I'm not really a tea fangirl.
But appears that when it comes to Earl Grey, I might very well be.
See, I don't drink a lot of different types of tea, I rarely use a teapot and frankly loose tea is a right old faff.
Most of the time I drink Asda's redbush, which is lovely and light and not bitter in the slightest. Then there's my morning coffee, decaff, usually Nescafe but I don't mind so long as it's not Maxwell House (which some people probably like but I absolutely can't stand).
Earl Grey is my writing tea - enough caffeine to give me a bit of much-needed energy, but not so much as to give me the jitters. I probably drink a few cups a week. But! Earlier this week, my supply of the miracle drink RAN OUT.
SO! What's a girl to do?
Get some more, you very sensibly say.
And I did. But did I get the proper, approved-by-the-Earl-himself stuff? No! I bought Sunshine Grey, which I thought would be all lemony and lovely.
It's nice, don't get me wrong, I like it, but it's not, y'know, AMAZING.
Instead of drinking that, then, and instead of drinking my very last bag of Lady Grey, I went to the back of the cupboard and dug out the somewhat crushed box of Typhoo EG.
Cue sadface.
Twinings EG: The second best thing ever in the history of tea. Strong-ish and tea-flavoured but the bitterness isn't overpowering. The bergamot gets stronger the more you brew it, going from barely-there to a nice undercurrent. Yummy tea. Great to get the words a'flowing.
Lady Grey, also Twinings: The best thing ever in the history of tea. Lighter, fluffier, more citrus'y, slightly more floral. Not overpowering even if you leave it for ages while you track down new batteries for the Wii remote. Don't really know what it's like with writing, because I got it in a selection box and I only had five bags to start with so I leave it for special occasions / times when I can actually focus on the loveliness of what I'm drinking.
Sunshine Grey, see above: Nice tea. Too easily overpowered by milk, so don't even go there; extremely gentle tea. Nice but not enough of a kick for my personal taste. I haven't tried it with writing yet. I will, in a minute.
Typhoo EG: Too much black tea, not enough citrus, not enough bergamot. But if you like a strong black tea flavour and only a hint of Grey-ness, then you'll probably really like it. Not too bad for writing.
Those are all the ones I've tried - sadly I don't have the money for Whittards, though it might be nice to try what I've nicknamed in my head the poshest tea on the planet, and, in moments of fangirly weakness, the Mycroft Holmes Tea.
Speaking of fangirlyness, I really want to try Adagio. But the shipping costs are just...no, and the UK branch doesn't seem to stock fandom tea.
Having a quick scan, the River Song looks lovely (Earl Grey (obv.) coconut, lemon. All my favourite things!), the Office Romance, Captain Carrot (peach, blood orange, EG)....ah, too many.
Anyway, that's enough for today and my tea-based ramblings!
~Alice
Saturday 23 March 2013
Friday 15 March 2013
#2: To Escapism and Instant Coffee
(A/N: Title is from a Hunter S. Thompson quote if I remember correctly)
9th June 1756
I miss coffee.
It sounds stupid, really, but here I am, tied up in a dark, dingy cellar with my best friend and the only person in the whole space-time continuum who could save me all the way over in another century. I've been here a week now, by my reckoning - and I was always good with time – and yes I've been fed and watered, but the one thing I really, really miss, is sitting in a nice cafe with Lucius (the aforementioned best friend) drinking a cup of coffee and fighting over who gets the last bit of the lemon drizzle cake.
There's this place in twenty-first century Bath that serves the best lemon drizzle cake.
I miss it. Once I'm out of here, I'll go, even if Lucius is a hundred years behind me.
I miss him, the arrogant git.
He's a time-traveller, as you may have guessed. He works for the Crown, chasing murderers and other unsavoury sorts through time. He's in seventeenth century France right now, tracking down a man called Edgar Mordecai.
Mordecai's a mad bastard. I mean, seriously batshit-crazy.
He's a necromancer though, and they’re all a bit insane. And it explains why he has me in the dark and dingy cellar of one of those big Gothic castles. The old villainous flair for the dramatic, you know. So yes, last week I was kidnapped by Mad Mordecai and trapped in his cellar, while my best friend and general bane of my existence Lucius Rush gallivanted around France.
