I think it’s kinda little funny that I didn’t actually get the ‘prejudice’ part of the book’s title until I finished it. Then I put it down, lay back, and actually thought about it: ‘Ohhh! Darcy was prejudiced!’ Or maybe it’s meant to be more over-arcing than that — an observation of society at the time — who knows.

You’ll have to bear with me, because I never really learnt how to dissect books. School was a bit backward like that: I learnt how to speak Elvish, but actual critical textual analysis… not so much. I also never learnt how to ‘grammar’ either, by the way (which is why you might sometimes see some ‘odd’ idiosyncrasies in my writing style). It’s kind of fun though, inventing your own grammar as you go along, not held back by rules nor regulations or run-on sentences! [... -S]

Anyway, back to Pride & Prejudice, a book about smouldering, slow-burning passion. It’s all about Darcy and his interactions with Elizabeth — it’s told from her point of view of course, but the entire chemistry relies on the catalytic import of Mr Darcy. I dog-eared every ‘fiery’ exchange (of which there are many) and about 90% of them are between Elizabeth and Darcy. The rest of the book, when Darcy isn’t about, actually falls a bit flat.

There’s a period of about 50 pages, half way through or so, where not much at all happens. Well, stuff happens, but it doesn’t involve Darcy — it’s the few chapters after Bingley and his entourage return to London. We’re suddenly thrust into a life of… mediocrity. Lydia hits on some boys. The other girls help their mother. Blah blah blah — I was actually bored until I realised that Pemberley is in Derbyshire: so Elizabeth is going to bump into Darcy on his own stomping ground… here we go then!

The rest though; the rest is magic — from the moment Darcy delivers that fateful letter to Elizabeth while treading the grounds of Rosings. Elizabeth’s growing love for Darcy is so damn smooth and delivered so naturally (or realistically) that we soon find our love for him equal to hers. Yes, by the end I was nursing a serious crush on Darcy. Surely I am not the only boy to experience, as the final exposition takes place, some rather intense, er, feelings? If I had to fault their love (I suppose many would call this one of the greatest love stories?) it would have to the forced circumstance or mitigating factors of their relationship: Elizabeth’s hatred for Darcy at the beginning of the book is completely over the top. Sure, Elizabeth is meant to be ‘wild’ (another point that is really driven home early on), but it just feels forced. I guess Jane Austen needs to get us to a valid ’start point’ for the love story as quickly as possible — perhaps she wanted to write the falling-in-love portion, and didn’t want to simply start the book with Elizabeth already hating Darcy? At least with the introductory meetings/balls at Netherfield we get a lot of the Jane/Bingley storyline — actually, after Netherfield, the story makes way for Elizabeth and Darcy, so I GUESS the story is actually crafted rather well.

How about that, you were just treated to an internal monologue.

Something should be said about the ye olde English too. Chuse, shewn, staid, to-morrow, twelvemonth! Then the grammar and punctuation — God, it’s pretty crazy. Em dashes everywhere (and double em dashes, which I’d never seen before), semi-colons used as commas or periods, depending on the clause (see, I make it sound like I know grammar, but I don’t really) — and my personal favourite, exclamations not marking the end of a sentence: God! if only Darcy had shewn his true colours in the first twelvemonth of our mutual acquaintance. I haven’t seen sentences like that since Shakespeare — not that I’ve read many classics mind you.

If I felt authoritative on the matter, I’d give this one 9 out of 10 — as I don’t, and I’m not, I will simply recommend you read Pride & Prejudice.

I’m going to try and share a few of my choice snippets from the book (I’ve already done a few on Facebook). Maybe I can ‘microblog’ them, not on Twitter, but here… hmm!

Next book: Catch-22

If you like what you've read, or seen, or heard, subscribe to my RSS feed!

Alternatively, if you're new here, you might want to find out more about me, the author. Or perhaps you want to hear a posh Brit rant on about anything and everything (podcasts), or you want to read something more serious?

“Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read.
One does not love breathing.”

Scout Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Gods, this is going to be a sappy one…

It’s the kind of sentence that comes right out of left field, right from the author rather than the character. Lulled into a false sense of security by Scout’s oft-inane stream of consciousness and then blam, the kind of phrase that makes you stop and think.

