What’s next for Poindexter?


Interminable update ahoy.

A wise man may once have said something along the lines that persistance is the mother of invention (that’s blatantly wrong, but I’m feeling playful). Or maybe it was the borg…persistance is futile? Anyway, I have ground to an almighty stop with my big piece de resistance.

lemur_faceSo I have begun something else. A darker piece, written in the third person instead of the first person – first person is bloody limiting, if you ask me – I am intending it to be faster-paced, and including all manner of weird magic and a whole pantheon of godlike entities. Influences, in this case, are the Stephen Erikkson novels (partly) and also a bit of Brandon Sanderson. I know, it sounds naff, but…hey ho, it’s summat to do.

I am too old and withered (mentally) to be bothered about the restart. It’s not like I can’t go back to the behemoth at a later date, and in the meantime I am learning, learning, learning. What, precisely, I cannot tell yet. Meh.

So, 7k words into my new venture, and how is it going? Well, I’ll keep it short, but there is a talking lemur in it. I will not go into details in order to preserve you from spoilers. As if…!

 

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Bifurcated mind-hive


Reading while writing is problematic. I don’t mean doing both simultaneously like a bifurcated mind hive (what?!) but reading AROUND writing exploits is problematical. Not least because of the vast comparative talent gulf it provides.

I am reading Stephen Erikson’s Malazan thingy (book 2 so far. WOW!), so the gulf can be easily explained. The writing is EPIC. More textured than a needlecraft workshop. I am also trying to read George R R Martin’s A Feast for Crows, part of his very own epic which, unfortunately, is beginning to feel turgid. But I am nothing if not dedicated to doing things OTHER than actual writing.

I made a decision to start again. That’s not to say the 50k plus words are lost, I just feel I have been much more David Eddings in tone than Stephen Donaldson. I am no longer 14, after all. I should try to find a happy medium in which I can settle comfortably, I suppose. It is a toss-up between the urge to recreate the stuff I liked as a callow brat and what I like now. Many writers have said to write what you like, but there is such scope in what I like it is not easy.

Now, that’s a thought….a bifurcated mind hive….hmmm…