France, of all places. If people were countries, Lucius would be France. I mean, Lucius is a pure-breed Londoner, but he's always stylish and loves his wine and art and opera and he especially loves dramatic lazing about. He has the panache for it, you see. But he needs someone with fast reflexes and a bit of common sense, and that's me. I'm the Watson to his Holmes, if you like.
Only now I'm here, trapped, and Good God this is annoying.
You know what else I miss?
Being able to say, “I know, I'll go and see Shakespeare at The Globe.”
Or whatever else tickles your fancy.
I miss that freedom.
I miss coffee more, but that's not what you’re meant to say, is it? No poet ever wrote, “I'm trapped and alone and I wish I had my freedom back but I'd sell my soul for a cup o' joe.”
I shouldn’t say that, not really.
You never know who’s listening.
16th June 1756
Alright.
I should tell you, I'm not some weak woman. Woman, yes. Weak, no. And I wouldn't usually tell you this kind of thing, but I'm bored.
Did I tell you my name? It’s Meg. Meg Chrona.
I've been Lucius's 'assistant' for the better part of six years, now. My dad was an assassin. He taught me the tricks. So I'm five-foot-nothing of flaming-haired badassery, with nothing to do, and it's boring.
People underestimate me. They see six-foot-two, gun-and-sword-and-top-hat-toting Lucius Rush and their eyes just skip over me.
They don't know I learned sword-fighting in Toledo, or that I can draw, aim, and fire in less than a second. They don't see the custom-made katana hidden in my skirt and the lock-picking set disguised as hatpins. Or the guns lashed to my thighs. Or the knife in each boot. Or the six years spent learning martial arts in the dojos of Japan.
I like it that way, to be honest. If they just think I'm Lucius's...oh, I don't know. Assistant? Bit on the side? Anyway, if they think I'm harmless, it makes it so much sweeter when I'm the one beating them six ways to Sunday.
It's annoying, though, when they don't underestimate you and stab you in the neck with a syringe full of sedative and lock you in a cellar.
Very annoying.
I don't mind too much, though. I mean, this is the fifth time I've been kidnapped in as many years. It's all getting a bit old-hat, to be frank. In another week or two Lucius will come crashing through the reinforced steel doors and yell “Miss me, my dear?”
I'll say “You're late,” he'll say “Better than being early,” and try to check me for injuries while pretending to be totally disinterested, and off we go to the nearest Starbucks. Other purveyors of bad coffee are available.
He's a complete git.
Still miss him, though.
I miss coffee more.
23rd June 1756
Three weeks.
Getting a bit ridiculous now.
Have you forgotten me, Lou?
How'd that song go? Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou, my daaaaaaarling. Is that it? Can't remember. I do that, sometimes. Torture him with anachronisms. He really hates it when I sing ABBA songs in Victorian hansoms. Well, he hates it when I sing ABBA songs regardless of when we are. He hates it more when I get him addicted to custard creams or cookie dough ice-cream and then make him go somewhere they don't have it. Like 1410. They don't have anything good in 1410.
We met in 1834. He was holding interviews at the Aion Club for an assistant. I should say I met him in 1834 at the Aion Club. I don't know when he first met me.
Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou, my daaaaaarling.
Oh, come on, where are you?
When are you?
I bet he's forgotten me and he's just lazing about in Paris, drinking coffee.
Git.
30th June 1756
I'm sick of this now.
sicksicksicksickboredboredBORED
My wrists hurt.
My feet hurt.
My back hurts.
Mordecai keeps coming in and laughing at me.
It's been ages since I had a mocha.
3rd July 1756
“Miss me, my dear?” the old git says, pushing the door open – dramatically, of course – and strolling in in his bloody long coat and his bloody big hat and his bloody stupid face.
“You're late.”
“Better than being early,” he says as he de-manacles me.
I grin at him as he puts his arm around me to hold me up, as he not-so-discreetly checks for bruised or broken ribs. I’m wobbly on my feet and I can see him watching in his peripheral vision. I think he thinks I’ve got a twisted ankle. I haven’t, and I tell him so.
