November Cometh: NaNoWriMo and Movember

 Ok, so I didn't post anything last week. Naughty me. Still, I'm going to be making up for it over the next month or so, or at least I hope so.

 This Thursday is Halloween, simultaneously one of my favourite and most hated holidays of the year. I love it because it gives me a chance to be creative, to dress up however I want without fear of any negative comments or too much hassle. (That said, of course, my Punk Rock Dorothy costume two years ago resulted in the loss of my NUS card and about £5 change because people kept lifting up my skirt.) I hate it because there's a certain demographic of people who think that putting on a mask entitles them to do whatever they want, regardless of the safety of themselves or others. Halloween also means that everywhere will be packed this weekend, and not in the good, there's-so-many-people-here-and-there's-great-energy way. In the bad, claustrophobic, elbow in the face, beer down the front, cigarette burn on you hand kind of way.

 And after Halloween comes November; the true start of winter. The month of cold, rain, and falling leaves (although we've had quite enough of all three already, thank you very much). The moth of Christmas shopping (hopefully). And, most important of all, the month of NaNo WriMo.
 For the uninitiated, Nano Wrimo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which is itself a misnomer as it started in America and has since spread across the world. Every year, writers of all ages, talents, and backgrounds pledge to write 1,667 words each day in November. By the end of the month, they are rewarded with a first draft of a 5,000 word novel. If they finish, of course, which many don't. The idea is to get people writing, without giving them the time to second-guess themselves or worry too much about perfecting their work. When you have that much to write in such a small amount of time there's little, if any, opportunity for editing.

 I took part in NaNo for the first time last year, and successfully completed my first novel The King of Dreams. Of course, it's taken me far longer to edit the damn thing than it did to actually write, but there you go. Hopefully, The King, which I am immensely proud of, will find its way to an agent/publisher soon, and thence to the rest of the world. Fingers crossed.

 In the meantime, this year I thought I'd go one step further. Not only am I taking part in NaNo once more, I'm going to be blogging my chapters as I write them. Or, rather, I'll be posting two chapters up each week in November. I'm planning a novel divided into several volumes, each between 10,000 and 15,000 words. While the chapters of the first volume will be posted on here for all to read and enjoy for free, the entire book will be available to buy online (hopefully through Amazon, iTunes, etc.) at some point in the New Year.

 My reasons for doing this are two-fold. First, it will hopefully give me the added incentive I need to keep on writing creatively, even as final year of university crushes the life out of me. Second, it will force me to self-edit as I write, while hopefully getting additional advice from my audience (hint, hint).

 Of course, the idea of serialisation isn't new. Dickens did it, and had people lining the docks in New York in order to read the latest instalment of The Old Curiosity Shop. Those writing in the comic book industry effectively divide their stories into 30-page chapters each month. The writers of soap operas do it daily. I have great respect for all of these people and the things they do. Part of the beauty of this is that it allows the story to be delivered in easily digestible, bite-sized chunks. Part of the challenge is knowing that everything you write has to stick; there's no space for errors of rewrites (retcons excluded, of course) when your work is being read almost as soon as you finish it.

 On a completely different note, November is also Movember, a month where men around the world grow moustaches to raise awareness for testicular cancer. Or something. No-one I've spoken to really seems to understand the specifics of it, other than not shaving properly for a couple of weeks.

 Every year, friends of mine do it, and tell me that I should, too. Every year, I turn them down. I do this because A) If I'm going to do something for charity, I want to know exactly what it is, and how it works. I want to do it properly. People always mention sponsorship in a vague, after-thought kind of way, and that doesn't sit well with me. If this is something that people do to raise money, then I want to raise money, not just take part for the novelty of a hairy upper lip. B) I've never grown a moustache before. In fact, I don't think I've gone more than four days in a row without shaving since I was fifteen. I have no idea if I'm even capable of growing a moustache. In fact, I'm pretty sure that my older brothers have inherited all of the hair in the family gene pool.