And then check your pulse. OK, still beating; still breathing, but stymied. And then your entire world-view shifts with a twang and you suddenly find yourself looking at your entire life in fits and spurts, frame after frame, chronology-be-damned — it’s not being re-written but rather shifted. Girls that I’ve loved past and present; places visited, visions seen; choices made, choices ignored, choices fumbled.

I catch myself when I realise I’m growing a little dizzy. Time to put the book down and go for a walk.

It’s cold outside. Perfect for the dissipation of excess thoughts and heat. I’m sizzling up. Why do some memories cause such exothermic reactions? Sweaty palms to my temples do nothing; I’ll just have to weather it out. Into the dark cool I tread, with autumn rustling invisibly all around I walk.

Eventually it settles downs. I had forgotten just how intensive epiphanies could be or how drained and dessicated they can leave you.

I don’t quite know what Harper Lee’s trying to tell me, but she’s certainly made me think. Perhaps it’s a modern-day retelling of the ancient idiom ‘can’t see the forest for the trees’? Is she trying to say that I should cherish everything I’ve ever had, or every person I’ve met and fallen in or out of love with? That I’m ultimately mortal and should live every day as if it’s my last?

Surely, if nothing else, she — Scout, or Harper Lee — is telling me to appreciate what I’ve got.

I’m only about a quarter way through the book and I can already tell it’s one of those books that, in the best way possible, and just like the lives of most people on this fair planet, goes absolutely nowhere. I think Harper Lee had a series of epiphanies, maybe in childhood but more likely as an adult, and now wants me to take a spin on her autobiographical carnival ride. I’m going to have to keep an eye out for all the juicy little titbits that she’s left for me along the way.

It’s amazing just what goes through your head while covered in sickly sticky sauce. As the chocolate syrup dribbled down my beard and over my not-insignificant man-boobs, I got to thinking about my blog, and what direction to take it this month. And you know what? I realised I haven’t really talked about myself in a while. A long time ago I did a series of entries designed to educate and elucidate; a series of articles that outlined what  makes me tick. And then they stopped. For no real reason either! I just found my thoughts being dragged in different direction, I guess.

I’m not great at talking about myself, you see. I mean, of course all of my entries say something about who I am, if you look close enough. You can deduce the kind of things that interest or perplex me. You even have a good idea of what I get up to: what — and who — I do. You know by now that organised religion irks me, that magic and technology amaze me. You might even have gathered, if you’re particularly astute, that I’m very patient and very deliberate, each and every one of my actions and movements measured to perfection.  In fact, there is only one way to really piss me off: don’t you dare do something without thinking.

Think before you open your mouth. Think before you strike another man, mentally or physically. Think so that other people don’t have to think for you. I am so bored of having to deal with the laziness of other people. If you just stopped to think before you act, judge or speak. If everyone took responsibility for their own thoughts, actions or inactions before palming them off to someone else.

Ah… bliss. A utopian fantasy.

Anyway…

Today I’m going to introduce you to my virtual book shelf! I know what you’re thinking: Sebastian actually reads books?! How come he’s never mentioned it before? You probably thought I was illiterate or something. Wel im glad too say im not!!1

I read. Not a lot, compared to others — and I actually read quite slowly, apparently — but I do read. I read for an hour every night while my thoughts settle, usually between 4 and 5am. I don’t consider myself an authority on the subject of books, and I don’t think I could ever be so presumptuous as to review another author critically, but I do know the difference between a good and bad book. At the same time, I’m usually that sucker that sticks with books right to the very end, hoping it will get good. Time and time again I do it! I should just learn my lesson and quit after 100 pages if it hasn’t caught my attention.

They say you can learn a lot about someone by what they read so, going along with the whole ‘telling you more about myself’ thing, I thought I would show you my bookshelf — my virtual bookshelf anyway. In reality, my books are split between the disorganised library downstairs and towering stacks of books in my bedroom, but thanks to Goodreads I can pretend to have a beautifully-tidy bookshelf. This is not every book that I’ve read, but as many as I could enter before writing this blog post. I’ll keep adding to it later — it’s pretty tiring entering every book in your library by hand…

(There’s a chance this looks really bad in your RSS reader, in which case you should look at it on my blog… it’s very pretty.)