He shrugs a one-armed shrug. “Good,” he says, in his most detached tone. He helps me out into the corridor, where three guards lie in pools of their own blood. My skirt drags in it and I make a face. Lucius glances down.
“I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning,” he says.
“Yes, you will.”
He laughs, very softly. Then: “Where to?”
“Bath. 2009.”
He nods, and takes out his pocket watch. He turns it to the right year, and then we close our eyes.
4th July 2009
I tap my fingers against the mug as I stare at Lucius.
He stares back.
First one to look away gets the last bite of the lemon drizzle cake, which is almost as good as I remember.
I sip my cappuccino without breaking eye-contact
Turns out I missed him more.
9th June 1756
I miss coffee.
It sounds stupid, really, but here I am, tied up in a dark, dingy cellar with my best friend and the only person in the whole space-time continuum who could save me all the way over in another century. I've been here a week now, by my reckoning - and I was always good with time – and yes I've been fed and watered, but the one thing I really, really miss, is sitting in a nice cafe with Lucius (the aforementioned best friend) drinking a cup of coffee and fighting over who gets the last bit of the lemon drizzle cake.
There's this place in twenty-first century Bath that serves the best lemon drizzle cake.
I miss it. Once I'm out of here, I'll go, even if Lucius is a hundred years behind me.
I miss him, the arrogant git.
He's a time-traveller, as you may have guessed. He works for the Crown, chasing murderers and other unsavoury sorts through time. He's in seventeenth century France right now, tracking down a man called Edgar Mordecai.
Mordecai's a mad bastard. I mean, seriously batshit-crazy.
He's a necromancer though, and they’re all a bit insane. And it explains why he has me in the dark and dingy cellar of one of those big Gothic castles. The old villainous flair for the dramatic, you know. So yes, last week I was kidnapped by Mad Mordecai and trapped in his cellar, while my best friend and general bane of my existence Lucius Rush gallivanted around France.
France, of all places. If people were countries, Lucius would be France. I mean, Lucius is a pure-breed Londoner, but he's always stylish and loves his wine and art and opera and he especially loves dramatic lazing about. He has the panache for it, you see. But he needs someone with fast reflexes and a bit of common sense, and that's me. I'm the Watson to his Holmes, if you like.
Only now I'm here, trapped, and Good God this is annoying.
You know what else I miss?
Being able to say, “I know, I'll go and see Shakespeare at The Globe.”
Or whatever else tickles your fancy.
I miss that freedom.
I miss coffee more, but that's not what you’re meant to say, is it? No poet ever wrote, “I'm trapped and alone and I wish I had my freedom back but I'd sell my soul for a cup o' joe.”
I shouldn’t say that, not really.
You never know who’s listening.
16th June 1756
Alright.
I should tell you, I'm not some weak woman. Woman, yes. Weak, no. And I wouldn't usually tell you this kind of thing, but I'm bored.
Did I tell you my name? It’s Meg. Meg Chrona.
I've been Lucius's 'assistant' for the better part of six years, now. My dad was an assassin. He taught me the tricks. So I'm five-foot-nothing of flaming-haired badassery, with nothing to do, and it's boring.
People underestimate me. They see six-foot-two, gun-and-sword-and-top-hat-toting Lucius Rush and their eyes just skip over me.
They don't know I learned sword-fighting in Toledo, or that I can draw, aim, and fire in less than a second. They don't see the custom-made katana hidden in my skirt and the lock-picking set disguised as hatpins. Or the guns lashed to my thighs. Or the knife in each boot. Or the six years spent learning martial arts in the dojos of Japan.
I like it that way, to be honest. If they just think I'm Lucius's...oh, I don't know. Assistant? Bit on the side? Anyway, if they think I'm harmless, it makes it so much sweeter when I'm the one beating them six ways to Sunday.
It's annoying, though, when they don't underestimate you and stab you in the neck with a syringe full of sedative and lock you in a cellar.
Very annoying.
I don't mind too much, though. I mean, this is the fifth time I've been kidnapped in as many years. It's all getting a bit old-hat, to be frank. In another week or two Lucius will come crashing through the reinforced steel doors and yell “Miss me, my dear?”