 But, this year is my final year at university. That means that this is, in many ways, my last chance to do this sort of thing without coming across as an idiot. So why not? Like many of my friends I'll 'look into' sponsorship as I go along, and if I find I can't grow a moustache, well, there's always wigs, right?

 So, one massive challenge. One extremely nervous writer. One impending 'tash. A lot that could go wrong. And a lot that will go right.

 Check back here on Sunday for the first instalment of the novel, and every Wednesday and Sunday for the rest of November for more chapters!

Bonsai Trees, Gorilla Pep Talks, Tie-Dye, and Sue Perkins

 I seem to be making a lot fo stupid mistakes at the moment. Or rather, I am making reasonable, rational decisions from an objective point of view, but which are utter fails from my personal point of view. For the last week or so I've been laid low by Fresher's flu (despite being a third year student), which I'm inclined to blame for my recent spate of ill-judgement. On the other hand, everyone makes a fair amount of bad decisions in their lives. Considering the fact that I tend to make safe, sensible choices most of the time, perhaps my mistakes are just coalescing together. Or maybe the first mistake opened the flood gates, and I'm now doomed to be deluged by error after error for evermore.
 What are these mistakes I've been making? Well, let's see.

Tuesday
 I bought a Bonsai tree.
 Ok, so that doesn't seem like such a huge mistake, at least in theory. Every year, there's a houseplant sale outside my student union. For the last two years, I have walked past, admired some of the plants, and then moved on. Each time, I have resolved that, while I don't really have the space/time/energy to look after a houseplant this year, I will next year. Well, there is no more 'next year'. I'm in my final year of university. So no more union plant sales, no more deferring.
 I chose a bonsai tree because I've always found them quite entertaining. Here is a tree that can literally be held in the palm of my hand. I've always had a penchant for things that are the wrong size, as evidenced by the giant key-shaped clock on my bedroom wall. So I picked one that looked reasonably healthy, parted with roughly £13 of my hard-earned student loan, and happily carried the little fella home. I proudly showed it off to my housemates, and placed it on top of a chest of drawers where it would get plenty of light.
 And then I realised my mistake. I can't care for another living being. I can barely care for myself. And this isn't just any plant, mind, where you can maybe leave it for a couple of days without watering, and it will be fine. No. According to my research (google), bonsai trees need to be kept in bright areas, but away from direct sunlight. Well, there's little in the way of direct sunlight in Cardiff, but there's also a distinct lack of anything that could be called 'bright', either. They also have to be watered daily. So far, I've been using my left-over water from the night before, but there's a fine line between 'soaking' (the word used on the pot's little tag) the plant, and covering my cupboard in water. Third, they must be trimmed regularly to maintain their shape. Honestly, who has the time? So far, I've only given it a little haircut, using my nail clippers. I may have to invest in some mini scissors, if this is going to be a regular thing.
 The only other plant I have ever had was a cacti that was given to me as a seventh birthday present. It was about ten centimetres high, and covered in white fur. Admittedly, it lasted for over a decade, but that was because cacti are, at least compared to most plants, virtually indestructible. I believe that the family dog finally brought about the cacti's demise; larger and braver members of the botanic world have faced off against our German Shepherd and failed.
 So, the bonsai tree, who I have started calling Tyler (Bonsai Tyler, see what I did there?), may well have been a disastrous decision. To be honest, I'd be surprised if it made it to the end of the term. And if it does, I have no idea how I'll get it back to West Sussex for the Christmas holidays.

