. Nothing to say.

Off we went.



Place deserted, doors open. Our sculpture started on ground and rose up through the floors we had knocked through. We grabbed up tools, wiped down door handles, gathered up dust sheets.

'Wait.' She dashed back, and took a shot of our work with her phone.

'Not our best...'

'True.'

'Now?'

'I'm thinking a carrot. KFC.'

'Cool.'

Friday 12 October 2007

write a novel in a week and a bit

People* begging for an extension of the deadline, so I rushed this out while distracted (how come client amends come through after 6.00? Since when are clients at work after 5.00?).

Entries so far are high quality. Well, we're guessing they were written when high.

Anyways, we're extending the 'Write A Novel in a Week' competition to give you a chance to write one, and hopefully lower the quality so that my entry has a chance, otherwise it will look too much like a fix when I win. If. If I win.

Anyways, here's some space within which to write to write your novel:

[
















].

Funt - putting the fun back into something

*person

Thursday 11 October 2007

Day 12 : write a 100 word novel in a week!

Sent on Wednesday (I didn't write one for Tuesday)

Day 12.

As we near to the end of our write a '100 Word Novel In A Week' competition and you consider the pages of your manuscript before you, many of you are probably surprised that you had it in you.

Don't be.

Republic attracts some of the most creative minds around, and a 100 word novel was probably a walk in the park. 100 words? You've written longer emails to clients before 9.00am, you've written longer creative briefs before a conference call, and you've justified outrageous expense claims with more words (and more creativity).

But spare a thought for those who haven't written a word. Spare a thought for those who thought it was some arty creative competition that they couldn't enter, spare a thought for those who thought the 16 hour days they do meant that taking 20 minutes out to write a soaring soirée on solitude was unjustified. Spare a thought for Jeff.

These people, these colleagues you casually call your friends and have lunch with (if they take a lunch break at all), these people are the ones who need your help now. Your tale has been told.

Explain to them that their story is as important as yours, that they have the words to tell it, and you would like to hear it. Hug them, caress them, kiss their minds. Let them shine in the light of the love that is Republic, and together we'll write more new age hippy crap than we know know what to do with.

One day we'll look back on this moment and say "Yeah, I wrote a novel, but you know what? So did Jeff. And Jeff was just a goldfish by then. But we were there for him. We were a Republic. We were Republic."

[cue "Eye Of The Tiger" by Survivor, dissolve to the unicorn, fade to black]


Funt - it may be a drop in the ocean, but it's our ocean, so we'll drop what we like and we'll drop it like it's hot

Monday 8 October 2007

Day 3 : Write a 100 word novel in a week!

Continuing the 'Write a 100 word novel in a week' competition at work.

Day 3.

Funt is running a 'Write a 100 word novel in a week' competition. Imagine if everyone in Republic wrote a novel - perhaps we'd end being famous for having more unpublished novelists in one place than anywhere else. So if you've always harboured a secret desire to get in the Guinness Book of Records, open up word and get typing. It's only a 100 words.

If you're worrying whether 100 words even count as a novel, well, author Umberto Eco considers El Dinosaurio ('The Dinosaur') a novel, and it's only got a rather pitiful word count of seven:

Cuando despertĂ³, el dinosaurio todavĂ­a estaba allĂ­.
("When he awoke, the dinosaur was still there.")

If that counts, we think we're safe with a hundred. And with a decent editor, who knows; maybe they can cut it back to a publishable length.

Those of you struggling with writers block should take heart from Hu Wenliang from China, who wrote nothing but five lines of punctuation and is waiting to hear whether it is the shortest novel ever. So if you've drawn a creative blank, try resting your forehead on your keyboard and you might come up with something on a par with Hu Wenliang. Just don't expect to be swanning off to Ibiza* on us: we'll be using Microsoft Word to check word counts, and it might object.


Funt - not waving, crowd surfing

*a holiday in Ibiza is a provisional prize and is subject to change. We're sure Jane will be fine with it, but, well, we haven't asked her yet, and we might have to fall back on something we can buy from the Red Shop for a fiver. But how much is a place in the Guinness Book Of Records worth? You can't buy that sort of publicity. Personally, I think you should save some of your holiday allocation. Maybe not the full 25 days, but a long weekend is probably a dead cert.

**Who knew: Roy Castle, famous for presenting the 'Record Breakers', used to have a wicker basket off camera into which he would dive and take refuge while presenting the program because he suffered from agoraphobia, and they filmed the program in one of the BBC's larger studios.

Friday 5 October 2007

Day 2 : Write a 100 word novel in a week!

My heart wasn't quite in this 'Day 2' of the competition email (band rehearsal the night before and three hours broken sleep) but you do what you can...

Day 2.

We're going to keep this email short, because if you followed yesterday's advice you have words in the bank and can afford to take today off.

If you've yet to start your hundred word novel, then there's still time to join the competition - closing date is next Friday!