And even cooler, there’s a new Flash widget on the sidebar so you can see what I’ve recently read and reviewed and rated!

This is the bit where I ask if you have any questions about me and my book-reading habits. If anyone wants to ask me about my infatuation with Terry Pratchett’s Discworld… please do. Or perhaps the colour of my obi when I dressed up after reading Memoirs of a Geisha? Which hobbit do I most closely identify with? How come I’ve ready so few of the ‘classics’, or anything by the philosophers of yore?

If you don’t have any questions, come and be my friend on Goodreads. Suggest a nice, fluffy, happy book for me to read next, after I finish Silence of the Lambs…

I should probably call it ‘The Homoerotica That Never Quite Got There’ or ‘What IS That Object In His Pocket?’ but no, let’s call it Anthony & Gabriel: Ant & Gabe. Finished at last! I sat down and wrote the last 500 words in just a few minutes. It came fast, quickly, smoothly. Brutally.

I thought killing a character would be harder.

I made a few changes to the beginning of the story, though they were just little, niggling issues that I kept stumbling on when I re-read it. Feel free to leap in at the last 2 pages, though I don’t promise complete resolution. I tried my best! Without going completely supernatural and fantastic, there were only so many options available to me. I didn’t want to bring God into my first ever short story, though one person that’s already read it thought that it was going to be religious purely because of Gabriel’s inclusion. OK, so it might be a little bit religious.

Make of it what you will. Let me know what you think. Now I have to go and put some eyeliner on. Oh, and last chance to enter my competition to win free web hosting! Eric’s currently sound asleep in a box. A closed box. Well, I assume he’s asleep, I can’t hear any noises…

(If you’re reading this in a… reader… you’ll need to visit my blog or download the PDF to read it!)

You’re going to hate me by the time you get to the end of this installment, and for that I apologise, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it anyway!

If you’ve read the beginning and middle, you can pick up from around page 5. If you’re new, read the whole damn thing!

You are more than welcome to pass judgement. Flatter me with praise, or be brutally critical — I simply ask that you also provide a reason for your love, or hate.

If you’re using an RSS reader, you’ll have to click through to my blog to read it. Alternatively, if you really don’t want to visit my blog, you can read the PDF. I promise I’ll try to finish the story soon, though it won’t be on Monday, I have something a lot better planned… something that involves a competition and my blind cat Eric.

Eric (who will soon be a published author, if people read his story excerpt and big him up on Amazon) actually printed out the beginning of my story, took it to a coffee shop and proceeded to mark it up — with a red pen, no less. He then took digital photos, and sent them to me so that I could experience the authentic ‘editor’s pen destroying my beautiful manuscript’ feeling.

So, I read his notes; digested them, even. Mulled them over. Then I sat down to write some more! I haven’t actually reworked the beginning, but I had his notes/guidance in my mind as I approached the next part of the story. I want to call it the ‘middle’, but it’s probably more like… from 25% to 50%, or maybe 60% at a stretch.

(For this plug, Eric said he’d give me that little ‘dedicated’ credit at the front of his first book, how cool is that? ‘Dedicated to that hairy guy who I could’ve sworn was gay for the first year of our friendship.’)

(Can you tell I’m writing this at 3am?)

Today, the short story comes to you in ‘iPaper’ form. I think you’ll have to view it on my blog, rather than your RSS reader. Alternatively, you can view the PDF (if that’s more convenient for you).

Again, I’d love to hear your feedback — remember, the first bit is virtually unchanged — the new stuff is about half way through (page 4), but feel free to read from the start. I think it’s coming together quite nicely!

Tomorrow, I have a killer blog planned and a guest post on a friend’s blog… so check back!

(If you don’t like reading, feel free to skip this entry.  Pretty photos tomorrow, I promise!)

It’s the beginning of the weekend, and the blogosphere slowly empties. People are driving home to their loved ones, or getting out the secret supplies of chocolate and putting on a film.

Meanwhile, I’m here, rehashing the beginning of my awesome short story. I took your tips to heart (because, really, who am I to argue? I have almost no prose-writing experience), and I’ve churned out… a new beginning! It’s not wildly different, though hopefully it reads more easily. The start is clearer, and more interesting (I hope).