Wednesday
 Stomach-shrivelling mistake number two involves improper use of post it notes on the 4th floor of the university's Arts and Social Sciences Library. Having taken out my limit of library books, I was faced with a conundrum. In order to get more books out, I would have to return some of the ones already in my possession. This would mean, in some cases, actually reading the books I've had on loan since the start of the summer. In order to further delay this inevitable and traumatic event, I decided to return one of the books I actually had read. But arouse another problem.
 I hate underlining passages in books. To me, it is one of the greatest acts of vandalism possible. However, I am also often too lazy to make notes of page numbers, or to write interesting points up as I read them. My solution over the summer holidays was to cover the inside of one particular book with torn-up bits of post-it notes. A sound idea, although they do tend to slip and slide a bit.
 So on Wednesday I sat in the library, removing bits of post-it note from the book and copying down the relevant passages. All of this took about an hour and a half. By the time I was finished I was tired and hungry, and desperate to go home.
 I started to gather up my things, but stopped when it came to the little pile of yellow post-it bits.  'Wouldn't it be better,' my study-addled brain suggested, 'to do something useful with the paper, rather than just throw it away?'
 'Alright,' another part of my mind answered, 'but what? What can I do, that would be useful and creative and uplifting, within the confines of the library, with some torn-up post-it notes?'
 'Well, sometimes the library can be a hard and depressing place. Sometimes you need a little cheering up, after hours of studying. How about some pleasant messages?'
 So I wrote down some nice thoughts on the paper. They included things like 'I will always love you' and 'Smile!'
 So far so good.
 And then I did the stupid thing.
 I went round the 4th floor of the library, picking up books at random, and placing the notes inside them. I didn't really pay attention to the books themselves. One was on Greek architecture, I think, and I'm pretty sure another was written in German. Some were old, and may not be read again before the library deems them obsolete and throws them away. Others were new, and my yellow post-it could well have been the first act of the same literary vandalism that I hate so much.
 In my mind, I had grand visions of struggling students coming across these messages of hope and love in their darkest hours of pre-deadline research, and being comforted by them. In reality, it was kind of a prat thing to do. No one wants to be bothered by other people's notes in library books, unless they can be useful to their own work. People will wonder what kind of an idiot leaves those kinds of notes in a library book. There's a good chance that people will dismiss them off-hand, and chuck them in the bin.
 So, if you're a Cardiff Uni student and you come across evidence of my little act of anarchist-peppiness, you're welcome/I'm sorry. I did it out of love.

Friday
 Next week, my choir are having a social. Because one of the pieces we're doing this term is the Lion King, it is naturally a Lion King-themed party. There will be fancy dress, and booze, and prizes.
 Now, the obvious choice would be to pop down to somewhere like Primarni and pick up an animal print onesie. But everyone will do that, and I want my prize.
 Instead, I am creating a costume by tie-dyeing some old clothing and a white sheet. More on the costume later; it's not finished yet, and I don't want to give away the surprise. But here's a little taster. Intriguing, no?

 

 This is the first time I've ever tried tie-dyeing anything. As many of you know, it is a messy process. Because I had a big day the following day, I made sure that I was wearing gloves throughout the dyeing process. However, because I was doing this at eleven at night, I forgot to keep the gloves on when cleaning up.
 The results were predictable. As I type this, the fingers and palm of one hand are stained a lovely shade of green-blue. In a desperate attempt to rectify the problem, I turned to soaps, shampoo, sugar, washing-up liquid, and, finally, white spirit to clean myself off. Considering that I have pretty bad eczema at the moment, none of these were terribly pleasant. None of them worked terribly well, either, although they did remove some of the colour. Together with about two layers of skin.  

Saturday
 Today, finally, I did something good. Or, not so much good, as enjoyable. What I should have been doing today was reading for my degree (I still have over 300 pages of the 670 page Mysteries of Udolpho to read for Tuesday). Instead, I was at the old BBC studio in Cardiff, filming for a top-secret tv project with my friend Esther. And Sue Perkins.
 To be honest, I don't even feel guilty about this one. Ok, so today I've only read 25 pages for one of my modules. Ok, so I had to get up at the crack of dawn. Ok, so I couldn't identify a picture of Ernie Wise. But I got £40 out of it, and a free meal.
 And I. Met. Sue Perkins.
 She's a lovely woman, is Sue Perkins (I seem to be incapable of referring to her solely by her first name; it just doesn't seem right). She was charming and funny, and very camp. She made a joke about my enjoyment of wearing a blindfold. There was laughter.
 I also managed to get a photograph with her. That's Esther on her left, but she's not really important to this story.