And it should go without saying that we'll be accepting entries written in any language you're happy writing in. Don't worry that we can only read English and will run your novel through Google translate a few times (your language to Flemish, Flemish to Spanish, Spanish to French, French to German, German to Italian, Italian to English ). It'll be fine.


Funt - 12 steps behind the program, but with you all the way

Thursday 4 October 2007

Day 1 : Write a 100 word novel in a week!

My first inspirational email for the competition...

Day 1.

Like me, you've probably sat down and done the maths, and realized that today you need to write 15 words of your 100 word novel today if you're going to finish it in seven days (and have the weekend off). That may seem a daunting task given that you've also been worrying a plot, theme, and whether there are too many slides in your O2 segmentation presentation, but honestly: 15 words aren't really that many.

Instead of obsessing about the words, you might want to decide what to do with them, and a useful trick is to use them to introduce your protagonist.

Here is an opening line from entirely fictitious novel to inspire you:

"Ugly as sin, and with breath bad enough to turn a bus blue, Frank wasn't the first person that sprang to mind when she needed as shoulder to cry on."

See? Easy. We've introduced two characters for the price of one, and while our heroine may need fleshing out a bit, we now have Frank on board. And we've burnt through thirty words of our novel as well, which means we can slack off on Day 2 and hit the Westbridge.

If you'd rather leave the whole character thing for later, how about setting the scene?

"It was a bed sit fit only for the lowest of trailer trash looking to move up in the world on the cheap, and she knew she would have to work fast when she discovered the corpse in the dirt black bed."

Scene set, forty words in the bag, and fourteen hours and fifty-three minutes of the day left to do some real work.

So get the coffee on, remember not to spend too long sat at the keyboard (RSI and back pain and all that), bang out 15 words, and tomorrow we'll tackle Day 2.



Funt - it ain't easy, but then freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose

Wednesday 3 October 2007

Write a 100 word novel in a week!

Launched a competition at work today: Write a 100 word novel in a week. I was going to whip a frenzy for a group NaNoWriMo effort, but the consensus was that turnout might be a bit low, so:

In November there is a competition to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. But that's November.

What we would like you to do now is write a 100 word novel in a week. Entries in by Friday 12th October.

So dig out your hundred favouritest words, and bash them out.

There's a prize, obviously, and while we can't tell you what it is, think a weeks holiday in Ibiza, then scale back a bit (massively).

Start writing. 100 words - it's less than this email (101 words)!


Funt - we love you like your mother, and your mother too!


small print (that doesn't count in the word count of the email above because I've only just thought to mention it):
We might stick the novels up on a website (if we get more than none), so sending your plot synopsis for a TV series you plan to sell to TV and retire on might not be the cleverest thing in the world. But then again, maybe you're cool with that :)


Tomorrow: my first inspirational email to keep things moving.

Tuesday 2 October 2007

Writing blunders

Gearing up for NaNoWriMo this year, I love stuff like this article on writing blunders (c/o boingboing).

Sunday 26 August 2007

The worst opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels...

Couple of entries for a competition at work inspired by the Bulwer-Lytton site's "worst opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels"
I knew it was a mistake, but it was a mistake I liked making, and making mistakes was my middle name - when I didn't get it wrong (on purpose).

and
You know how it is when you wake up hung-over and handcuffed in the back of a car with no driver bouncing down the side of a hill to certain oblivion below, and you have a cigarette between your lips but no way of lighting it? 'No,' she whispered.

People (Abe) complained the last entry was two sentences, but I still insist it reads as one... ;)

Monday 11 June 2007

Hit man

Kind of done the hit man novel before (not that well), but been turning another over for a while. Waiting for two ideas to clash and throw up something interesting, but so far I have...

Hit man, London based, knocking off people for money without too much concern. We see a couple of jobs, mundane but horrifically brutal (or vice versa). Takes a new job, and client (a go between) mentions that it's a rush job as he's been having trouble placing the job. Our hit man does the job. Perhaps combine with near nabbing in a pub by plain clothes cops?

Then the next call he takes for another job asks whether he ever questions why he's been asked to kill the people he kills? Has he? I'm not sure. Anyways, this time, before he offs the guy, he asks him why anyone would want him dead. In between begging for his life the guy tells him he does what he does: he's a contract killer too.

BTW: we're not talking anything glamorous here, we're talking thug / bouncer level. No sniper rifles or poison blow darts. Just broken bottles, knives, clubbed to death and run over.

So now our hit man starts wondering what's going on. Sure enough, the next person he's asked to kill is another contract killer. How many can he kill before they come after him? And who wants them all dead? And who asked him whether he wondered what they did?

I've no idea.

Lawrence Block is writing a great series of Hit Man novels, well worth checking out. And there's a thriller about a terminally ill contract killer who takes out a contract on his own life, then finds out he's not dying. Can't remember who it's by, but it was great.

Thursday 7 June 2007

Rolling with the idea

With no pen I had to cling on to an idea that came during a presentation this morning...