Oh, and I’ve fixed the formatting (though, again, if you’re viewing it in an RSS reader, it probably won’t be perfect).

So, with less obfuscatory, clunky adjectives:

The beggar awoke, startled by a man sprinting past him. He started to say something rude but his voice failed him. Frowning, he stretched his legs, shut his eyes and tried to sleep.

‘Get out of the way!’

Another man quickly swam into focus and tripped over the beggar’s legs, careening into the wall and hitting his head. With his legs giving way from underneath him, he collapsed into a heap.

‘Shit’ the beggar said, crawling over to check the stranger, his irritation at the first man quickly dissipating. A well-dressed stranger was prone before him; how fortunate.

‘Mate?’ the beggar said, quietly, trying not to stir him, his eyes drawn to something shiny protruding from the stranger’s jacket pocket. Reaching out, his fingers gripped the object; slippery, smooth, but too heavy to move. The man stirred and groaned, causing the beggar to release his grip and quickly shuffle backwards.

‘What…?’ the man mumbled, nonplussed and exhausted. He picked himself up off the floor, shaking out the tail of his jacket. ‘Sorry about that. I was chasing after him… and now I seem to be covered in…’ he lifted his jacket to his nose ‘coffee? Why do I smell of coffee?’ He picked at a few stubborn pieces of refuse before rubbing down his jacket.

‘You knocked over my cup,’ the beggar said, shuffling a little further away. ‘But it was cold, don’t worry.’

‘I’ll fetch you another; it’s the least I can do.’ He smiled apologetically down at the beggar, already forgetting the damage done to his expensive jacket.

Reaching down to right the spilled cup, he noticed the dog ends of some cigarettes and other assorted jetsam in the cold, light-brown slurry of coffee. It smelt a little alcoholic too — interesting, he thought, that a beggar could afford such luxuries. Shrugging, he stepped out of the alley and looked around for his friend.

‘Gabe?’ he shouted, waiting for a response. When none came, he bent over to catch his breath. With his head between his legs he could see that the beggar was gone.

‘Anthony!’ Gabriel called from the doorway of a café further up the street, ‘Over here!’ With the low cloud occluding his vision, he could only just make out Gabriel’s silhouetted form.

Slowly straightening himself, Anthony began to walk. Placing one foot in front of another, down the cold, cobbled street, he fought the cramps and the exhaustion. In those 100 yards to the café, Anthony wondered how he’d ended up here, in the middle of a deserted street. A deserted street in a small English town; a town seemingly so far removed from civilisation that it didn’t even have street lamps.

He stopped at the bright entrance to the café, smiling wearily at Gabe who was sitting down at a table, already nursing a hot cup of coffee, his favourite. Smiling, after everything they’d been through. It was that infectious enthusiasm – that ready, cheeky grin – that had dragged him, kicking and screaming, along for the ride. Yet again he had been reeled in by his enigmatic fervor to set off on another reckless flight of fancy.

‘Perhaps ‘friend’ is too strong a term,’ he muttered to himself as he stumbled across the plastic flooring and slumped into the chair opposite Gabriel.

Catching the eye of the only other person there, the owner, Gabriel quickly ordered another coffee.

‘You know I don’t like coffee.’ Anthony sighed; they’d done this dance before. It felt like they’d done this very same dance in every café in England. ‘Tea. I like tea. Well brewed tea, with a little milk. Tea.’

‘I’ll convert you eventually, trust me,’ Gabriel said with a grin; that same grin that Anthony had seen all too often. Through America, Ireland and now England it had been that grin, accompanied by his unerring, unswerving confidence that had secured the information they had so desperately sought and fought for. It was the same information that had led them, at great cost, to this dingy café. Anthony nodded a thank you at the wrinkled owner of the café as she retreated back behind the counter.

‘You know, I won’t enjoy this,’ Anthony said, lifting the cup of coffee, the slightest trace of a grin forming at the corner of his lips. He couldn’t help but mirror Gabe’s grin. There was something about him, something which made arguing a thoroughly fruitless exercise. He sipped it quietly. ‘You know, it might taste like shit, but, right now – and don’t quote me on this – it’s just what I need.’