I'll say “You're late,” he'll say “Better than being early,” and try to check me for injuries while pretending to be totally disinterested, and off we go to the nearest Starbucks. Other purveyors of bad coffee are available.
He's a complete git.
Still miss him, though.
I miss coffee more.
23rd June 1756
Three weeks.
Getting a bit ridiculous now.
Have you forgotten me, Lou?
How'd that song go? Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou, my daaaaaaarling. Is that it? Can't remember. I do that, sometimes. Torture him with anachronisms. He really hates it when I sing ABBA songs in Victorian hansoms. Well, he hates it when I sing ABBA songs regardless of when we are. He hates it more when I get him addicted to custard creams or cookie dough ice-cream and then make him go somewhere they don't have it. Like 1410. They don't have anything good in 1410.
We met in 1834. He was holding interviews at the Aion Club for an assistant. I should say I met him in 1834 at the Aion Club. I don't know when he first met me.
Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou, my daaaaaarling.
Oh, come on, where are you?
When are you?
I bet he's forgotten me and he's just lazing about in Paris, drinking coffee.
Git.
30th June 1756
I'm sick of this now.
sicksicksicksickboredboredBORED
My wrists hurt.
My feet hurt.
My back hurts.
Mordecai keeps coming in and laughing at me.
It's been ages since I had a mocha.
3rd July 1756
“Miss me, my dear?” the old git says, pushing the door open – dramatically, of course – and strolling in in his bloody long coat and his bloody big hat and his bloody stupid face.
“You're late.”
“Better than being early,” he says as he de-manacles me.
I grin at him as he puts his arm around me to hold me up, as he not-so-discreetly checks for bruised or broken ribs. I’m wobbly on my feet and I can see him watching in his peripheral vision. I think he thinks I’ve got a twisted ankle. I haven’t, and I tell him so.
He shrugs a one-armed shrug. “Good,” he says, in his most detached tone. He helps me out into the corridor, where three guards lie in pools of their own blood. My skirt drags in it and I make a face. Lucius glances down.
“I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning,” he says.
“Yes, you will.”
He laughs, very softly. Then: “Where to?”
“Bath. 2009.”
He nods, and takes out his pocket watch. He turns it to the right year, and then we close our eyes.
4th July 2009
I tap my fingers against the mug as I stare at Lucius.
He stares back.
First one to look away gets the last bite of the lemon drizzle cake, which is almost as good as I remember.
I sip my cappuccino without breaking eye-contact
Turns out I missed him more.
I Come Bearing Gifts
Yes!
Gifts!
Two of them!
Y'see, I entered two competitions this week and I won NEITHER OF THEM, so you get them instead. Aren't I lovely?
1) "Rise"
It used to bustle.
It doesn't any more.
Paper stacked in in-trays and out-trays, dust blurring the words. Computers, too, the keyboards bent and broken. Staplers sit, jaws wide, on the desks – looking for fingers and papers to bite. Chairs with their legs torn and tangled. Windows cracked and glass scattered. The bins hold nuclear ooze, wax paper rising with colours all matted and dirtied. Unidentified green crawls up the walls in specks, the scent of it heavy in the air. The carpet bubbles and the floor bounces on woodworm weakened joints.
There's a tie, purple spotted silk, that hangs over a chair. The body long since gone, every tired bone bagged up and zipped away, out of sight, out of mind. Some things never change. He died of over-work, says the report. In neat-and-tidy diction, neat-and-tidy cuts. Neat-and-tidy stitches. Neat-and-tidy death.
He's not the only one.
Red-faced blue-faced, strangled by their independent ties. They lie on metal slabs in their hundreds, their thousands, gray-faced, blue-suited, without their independent ties (of purple spotted silk).
Time stands.
Trips over its own feet.
The tracks are worn, the lines are read. The papers are signed and the company dead. Hush hush. Hush hush. Spiders spin, white wire on the window sill. Rats shouldn't be up so high. Shouldn't run a sunken ship. But what else makes a life where all is gone? Jumping from desk to desk in dark brown dashes, spelling a lament in Morse?