Speed Date

 Something a little bit different from my usual fair. Not only is it not fantasy or sci fi, it's actually a comedy piece. Or, rather, it's meant to be a comedy piece. I'll leave its success or failure on that score down to you're judgement. I started this for a university assignment, and expanded it later on. Who knows, if I ever end up writing scripts, it could end up in a play or tv show!
 Enjoy!

Two minutes.

 I sit down opposite the girl, and we smile nervously at each other. She is blond, with brown eyes and fair skin. A little plain, perhaps, though not unattractive. To a straight man, that is. Which I most decidedly am not.

 ‘Hi, I’m Kate.’ She says, smiling again and playing nervously with the drink in front of her.

 ‘I’m-’ Gay, I think. No, stop it. ‘I’m Alex.’ And I’m gay.

 ‘So… tell me about yourself.’ I say, struggling to get things started, and wondering self-consciously what all the other couples are talking about.

One minute, forty seconds.

 ‘Well, I’m twenty years old, I’m from Bristol, and I’m studying Bioscieince.’ She says, speaking rapidly before pausing to take a large sip of her drink. ‘What about you? I guess you’re a student?’

 Of course I’m a student, I think. This is a student speed date, set up by the student’s union, and held in the student bar.

‘Yeah, I’m studying music,’ I’m gay. ‘I’m 21,’ I’m really gay. ‘and I’m from Winchester.’ And I’m a raving homosexual.

One minute, thirty seconds.

 ‘It must be nice studying music,’ Kate says a little wistfully ‘Do you play any instruments?’

 I’m an excellent horn-blower- Stop! ‘Yeah, I play piano and guitar. How about you?’

 ‘I used to play the cello, but I gave it up a couple of years ago.’ She gives me what I guess is meant to be a seductive smile. ‘Although I really miss the feeling of something hard between my legs.’

 Something we have in common, I think.

 ‘Perhaps you should take it up again.’ I say.

 ‘Or find a substitute.’ Oh, god. I have never wanted to fly the Pride flag more in my life.

 One minute, 10 seconds.

 ‘You know, you look just like Justin Bieber.’ She says. Just what every man wants to hear.

 ‘Oh, thank you.’ I hesitate for a second. ‘Are you a fan?’

 ‘Isn’t everyone?’ No, no they are not. ‘I think he’s so talented; don’t you find he’s so original? And there’s so much depth to his songs.’

 ‘I suppose so.’ I fight the urge to tell her that I would rather pour acid in my ear than go to a Bieber concert.

 ‘Actually, I just sent him a cake yesterday, for Valentine’s Day, you know.’

 ‘Oh really?’ She’s looking at me expectantly, as though I should confess to having done the exact same thing. For a moment I struggle to find something to say to fill the silence.

 Forty-five seconds.

 ‘What kind of cake was it?’ I ask.

 ‘Chocolate, of course; it’s his favourite.’ I wonder if I should be impressed by her knowledge, or embarrassed by the apparent lack in mine. ‘And hair.’ She adds.

 ‘Hair?’ I repeat. No, I must have misheard.

 ‘That’s right. I added some of my own hair to the batter.’ She smiles, as if chocolate hair cake is completely normal.

 ‘Why?’

 ‘Because once he eats it, a part of me will be inside him, and then we’ll be one forever.’ She smiles dreamily.

 Twenty-five seconds.

 ‘So how about you?’ she asks, breaking from her revere.

‘What about me?’ Have I ever sent a freaky voodoo cake to a famous person? A raisin-and-saliva cookie to a film-star, perhaps, or a jam-and-skin donut to a footballer?

 ‘Any celebrity crushes?’

 ‘Oh, no,’ Johnny Depp, Bradley Cooper, Ryan Gosling, ‘Not really.’

 Twenty seconds.

 ‘What kind of films do you like?’ I ask, desperately trying to fill the time.

 ‘I don’t know. I like comedies, I guess. Definitely not sci-fi or horror. To be honest, I’m not that into films. I think they’re too divorced from reality.’

 ‘Yeah,’ I say. As opposed to the girl who thinks that sending hair-cake to Justin Bieber is a good idea.