‘It couldn’t be helped, Ant. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.’

‘It’s always avoidable! And Gabe?’

‘Yeah?’ He was still grinning.

‘Don’t call me Ant. You know I hate it almost as much as I hate this coffee,’ he said, gulping the rest of it down with a grimace. ‘You said this time things would be different.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Mind you, you always say that; I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but…’

‘Look, we got what we needed! Surely, in the grand scale of things, that’s all that matters.’ It was a statement, not a question. Anthony had been here before; he’d heard it all before. Different town, the same nonchalance – and the same, damn coffee.

‘We didn’t even go back to check on the kid…’Anthony was staring down into the dregs of his coffee, unable to look at his friend. Through the corner of his vision he saw Gabriel’s grin quickly fade and his brow furrow. He was actually sad; an emotion Anthony had seen in his face only a handful of times since they were kids. Gabriel gently put down his cup and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for some money. By the time Anthony looked up he was grinning again, though some of the impishness was gone.

‘I’ll pay for both of us,’ Gabe said, as if that would somehow make up for the atrocity that Anthony and Gabriel had just perpetrated. Anthony nodded; he was still too numb from the recent events to argue. He reached into his jacket and touched his fingers gently to the wound; it was warm and sticky. The bleeding had started again.

‘I must’ve torn the stitches back in the alley,’ Anthony said, wincing as his fingers continued their exploration. ‘Why did you have to run? Running draws attention; that beggar –’

‘Because we had to get away quickly. Trust me,’ Gabriel blurted, quickly rising to his feet and striding over to the door, his enthusiasm fully restored. He opened the door and a siren could be heard in the distance; his grin turned into a full-blown smile. ‘We should get going.’

‘Is that a fire engine?’ Fragments of the last hour were bubbling up from the groggy depths of his memory, begging to be freshly analysed. Slowly he pieced them together to form a complete vision. He flinched and gaped at Gabriel, aghast at what his friend had set in motion.

‘I told you, we should get going.’

So… I’ve been writing. It’s been about 10 years since I last wrote creatively — proper fiction that is, rather than the telling of stories, which I’ve always done, and will continue to do.

This is my first attempt, and it took about 2 hours to do. I’m under no illusions here; it’s probably not amazing, but hopefully it’s at least ‘good’. Read it, and then read it again. Then, when you’re done, and you’ve thought about it a little, tell me what you think. I am aware that the formatting isn’t ideal, but I’ve tried my best for now (and it will be better next time). I should probably provide a downloadable PDF! Next time; next chapter! Also, if you are reading this in an RSS reader, you probably want to view it on my blog instead.

This is the beginning of a short story — though it could be the middle of a slightly-longer story, but committing to anything more than a short story would probably be unwise, given just how rusty I am!

The beggar flinched as a man sprinted past him and burst out of the backstreet. He raised his hand to make a rude gesture and say something weakly scathing when a second man ran by, clipping the beggar’s outstretched arm, unbalancing him enough to send him careening into a wall.

‘Shit’ the beggar said, his anger quickly deflating. Moments ago he’d been all worked up to insult the first man’s mother, and now… now, a well-dressed stranger was picking himself up off the floor, shaking out the tail of his jacket.

‘What…?’ the man mumbled, nonplussed and exhausted. Picking at a few pieces of stubborn refuse, he turned around to face the beggar. ‘Sorry about that. I was just chasing after him… and now I seem to be covered in…’ he lifted his jacket to his nose to noisily sniff ‘coffee? Why do I smell of coffee?’

‘You knocked over my cup,’ the beggar informed him. ‘But it was cold; don’t worry about it.’

‘I’ll fetch you another; it’s the least I can do.’ He smiled apologetically down at the beggar, already forgetting the damage done to his expensive jacket.

Reaching down to right the spilled cup, he noticed the dog ends of some cigarettes and other assorted jetsam in the cold, light-brown slurry the coffee had created. It also smelt a little alcoholic — interesting, he thought, that a beggar could afford such luxuries. Shrugging, he stepped out of the alley and looked around for his friend.

‘Gabe?’ he shouted, waiting for a response. When none came, he bent over to catch his breath. With his head between his legs he could see that the beggar was gone.