S-O-S
S-O-S
Why would you save a sunken ship? The air and the weight and the waste have battered down the brick. It won't stand for long. It won't. It's too late for that, it's gone, it's dead, nothing left but the silence and the creak. There's nothing for it, now. The bodies have gone and the building is rotting from the inside out and the outside in (it was rotting long before the signs were seen).
Is that it, the lament of a long dead ship? Whose bones and brain still function but whose soul has fled to the supply closet in the sky? Is that it? Will they come? Can you hear them if you listen in close, if you put your ear to the slatted blinds and concentrate? The wrecking balls and the cranes, running on their rolling feet. The dynamite and hard-hatted men.
There's only one thing left to do.
You know what it is, you know the myths. You can see the ashes around you even now.
There's only one thing left to do.
Rise.
#2 is in the next post, because it's longer. See you in a minute!
~Alice
Gifts!
Two of them!
Y'see, I entered two competitions this week and I won NEITHER OF THEM, so you get them instead. Aren't I lovely?
1) "Rise"
It used to bustle.
It doesn't any more.
Paper stacked in in-trays and out-trays, dust blurring the words. Computers, too, the keyboards bent and broken. Staplers sit, jaws wide, on the desks – looking for fingers and papers to bite. Chairs with their legs torn and tangled. Windows cracked and glass scattered. The bins hold nuclear ooze, wax paper rising with colours all matted and dirtied. Unidentified green crawls up the walls in specks, the scent of it heavy in the air. The carpet bubbles and the floor bounces on woodworm weakened joints.
There's a tie, purple spotted silk, that hangs over a chair. The body long since gone, every tired bone bagged up and zipped away, out of sight, out of mind. Some things never change. He died of over-work, says the report. In neat-and-tidy diction, neat-and-tidy cuts. Neat-and-tidy stitches. Neat-and-tidy death.
He's not the only one.
Red-faced blue-faced, strangled by their independent ties. They lie on metal slabs in their hundreds, their thousands, gray-faced, blue-suited, without their independent ties (of purple spotted silk).
Time stands.
Trips over its own feet.
The tracks are worn, the lines are read. The papers are signed and the company dead. Hush hush. Hush hush. Spiders spin, white wire on the window sill. Rats shouldn't be up so high. Shouldn't run a sunken ship. But what else makes a life where all is gone? Jumping from desk to desk in dark brown dashes, spelling a lament in Morse?
S-O-S
S-O-S
Why would you save a sunken ship? The air and the weight and the waste have battered down the brick. It won't stand for long. It won't. It's too late for that, it's gone, it's dead, nothing left but the silence and the creak. There's nothing for it, now. The bodies have gone and the building is rotting from the inside out and the outside in (it was rotting long before the signs were seen).
Is that it, the lament of a long dead ship? Whose bones and brain still function but whose soul has fled to the supply closet in the sky? Is that it? Will they come? Can you hear them if you listen in close, if you put your ear to the slatted blinds and concentrate? The wrecking balls and the cranes, running on their rolling feet. The dynamite and hard-hatted men.
There's only one thing left to do.
You know what it is, you know the myths. You can see the ashes around you even now.
There's only one thing left to do.
Rise.
#2 is in the next post, because it's longer. See you in a minute!
~Alice
Thursday 14 March 2013
Next Chapter
Letting everyone know that the next chapter won't be tomorrow - it'll probably be next Friday instead.
~Alice
~Alice
Saturday 9 March 2013
Thursday 7 March 2013
Bad Jumpers, etc.
Hello!
If you've been keeping up to date with Gargoyle (and if you're not, why aren't you?), you may have noticed that I've mentioned that Emilia...doesn't have the most 'normal' taste in jumpers. Or sweaters, for our American friends.
So! Yes!
I just saw this picture:
And I thought: Arthur Darvill is definitely the male version of Emilia. Because that jumper's just...awful. In a good way. Which is slightly awkward because I picture him as Joe. Perhaps he and Emilia are long-lost twins or something (don't worry, they're not).
~Alice
P.S. The next chapter will probably be up sometime this weekend.
P.P.S I mis-wrote weekend as year. I hope that's not an omen.