 Ten seconds.

 ‘So… what’s your favourite colour?’ Kate asks.

 Trick question: Gays don’t have a favourite colour, we like them all. ‘Um, blue, I guess.’

 ‘Me too!’ she beams, as though a mutual liking for a colour meant that we are eternal soul-mates.

Ding! Ding!

 ‘Well, it was lovely meeting you.’ Kate says as I stand up. She picks up the sheet of paper and makes a show of putting a tick next to my number.

 ‘Yeah, you too.’ I smile again, before moving on to the next table.

 Two minutes.

 ‘Well, what did you think?’ the girl asks as I sit down. ‘Do I hear wedding bells?’

 ‘This is the last time I go along with one of your ideas.’ I grumble, glaring at her.

 ‘Come on, it’s fun.’ She laughs. ‘Did you tell her you’re gay?’

 I jerk my head in the direction of the boy who has just moved to the next table.

 ‘Did you tell him that you’re engaged?’ I ask, arching an eyebrow.

Amanda Palmer, and The Art of Asking

 Amanda Palmer (who I absolutely adore as a musician, artist, and human being), recently did a talk on TED called 'The Art of Asking'. In it, she talks about how she has been able to use social media sites like twitter in order to organise support acts, venues, and food for her gigs. She talks about the give-and-take of modern human interaction. She talks about her kickstarter project for her latest album, and how it was funded by her fans (the best £5 I've ever spent). And she talks about how much easier it is to get people to pay for music by asking them, rather than trying to force them.

 Watching the video, I was also reminded of a line from a song on her album 'Theatre Is Evil': 'I'll never find it, I want to shout into the vacuum.' In a way, that feels like what I've been doing here for the last couple of weeks. I've been posting stories, poems, etc. online, hoping that someone will take an interest in what I'm doing and maybe give me some feedback. The idea is to improve my writing to the point where I can actually start making money from it. The only problem? I haven't quite been able to work up the nerve to tell anyone about it. At all.

 So that's going to have to change.

 Today Statikland goes public. For the first time, I'm going to be posting about my blog on facebook and twitter, and hopefully some of my 'friends' (never has that been such an ambiguous term than when applied to social media), will have a look through it and tell me what they think. This will also (hopefully), encourage me to keep writing and posting. If you are one of those people; Hello. Sorry I skipped out on that coffee/party/dinner we were meant to have. The truth is, I don't really like you that much.

 So there you have it. Unlike Amanda, I'm not asking for money (yet). I'm not asking for a couch to sleep on, or food. All I'm asking for is a little of your time and your honest opinion about what you find on this blog. I guess what I'm trying to say is this; I'm just a boy, standing in front of the internet, asking it to love me (or at least give some helpful criticism).

Departure

 I originally wrote this for a competition based on the Apocalypse. However, it wasn't selected (not that I'm bitter or anything, of course) and so I've had it knocking around in the drawer for a little while. This seemed like a good time to dust it off and stick it up, to see if I can get any feedback on it for future reference.

Our world is over.

 I stand in line with my friends as we inch our way forwards, heading towards the towering monstrosity of the rocket. Conversation is muted, heads are bowed. I feel a pang of envy for the small family groups huddled together. At least they have each other. I glance at my friends. As far as we’re aware, we’re the only ones to survive the attack on our village. These few metres are the last our feet will ever touch of the soil of our homeland. Soon, everything we’ve ever known will just be a memory.

 A child is crying nearby. His mother tries to comfort him, casting anxious glances at the armoured guards who watch us, uncaring, from behind their gas-masks. We don’t have any masks, or any armour. But then, we don’t need it, not yet. The mother tries to assure her child that it will be fun, an adventure. A brand-new world to live on. As if we had a choice.

 Already the air is nearly un-breathable. By now the trees should be lush, full of vibrant leaves and heavy fruit. Instead, the forests and fields bare only stunted and withered fruit. There are hardly any birds in the sky, and I can’t remember the last time I saw an insect other than the clouds of flies which hover over the piles of refuse which litter the streets.