‘Anthony!’ Gabriel called from the doorway of a café further up the street. ‘Over here!’

Slowly straightening himself, Anthony began walking down the cold, cobbled street, fighting back the cramps and the exhaustion. In those 100 yards to the café, Anthony wondered how he’d ended up here, in the middle of a deserted street. A deserted street in a small English town; a town seemingly so far removed from civilisation that it didn’t even have street lamps.

He stopped at the bright entrance to the café, smiling wearily at Gabe who was sitting down at a table, already nursing a hot cup of coffee, his favourite. Smiling, after everything they’d been through. It was that infectious enthusiasm – that ready, cheeky grin – that had dragged him, kicking and screaming, along for the ride. Yet again he had been reeled in by his enigmatic friend to set off on another reckless flight of fancy.

‘Perhaps ‘friend’ is too strong a term,’ he muttered remorsefully to himself as he stumbled across the cheap plastic flooring and slumped into the chair opposite Gabriel.

Catching the eye of the only waitress – the owner – Gabriel quickly another coffee.

‘You know I don’t like coffee, Gabe.’ Anthony sighed; they’d done this dance before. It felt like they’d done this very same dance in every damn café in England. ‘Tea. I like tea. Well brewed tea, with a little milk. Tea.’

‘I’ll convert you eventually, trust me,’ Gabriel said with a grin; that same grin that Anthony had seen all too often. Through America, Ireland and now England it had been that grin, accompanied by his unerring, unswerving confidence that had secured the information they had so desperately sought and fought for. It was the same information that had led them, ultimately, to this dingy, Formica-tabled café. Anthony nodded a thank you at the old, wrinkled owner of the café as she retreated back behind the counter and lifted the cup of coffee.

‘You know, I won’t enjoy this,’ Anthony said wryly, the slightest trace of a grin forming at the corner of his lips. He couldn’t help it – there was something about Gabriel, of that much he was certain; he just didn’t know what. They’d done this dance before, and every time Anthony had ended up grinning like a fool and drinking the damn coffee. He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped it quietly. ‘It might taste like shit, but right now – and don’t quote me on this – it’s just what I need.’

‘It couldn’t be helped, Ant. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.’

‘It’s always avoidable! And Gabe?’

‘Yeah?’ He was still grinning; grinning like some kind self-righteous imp.

‘Don’t call me Ant, you know I hate it almost as much as I hate this coffee,’ he stated hotly, before gulping the rest of it down with a grimace. ‘You said this time things would be different. You always say that though; I shouldn’t be surprised…’

‘Look, Ant. Anthony. We got what we needed! Surely, in the grand scale of things, that’s all that matters.’ It was a statement, not a question. Anthony had been here before; he’d heard it all before. Same shit, different town – and the same coffee.

‘We didn’t even go back to check on the kid…’Anthony gently reminded him as he looked down into the dregs of his coffee, unable to look at his friend. Through the corner of his vision he saw Gabriel’s grin quickly fade and his brow furrow. He was actually sad; an emotion Anthony had seen in Gabriel’s face only a handful of times since they were kids. Gabriel gently put down his coffee cup and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for some money. He was already grinning again, by the time Anthony looked up, but not quite so broadly.

‘I’ll pay for both of us,’ Gabe said eagerly, as if that would somehow make up for the atrocity that Anthony and Gabriel had just perpetrated. Anthony nodded; he was still too numb from what had happened less than an hour ago to argue. He reached into his jacket, and touched his fingers gently to the wound; it was warm and sticky. The bleeding had started again.

‘I must’ve torn the stitches back in the alley,’ Anthony said quietly, wincing as his fingers continued their exploration. ‘Why did you have to run? Running draws attention; that beggar –’

‘Because we had to get away quickly. Trust me,’ Gabriel interjected, quickly rising to his feet and striding over to the door, his enthusiasm fully restored. Gabe opened the door and a siren could be heard in the distance; he grinned. ‘We should get going, Ant’

‘Is that a fire engine?’ Anthony asked, alarmed. Fragments of the last hour were bubbling up from the groggy depths of his memory, ready to be freshly analysed. Slowly he pieced them together to form a complete vision; a vision that he immediately regretted seeing. He gaped at Gabriel, aghast at what his friend had set in motion.