If you've been keeping up to date with Gargoyle (and if you're not, why aren't you?), you may have noticed that I've mentioned that Emilia...doesn't have the most 'normal' taste in jumpers. Or sweaters, for our American friends.
So! Yes!
I just saw this picture:
And I thought: Arthur Darvill is definitely the male version of Emilia. Because that jumper's just...awful. In a good way. Which is slightly awkward because I picture him as Joe. Perhaps he and Emilia are long-lost twins or something (don't worry, they're not).
~Alice
P.S. The next chapter will probably be up sometime this weekend.
P.P.S I mis-wrote weekend as year. I hope that's not an omen.
Friday 1 March 2013
Two Things
So! As you'll probably have guessed by know, I'm being shoved around by writer's block this week, so no new stuff for a little while. I'm sorry. It'll probably be late next week.
Also, I made this*:
It's a flyer for my book so I can circulate it locally. I've also changed the cover to it.
That's it for today - see you later, folks!
~ Alice
* I tried to trace the gargoyle image and I couldn't (I also thought it looked old enough that it was out of copyright) - but if the age is an effect and it's yours or you know whose it is, please tell me and I'll take it down, no fuss and my sincerest apologies. Thanks.
Also, I made this*:
It's a flyer for my book so I can circulate it locally. I've also changed the cover to it.
That's it for today - see you later, folks!
~ Alice
* I tried to trace the gargoyle image and I couldn't (I also thought it looked old enough that it was out of copyright) - but if the age is an effect and it's yours or you know whose it is, please tell me and I'll take it down, no fuss and my sincerest apologies. Thanks.
Friday 22 February 2013
'Gargoyle' on Goodreads
Hello!
'Gargoyle' now has a page on Goodreads!
Also I now have 144 votes on JukePop, and I've gone up the chart to 39th - so thanks, everyone!
~Alice
'Gargoyle' now has a page on Goodreads!
Also I now have 144 votes on JukePop, and I've gone up the chart to 39th - so thanks, everyone!
~Alice
Monday 18 February 2013
Chapter Seven!
Edited and posted! Sorry it was late - and I don't know when Chapter Eight will be - I know what happens, but I haven't written any of it yet.
https://www.jukepopserials.com/home/read/355
Thanks!
~Alice
https://www.jukepopserials.com/home/read/355
Thanks!
~Alice
Hello Again!
Chapter Seven is finished! Done! Over! All I need to do now is edit it, once my editors have emailed me back, and then post it.
So it took a little longer than I expected, but never mind.
I can also tell you that Caernarfon was BRILLIANT. I bought the following (three from Palas Print, and two from WHSmith):
See you sometime soon with Chapter Seven!
~Alice
So it took a little longer than I expected, but never mind.
I can also tell you that Caernarfon was BRILLIANT. I bought the following (three from Palas Print, and two from WHSmith):
- Silver, by Andrew Motion (because pirates.)
- The Hobbit, by JRR Tolkein (because it's the 75th anniversary pocket edition with the very nice cover)
- The Woman In Black, by Susan Hill (once again bought mostly on the strength of the cover)
- Demons, by Dostoevsky (because I haven't read any Dostoevsky and I feel I should)
- The Demi-Monde: Winter, by Rod Rees (for no other reason than it sounded good.)
See you sometime soon with Chapter Seven!
~Alice
Wednesday 13 February 2013
Insert Witty Title Here
Good Evening To Ya!
I told you I'd tell you if I think I'm going to be late.
I might be late.
I'm not sure. I need another few hundred words to finish Chapter Seven, but they are VERY slow in coming. I'm also fully up to date now, which essentially means that I'm writing-and-posting rather than being a couple of chapters ahead. This is very annoying.
It's especially annoying that, around the time I posted C4 I'd written up to C9 - but then I realised C6 was complete crap and completely rewrote it. Which of course ended up leading the story in a slightly different direction and I had to scrap seven, eight, and nine. And gave me a lot less room to manoeuvre.
I can however tell you that C7 includes:
The absolutely rubbish bit is there are parts of this chapter that were really fun to write - until I had a bit of a breakdown after the Editing Hell that was the last chapter and all the words I had yet to write down decided to bugger off to Timbuktu Timbuktu* without me.
In other news!