The suicide mission to set off/destroy the bomb (whatever) on the spaceship. The team is gradually killed off till we are left with one guy who knows he can't make it. So he is captured, and reveals during interrogation that there are other teams all with the same goal: to set off the bomb. With the result that the enemy ends up doing what the team set out to do.

Wednesday 6 June 2007

Now if there isn't a story in this...

Okay, it's possibly already been filmed in part, but some of the paranoid angles in James Jesus Angleton's (long-serving chief of the Central Intelligence Agency') wiki article would add an interesting spin to any novel. Take the Space/Macbeth idea, and then have the friendly Commander consumed with a search for an enemy squad in their lines. That doesn't sound so interesting written down anymore, but I'd make it work, dammit! Before they make it work against me...

Saturday 26 May 2007

Macbeth in Space jumping off point

After watching Akira Kurosawa's 'Throne Of Blood' I considered reworking Macbeth, but set in space. People suggest shamelessly ripping off something is a good way of ending up with something of your own. One of the possibilities was a huge ship on which a battle raged (a gritty version of the great Startopia PC game, sadly ignored despite appearing on many a review top ten).

Obviously I've not written it yet, but it's an idea I chew on from time to time. From that has come a smaller idea: a squad/platoon of soldiers sent to penetrate enemy lines on the space ship, which is then cut off, perhaps knowingly, perhaps accidently. No chance of returning to their side. This could be something they were aware of beforehand, or something that just happens. Now I'm thinking it could almost be a starting point for a story.

The soldiers are sent to remove the the enemies ability to destroy the whole ship by disabling a self destruct device (or whatever) that resides behind enemy lines. Then their mission changes: the ship has separated in two, and they are ordered to set the bomb off to wipe the enemy out, possibly dying as a result. Can they do it in time? Can they escape if they do? Will they do it?

There are obvious possibilties for characters to rebel against the order, to try to sabotage the mission, etc etc. With loads of action, which I love writing. Ammo running dry, desperate escapes, a car chase. I'm not sure how I would work in a car chase, but I think there's mileage of one in a novel, a device long since run dry in the movies. I heard a spoken poem version of what I think was a Jack Kerouac short as a kid on the radio about a (late night?) drive, and it was incredible. Would love to hear that again...

Monday 21 May 2007

Sunday 20 May 2007

Protect the kids

Idea:

A less than perfect bodyguard is left on the bench as others pick up the glamorous jobs. Then a call comes in to babysit two kids. He sent to pick up the detail. We alternate between him and a group planning to kidnap the kids, kill them quick, and then claim the ransom. So we know what's coming: if he lets the kids fall into the hands of the kidnappers they die.

We can also show the parents and give some background on why they would be targetted. Probably non-descript wealthy business people. Possibly someone has set the kidnappers up to divert attention from another plan involving the business; they want the husband or wife to be thinking about the kidbap and not another move that is being made.

Meanwhile the washed up bodyguard goes on the run with the kids, with theusual close escapes, possibly being viewed as a suspect by the police which limits his options.

And of course the kids make things harder with their own paranoia that he is fact a kidnapper and they need to escape from him.

End: Someone mentioned (Stephen Donaldson?) that they've had an ending to a story that they always write towards but the story takes on a life of it's own and finds it's own ending. But it's still good to have, so...

Beat up to hell, the bodyguard ends up in the offices of the couple, hiding out from the remains of the kidnappers. The poilce are closing in and have orders to take him out. The crooked business partner is in the building making his/her move against the couple. The kids call the parents, who alert the police, but as things come to a close the involvement of the dodgy business partner is given away, and the parents, unable to alert the police somehow speak to the kids who save the bodyguard life.

Hmm. A maybe. Could be a bit Die Hard like (which isn't necessarily a bad thing). Smacks of generic American pulp, which may read well but gets turned into a sub par summer failure of a movie.

Why I might write this: Write what you know, and having two kids there's potential there for the interplay between the bodyguard and them. Also the potential for action, which I like, though I tend to over do the level of violence, which might be a bit much. But the threat level does need to be high to give the sense of danger they are all in, so not a bad thing.

Why I might not write this: Would need to set this in the States (he'll need to carry a gun, the kidnappers will need guns), I hate writing stories set in London. Also, I prefer to have a level of humour - however dark - and I'm not sure how that would fit here. I wouldn't want him to be a wise crcking Bruce Willis character, and wouldn't want to write cliched Russian kidnappers.

Intro

I wrote a novel for Nanowrimo a few years back, and I've been meaning to do it again each year since. But waiting for it to start and then scabbling around for an idea isn't ideal, so this blog is for me to jot down ideas, maybe roll them around a bit and see where the go, and hopefully end up with a pool of ideas to drawn upon when November rolls around.

Yes, throwing them out for public view might not seem the best idea, and I guess anyone could run with one before I do and claim it as their own, but ideas are just that and sitting on them is pointless.

So here goes.