‘I told you, we should get going.’

For a while now I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a short story. I used to write a lot of them when I was younger. In fact, until the age of 12 or so, I used to do a lot of different things. And then I discovered computers.

It’s taken until now, the ripe old age of 24, to rediscover my love of writing. I guess, until now, computers served a different purpose. I took them apart, and put them back together again. Programmed them, and played games with them. The only time I’ve really written on them, in a serious capacity, was for coursework at university… and that was hardly creative writing.

It’s not like I was completely devoid of fancy phrases for those 12 years or so. I’m a huge fan of oratory — delivering speeches and finely-honed arguments are both a lot of fun for me — so I’ve always been playing with words, fiddling with their placement in sentences and working them over and over until it sounded just right.

The problem with words though is that once they’re placed down there, on paper or out in the public domain, they’re done. They’re final! I’m sure you’ve all re-read something you’ve written a day later and noticed a few ways to improve it. I fear that if I was to ever write a story again I’d constantly be revising it.

I imagine that’s the job of most editors though, to prise the manuscript from the author’s umbilical, vice-like grip. To tell him gently that it’s ‘time to let go now’.

Without an editor, I find myself wondering if I could ever publish something I’ve written. I guess if it’s on my blog I can always go back and play with it, and force people to re-read it if I make a change.

In a roundabout way then, this is actually my way of telling the world that I’ve started writing a short story. It probably won’t be amazing, but I will share it with you when I’m done.

What I can share with you now is the way in which I came up with its premise: I wrote a 6-word story. Hemmingway once wrote a very short story — 6 words, in fact! — that read: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Many other authors have tried to achieve the same kind of mystery and involvement in just 6 words. Obviously, as almost every other author pales in comparison to Hemmingway, most failed. But the idea is sound: write a story in just 6 words.

I thought I would do the same, but as an introduction to a longer (and short!) story. In a rare example of me being inclusive, I’m going to suggest that all of you try to write a story in 6 words and either leave it as a comment, or in your own blog. (And tell me, so I can go read them!)

My story? It follows:

Lightning struck; his plea went unheard.

… I give you, The Penis Monologues, from Scotland:

Now, please, if you’re Scottish, don’t press stop instantaneously. Hear it out. Wait for my bumbling apology at the end. Judge it on its content rather than its apallingly sprawling accents. It starts off OK, and kind of goes downhill from there.

In my defence (I always have a defence), I’ve been doing an Irish accent for quite some time now. It’s a pretty good, sturdy Irish accent. I can even do a Northern, and a Southern accent… and a leprachaun, if I’m really pushed. The problem is, Scottish is quite similar to Irish. Now I’ve angered the Irish AND the Scots. But hear me out — Scotland had a lot of Irish settlers, mainly Catholic settlers that went there in the 19th and 20th centuries. The Scottish accent, whether the Scots agree or not, does sound a bit Irish. Perhaps if you go far enough North/East, the accent is different enough to be less difficult, or down on the Southern border where everyone’s speech is COMPLETELY and utterly unintelligible. Those damn Geordie folk, breeding and intermingling with the well-spoken natives.

The inspiration behind this one was most certainly Billy Connolly, whose biography I’m reading at the moment. This comic genius had an atrocious life, which I kind of wanted to pay homage to in some kind of gritty monologue, drawing attention to the times when families of 10 would live in 2-bedroom tenement (apartment) blocks… but it just didn’t work out, with the wavering accent. So I’ll just tell you all to read the book, and find out for yourself just how dismal post-war Scotland was — especially for a Catholic child, in a city that was predominantly Protestant. I wouldn’t read it purely for a good read though — the reviews on Amazon are pretty accurate. If you really want something that’s dismal, is well-written, and makes you reflect on just how good your life is,  stick to something like Angela’s Ashes.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the monologue, even if it is a little silly. Tomorrow’s should be better. If it really left a bitter taste in your mouth, here’s a couple of Billy Connolly himself (if you can’t see the videos you’ll need to visit my blog):

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-7704074501009922494

My accent isn’t THAT far off, HAH!