My writer's block (or rather writers cramp, because it's not so much "I can't write!" as it is "I can write, but it's in such short and painful sentences that I might as well just stop and wait it out.") has left me with a week free, and boredom has reigned supreme.
Or it tried to, at any rate.
I have staved it off by...
BAKING!
Ah, yes. So far this week I have made two batches of cookies and one Victoria Sponge and, unless I run out of Stork, tomorrow I'm making another batch of cookies and a fruit cake.
Yes, the domestic life suits me.
Cue sarcasm sign.
There was something else I was going to mention, but I've forgotten it now. Gosh darn it.
Anyway! I might see you on Friday, but it might be the weekend. Monday on the outside.
I'm in Caernarfon on Friday, too. Lucky me!
No sarcasm sign!
Really!
ANYWAY!
See you then,
~Alice
*Timbuktu Timbuktu is from this episode of Cabin Pressure. Surprisingly.
Also, if you are not listening to this show, start. Now. Go on! Go!
I told you I'd tell you if I think I'm going to be late.
I might be late.
I'm not sure. I need another few hundred words to finish Chapter Seven, but they are VERY slow in coming. I'm also fully up to date now, which essentially means that I'm writing-and-posting rather than being a couple of chapters ahead. This is very annoying.
It's especially annoying that, around the time I posted C4 I'd written up to C9 - but then I realised C6 was complete crap and completely rewrote it. Which of course ended up leading the story in a slightly different direction and I had to scrap seven, eight, and nine. And gave me a lot less room to manoeuvre.
I can however tell you that C7 includes:
- Joe
- Crime scenes
- More Strange People Doing Strange Things
- Crying
- And more Joe.
The absolutely rubbish bit is there are parts of this chapter that were really fun to write - until I had a bit of a breakdown after the Editing Hell that was the last chapter and all the words I had yet to write down decided to bugger off to Timbuktu Timbuktu* without me.
In other news!
My writer's block (or rather writers cramp, because it's not so much "I can't write!" as it is "I can write, but it's in such short and painful sentences that I might as well just stop and wait it out.") has left me with a week free, and boredom has reigned supreme.
Or it tried to, at any rate.
I have staved it off by...
BAKING!
Ah, yes. So far this week I have made two batches of cookies and one Victoria Sponge and, unless I run out of Stork, tomorrow I'm making another batch of cookies and a fruit cake.
Yes, the domestic life suits me.
Cue sarcasm sign.
There was something else I was going to mention, but I've forgotten it now. Gosh darn it.
Anyway! I might see you on Friday, but it might be the weekend. Monday on the outside.
I'm in Caernarfon on Friday, too. Lucky me!
No sarcasm sign!
Really!
ANYWAY!
See you then,
~Alice
*Timbuktu Timbuktu is from this episode of Cabin Pressure. Surprisingly.
Also, if you are not listening to this show, start. Now. Go on! Go!
Friday 25 January 2013
New Chapter!
The new chapter of Gargoyle is up!
https://www.jukepopserials.com/home/read/355/?chapter=0&p=0
Please register for free and vote! Thank you!
~ Alice
https://www.jukepopserials.com/home/read/355/?chapter=0&p=0
Please register for free and vote! Thank you!
~ Alice
Sunday 13 January 2013
Untitled #1
Hi again!
Just a short piece today, inspired by this and this.
Just a short piece today, inspired by this and this.
There were parties here, in my
honour
'Til you sent me away.
It's the same as it
always was, high and empty and wood-lined. Stairs coil upward, to the
stars painted on the ceiling, scattered around the silver chandelier
that hangs with the weight of the moon. At night it shone so softly,
catching in the folds of their dresses as they spun. Coral pink and
blue and yellow, lace edged and hand sewn. Men in suits of a blue so
dark it looked black on their light skin, waistcoats with gentle
whorls of paler blue and yellow ties buttery against their cream
shirts. Feet that know the age-old patterns, hand in hand across the
warm pine boards. Orbiting each other, close but not that
close, moons and planets switching places, thrown from partner to
partner in chaos always so delicately planned. The grand lines of
piano and violin, an orchestra so much a part of the building that it
might have been carved into the walls, cornicing so life-like as to
play the rhythm of the dance with their plaster fingers. Time never
touched it. Even now, empty as it is, not a thing hangs out of place.