 My thoughts cycle back to Awen. Where is he, my wayward, freedom-fighter brother? Mother always said that he’d end up in trouble, and now look at him. On the run, missing, fighting for a cause which was over almost before it began. There are still rumours, of course. Alien convoys being attacked, machines destroyed, settlements torn apart. Some call them rebels, others terrorists. But everyone knows that, ultimately, any form of resistance is futile.

 We’re on the ship now, wedged into our seats. It wasn’t built for comfort or luxury, just to get as many of us off the planet as quickly as possible. There’s no room to move, no space to stretch. I’m lucky, I suppose, as my seat is immediately below one of the few, tiny windows. If I crane my head upwards, I can see the sky, clear for once. The storms created by the invaders’ machines have settled down, finally. But I don’t want to watch.

 The day they came was just like any other. There were no thunderous clouds, no earthquakes. There were no mysterious flights of birds or signs in the sky. There was no warning at all. On a day just like any other, with the same chores and duties, the same joys and pleasures, the sky simply opened up, and the silver ships fell from the sky.

 The nearest ship- a silver sphere that shone in the afternoon light like a second moon- landed in the mountains, far enough away that they didn’t reach our village until two days later. By then a search party had been set out to investigate the plumes of smoke which had begun to rise on the horizon.

 The strangers simply walked into our village that morning, clad in their shining armour, riding their thunderous machines that crawled across the ground and glided through the air, and carrying their unfathomable weapons. The younger children thought that they were angels, or fairies, or gods. The older grownups, with heir superstations and their distrust of anything new, thought that they were demons. I just remember that they were the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen.

 Micca- my father’s cousin- approached them first. Most of the younger men were out hunting, and Micca is- Micca was- always brave. Brave and stupid. But he tried to approach the strangers with something approaching peace. He stood in front of them, his hands empty and open at his side, and gave them a brief, curt nod.

 And the first stranger, their leader, looked down at him. He didn’t speak. He hardly moved. His featureless face stared into Micca’s eyes. And then he raised his hand, and my father’s cousin fell to the ground, dead.

 People began running and screaming then, ducking into their homes or sprinting into the forest, seeking safety wherever they could. Mothers made a grab for children as their husbands seized axes and knives. Animals howled and babies wailed. Others just stood there, paralyzed. I think that on some level they already knew the truth. No matter what we did, no matter how hard we fought or how fast we ran, it was over. The strangers had won.

 Tremors run through the cabin as the engines ignite, shaking us to our bones as the massive ship lifts off from the ground. Time begins to move faster. I close my eyes against the hum, ignoring the cries of fear and despair that erupt into the air all around me. For the first time, it all becomes real. This is happening. And there’s no going back.

 The girl sat beside me takes hold of my wrist. I don’t know her name; we’ve never met before. But I shift my hand round, lacing my fingers between hers and squeezing her hand. Beneath the roar of the engines I hear a slow hiss of air as she sighs. I doesn’t matter that we’re strangers.

Finally, I open my eyes, and take one final look out of the window at the only home I’ve ever known. As the world grows further away, I see the massive fires which burn from the titanic machines that lie in a loose ring around our planet. This is the first stage. They’re burning away the atmosphere, making it breathable for them. Soon, the air will be pure. Soon, they won’t need the masks and armour to live walk on the surface of the world they stole from us.

 And then the next stage will begin. The new atmosphere will be poisonous to any plants or animals left on the surface. They’ll wither and die, leaving a rich layer of topsoil for the new inhabitants to build their own ecosystems on. New plants will be grown, new animals introduced. The final settlers will arrive, and start building their cities. The machines will be packed up and sent onto another world, and another.

  This is the way it is. Not just here, but right across the galaxy. All worlds belong to them, and the local populations are either exterminated or shipped off to colonies on other, less desirable, worlds. And for that small mercy, we should be grateful. We get to spend the rest of our lives on an alien planet, among other refugees from other earths, all under the watchful eyes of the dominant species in the galaxy.

 Soon, there will be nothing left of the world we knew. Soon, it will all belong to the humans.