I realise that I'm new but I've been writing for awhile now and would love to see what others think and hear constructive criticism's from people on here. The next lot of info about me and writing is copied and pasted from another forum.
I've wanted to be a writer since as far back as I can remember. Writing is a part of me. I couldn't stop even if someone put a gun against my head and said they'd murder me if I wrote another line.
I'd love to write both novels and scripts for BBC drama one day.
I'm really still at the experimenting stage of my writing. I've written 55 000 words of a fantasy novel but I've stopped and started with something else. I learnt alot about myself and my writing just from trying to write a sustained novel though. I discovered in the end that as much as I love reading fantasy, writing fantasy for me isn't satisfying. In the end, I care and am more interested in the drama of characters and their lives and thats something thats very difficult to achieve in fantasy I think- especially when you're just starting out.
I've also experimented a bit with writing a murder mystery verse novel. I've written about 20 poems for that so far and I really like the medium. I don't think it's a genre that I'd ever pursue professionally, but it's been fun to try writing it and I'll keep working towards finishing it as I do think there is some potential there.
My latest project is a retelling of the fairy story Snow White and Rose Red. I'm really liking my ideas for it so far and I think it has much more potential than my first attempt at a novel.
I also have the basic smidgeum of an idea for a 4-6 part BBC mini series called "The Promise." It would be about a man whose lover had died returning to the place where she had died with the friends who had been there at the time, because he has reason to believe upon reflection that she had been murdered. He vows to discover the truth but soon realises that everyone has secrets to hide and that even if he does discover the murderer, his relationships with the innocent friends can never be quite the same again. It's kind of a murder in retrospect idea. What do you guys think?
I also wrote a quick ramble ending for an idea I had about a mother and her child. The basic premise is that the mother's father dies and leaves her his property and she discovers stuff that links him to a crime syndicate. The woman wishes to know the truth about her father's involvement so she leaves her daughter (who is 13) with friends and goes to find out what she can about her late father's criminal activities. Of course, the criminals are linked to high places politically and they try to silence her, sending a hit man after her as she gets closer to the truth. The two fall in love but must leave each other as their whole ways of life are opposed. She escapes from the rest of the "baddies" with her life but ends up in hospital with severe injuries and the hit man is left with the mess of his life.
I've copied and pasted to here. I've used characters from Ashes to Ashes for prototypes but if I did expand on this idea I would use my own characters obviously. Tell me what you think. One of the things I was thinking about was would this work better as a script. I'm not sure :/
Story begins here:
At last she let her head rest against his chest as a tear fell down his craggy cheek. “It took us so long, all of those little misunderstandings to get to where we are now, and yet it was for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” she murmured into the starch of his shirt. “I have changed; I’m not the same as who I was before the accident. I’m still me; but I’m somehow more than myself, not even Molly’s birth had my heart so full to bursting. I never really loved you see, not in the real world, I never loved with the fierce, painful, all consuming passion that I have loved here.”
It was as if a curtain had been lifted and what had once separated as a barrier, was stripped naked and bare. Such vulnerability would once have been painful, revealing all of her scars to another, but there was a kind of peace in giving yourself to someone so completely. If only this were her fixed moment in time, and not what she knew was soon to come, but at least this time even if he didn’t understand he accepted it was so.
The kiss was as perfect as anything a Disney Princess and her Prince Charming had ever experienced, and again she wished it wasn’t all over.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. But Gene shook his head and held her tight, his fingers hooked in her brown curls.
“Something is better than nothing, if there’s anything I’ve learnt from my ex wife it’s that.”
He didn’t let himself cry. There was her perfume still hanging thick in the air, eye shadow crumbled in a cheap case on the lounge, white leather jacket in a heap next to the bed where they had left it in their haste. It was strange in its way, he, the bluff, strong ‘man’s man’, crying, kneeling on the floor, his face in her jacket.
It was the rustle that alerted him. There was a note in the left pocket.
In the morning I will be gone, back to the life I would do much to leave behind, and yet cannot. I am but a faded ghost, as incorporeal and as illusionary as your misogynistic bluster that hides a kind heart. Yet for all that you and I try to tell ourselves it didn’t matter, it won’t make it any easier. Even as our paths diverge, know that I will never stop loving you, know that I will always have your face in my mind, and know that never will I love another in the way that I have loved you.
It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be.
He cast one eye on the bottle of whiskey on the nearby chest of drawers, but though he wanted for all the world to drown himself in its numbing glow, he could not move to pick up the glass.
“That’s two times my woman’s left me,” he muttered, a spark of his old humour returning. The sardonic humour would never leave him. Nor would the bittersweet, newfound lines that creased his forehead ever quite go away, inflections of sadness an aspect of his personality that had never existed before he had come to know true heartache.
He tuned into a radio station. Anything for the distraction. It must have been one of those ‘back to the 80’s’ nights. Boy George and the Culture Club had been given the radio presenters stamp of approval. He began to hum the words involuntarily.
Someday soon I’m gonna tell the moon
About the crying game.
And if she knows
Maybe she’ll explain
Why there are kisses
Why there are sighs
And what to do to stop feeling blue
When loves disappears.
Somehow Gene didn’t think there was an answer to that. He was remembering the movie of the same name. It had unnerved him at the time; he had been one of those men who had found Dil attractive, till the punch line and he had wanted to throw up like Fergus had. He had never gone in for all of that gender confusion nonsense. But now, he wasn’t thinking about his own homophobia. He was remembering Dil in the bar, her glittering dress alight, and her eyes filled with pain, because already she knew that her man was never coming home, could never come home again.
It had been a sinuous, primeval, still elegant dance of loss, and Gene like Dil, wanted no more of the crying game.
Don’t want no more
Of the crying game
Don’t want no more
Of the crying game.
And yet, he had won his right to buy into it, and somehow he knew that he would be playing the crying game for the rest of his life. Wether he liked it or not.
She woke up to steralised white, a drip attached from wrist to metal stand, plain hospital gown on, and her child, her beautiful child, sitting in the uncomfortable chair next to her bed.
The girl, nearly a woman, bore upon her face a countenance of overpowering joy, the bloom and confidence of youth never considering that the mother before her was not the same as the one who had left six months earlier.
Molly’s arms wrapped around Alex’ neck; snakelike. “At last you’re awake.”
Alex tried to smile but though she was relieved to see her daughter again, it was suddenly difficult to remember how to smile.
Molly faltered. “What is it Mummy?”
Alex moved a stray curl back behind Molly’s ear. She thought of all of the things she could have said, all of them incomprehensible to a child of thirteen whose own idealistic, rosy dreams were still unrealised. I went someplace Molly, I re-trod the past, I discovered secrets there best kept hidden, I reclaimed forgotten memories, and I found someone new to love, someone as old and as tired as me, who didn’t care that I was middle-aged. We couldn’t stay together. He was the enemy with a job to do, and I, I had you.
She settled for the inane. “It’s been so long, Molly. I still can’t quite believe we’re together again.”
“I love you Mum,” Molly said crying softly.
“I love you too darling,” Alex mechanically replied but her mind was already elsewhere. What was is Miss Marple had said to pretty Gwenda who had wanted to uncover sleeping murder. “I think it’s rather better if you leave the past alone dear.” Well, Gwenda hadn’t listened and neither had Alex, and now it was she who was paying the price.
Where are we now
Are we in Heaven?
Never Heaven without you Gene.
Where are we now
Are we in Hell?
I rather think…
Where are we now?
Never in Heaven.
Where are we now?
Almost in Hell.
-End of story_