Spiders have not dared touch it. Dust never rests its weary wings.
It's the same as it
always was.
But life has left
it behind.
-
~ Alice
Friday 11 January 2013
Chapter Three
Oh boy.
This one was a big job. No speed editing for me! Hah. But it's better now, so go and read it, here.
You can't read it without registering, though. Sorry 'bout that, but it's free to join.
Alice.
This one was a big job. No speed editing for me! Hah. But it's better now, so go and read it, here.
You can't read it without registering, though. Sorry 'bout that, but it's free to join.
Alice.
Saturday 5 January 2013
The First Bit of Fiction
This is a bit of an odd piece. It's inspired by two things; 1) These drawings, and 2) this song. That should give you the right atmosphere.
-
I'm A Painful Truth.
--
-
-Alice
-
I'm A Painful Truth.
--
I'm a collector.
You don't know me.
You never will, though I know you.
I know the origin of the chain around
your neck (belonged to your mother, though she never wore it, never
wanted it. Never wanted to be chained to your father like that, with
his fists and his knuckles and the flat of his palm, and the light
that only whiskey brought to his eyes.)
I know the origin of your boyfriend's
tattoo, Clara, black and dripping on his wrist. It scatters
ground glass on your heart when you see it.
I know the origin of her tombstone,
too. (Granite. Stirling Hill.)
I know the origin of the bell above my
door. It was first rung on a Saturday. By another Clara, funnily
enough. She'd only been dead a few hours.
Go on, take a look around. No hurry.
There's a cabinet, do you see it?
Yes, that one.
Antique, you know. I got it in London,
just before it burnt up. Would have been a waste of time, really, if
I hadn't seen it in the window, but I did, so it wasn't. Beautiful
thing, isn't it? Go on, you can touch. This isn't a museum, for
somebody's sake. Go on, have a look. Tell me what you find.
First drawer. Labelled 27. Contains
fourty-five shattered egg timers and a length of string.
Second drawer. Labelled 7:3. One apple
seed and a blonde hair, in a twist of brown paper.
Third drawer. Labelled “D: Even More
Appalling”. Sixty four teeth, including four slightly curved
canines, the tips brown-stained.
Fourth drawer. Labelled “JTR.”-;
That's enough now.
I know the origin of all of it. You do
too, if you think about it.
Not many people do.
You see, I get a lot of people through
here. Nobody really likes to look. Run in and out, they do.
Not that I mind, exactly.
I can see why.
Mind if I take your photograph,
sweetheart?
Oh, just for the collection.
-
-Alice
Hello!
Hello.
I already said that, didn't I? Ah, well. I'm Alice Paladin (You can call me Alice. Or alternatively "Hey! You!". I don't mind which.)
I write things. I listen to music, and read, and watch science fiction - but mostly I write. I've been writing down the world inside my head since I could hold a pen, and now I'm pretty sure I'm good enough to share it with you lot.
So yes, that's what this blog is. My first novel is serialised here, and you can email me here. Shorter pieces are going to posted on the blog, as are a few other ramblings, though I'll try not to go on too much. Can't promise anything, though*.
-Alice
*However I can promise that "The Gargoyle Of Saint John's" will always be updated on Fridays, probably (but not always) between 7 and 10pm GMT. If I'm going to be late I'll tell you here first.
I already said that, didn't I? Ah, well. I'm Alice Paladin (You can call me Alice. Or alternatively "Hey! You!". I don't mind which.)
I write things. I listen to music, and read, and watch science fiction - but mostly I write. I've been writing down the world inside my head since I could hold a pen, and now I'm pretty sure I'm good enough to share it with you lot.
So yes, that's what this blog is. My first novel is serialised here, and you can email me here. Shorter pieces are going to posted on the blog, as are a few other ramblings, though I'll try not to go on too much. Can't promise anything, though*.
-Alice
*However I can promise that "The Gargoyle Of Saint John's" will always be updated on Fridays, probably (but not always) between 7 and 10pm GMT. If I'm going to be late I'll tell you here first.
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