Jake and Maddy are two brothers accidentally ending up in a fight with a couple of older boys. The situation is half salvaged by the old man Ellis walking in on the fight. When paying their respects to the man months later, at his funeral, something strange happens involving the graveyard's gravedigger, and the brothers find themselves in a completely new and sinister world. Ella's world. With the idea of finding Ella weighing on Jake's mind he continously zones away from reality and retreats into himself - counting on Maddy to keep them both out of the worst trouble.
Maddy is the narrator in this Alice-inspired tale, landing you in the middle of a dark dream world as far from any children's story as you can get.
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 11
Tuesday, March 30
Bye Bye, Ophelia
It's tradition by now to stop by here whenever I finish a novel, and this one I hold very near and dear to my heart. Today I wrote the last chapter, and epilogue, of my beloved Ophelia's Photograph. She even managed to surprise me in the end, and I was very close to bursting in tears. Because of what happens, because of how it ends, because of the sad and melancholic beauty of their world. It doesn't feel like I've created it. It feels like they told the story themselves. And as far as I know Cade, he'd need to get it off his chest.
I borrowed my Grandma's printer to get this first draft (filled still with plot holes, typos and incorrect depictions of eye colors) out on paper. 243 pages it turned out to be, too many to even bundle together in a single bunch. I simply had to cut it a break after Chapter 8 and pretend that it was meant to split there, ha ha. I also made damn sure to put the manuscript on a CD, I will make another proof copy tomorrow (and yes, I'm aware that I'm being paranoid).
Tonight me and DJ finally managed to call eachother using Skype (damn that MSN into the wall and back) and I love that. It's just proof of how well we know eachother by now and how good friends we are that we were on the phone talking about nothing and everything for 4 hours and 45 minutes. Roughly. My only regret is that he lives across the globe. I want all my friends to come live closer!
Anyway, I'm dead tired and should stumble into bed. I just wanted to let everyone know, who doesn't already, that the novel is finished, and that I'm panicking in lack of a new novel project to throw myself into at once. Holding those pages in my hands was bliss. I've never felt as much as a real writer as in that moment.
I love all you guys. Without you, I wouldn't have hung around for this long.
POET in the JAR
I borrowed my Grandma's printer to get this first draft (filled still with plot holes, typos and incorrect depictions of eye colors) out on paper. 243 pages it turned out to be, too many to even bundle together in a single bunch. I simply had to cut it a break after Chapter 8 and pretend that it was meant to split there, ha ha. I also made damn sure to put the manuscript on a CD, I will make another proof copy tomorrow (and yes, I'm aware that I'm being paranoid).
Tonight me and DJ finally managed to call eachother using Skype (damn that MSN into the wall and back) and I love that. It's just proof of how well we know eachother by now and how good friends we are that we were on the phone talking about nothing and everything for 4 hours and 45 minutes. Roughly. My only regret is that he lives across the globe. I want all my friends to come live closer!
Anyway, I'm dead tired and should stumble into bed. I just wanted to let everyone know, who doesn't already, that the novel is finished, and that I'm panicking in lack of a new novel project to throw myself into at once. Holding those pages in my hands was bliss. I've never felt as much as a real writer as in that moment.
I love all you guys. Without you, I wouldn't have hung around for this long.
POET in the JAR
Saturday, March 20
Cade On The Loop
Crossing my fingers right now for something very important, or at least it is to me. In case it doesn't work out I'll keep quiet about it for the time being.
On other matters. Thinking constantly about the novel and about what happened this week, hoping it'll repeat again soon. We'll see. If it's supposed to be... it'll be. And I'll try not to let it distract myself anymore, although that smile is etched onto my mind. As concerns Cade he's getting very close to the end of his story, this time around. I don't know yet if I'll be writing a sequel to his story, it simply seems to be this one story with him; but I can't tell for sure until I've written the last few vital scenes. I was thinking how cool it would be to hit 100K before the story's over, but I'm currently at 81 and I doubt I'll last even all the way up to 90. Anyway, besides the obvious Nano-addict talk, what matters is that I'm getting near completion.
I have no idea what to do with my life when it's done, uh. Maybe I'll have to fill it with a social life outside of my characters. Hmmm. Seems impossible.
Cheers, be back in writing business on Monday by the latest.
POET in the JAR
On other matters. Thinking constantly about the novel and about what happened this week, hoping it'll repeat again soon. We'll see. If it's supposed to be... it'll be. And I'll try not to let it distract myself anymore, although that smile is etched onto my mind. As concerns Cade he's getting very close to the end of his story, this time around. I don't know yet if I'll be writing a sequel to his story, it simply seems to be this one story with him; but I can't tell for sure until I've written the last few vital scenes. I was thinking how cool it would be to hit 100K before the story's over, but I'm currently at 81 and I doubt I'll last even all the way up to 90. Anyway, besides the obvious Nano-addict talk, what matters is that I'm getting near completion.
I have no idea what to do with my life when it's done, uh. Maybe I'll have to fill it with a social life outside of my characters. Hmmm. Seems impossible.
Cheers, be back in writing business on Monday by the latest.
POET in the JAR
Monday, March 15
Insignia
I break the branches of an early fall, leaves sogging in the pools of dark water under my feet. The branches snap with a loud crack, tearing through the sound of the rain.
Up on the roof, it feels like it's raining even more than on the ground, the wind tearing at my hair and at the collar of my leather jacket.
Under my shoes there's pieces of gravel. The kind small enough to get caught in the pattern under your shoes, the kind that are strewn over the snowy streets in winter and emerge like an undiscovered shore at the turn of the tide. A few of these tiny stones are in my hands now, edges on my wet skin, marked by dirt and rain. I let go of one, watching it fall heavily towards the ground below from here, disappearing out of my view before it reaches its final destination.
I look up again, my attention caught by the opposing rooftop, the white flag with the familiar insignia flapping, and raging; in the stormy wind. It glares at me, eerily; I don't return its eager stare. That is not what I came for.
I get up from my knees, when the last knot has been tied, and it's my turn to fall down towards the asphalt far below. From above, all you will see is the white fabric, mocking the flags and their insignia back.
But above me, there is nothing.
Below me, is the whole wide world.
POET in the JAR
(A sort of novel idea, or something, that just popped into my head. I couldn't get it out in any form of poetry so here it is, raw and unedited for later uses. Enjoy meanwhile.)
Up on the roof, it feels like it's raining even more than on the ground, the wind tearing at my hair and at the collar of my leather jacket.
Under my shoes there's pieces of gravel. The kind small enough to get caught in the pattern under your shoes, the kind that are strewn over the snowy streets in winter and emerge like an undiscovered shore at the turn of the tide. A few of these tiny stones are in my hands now, edges on my wet skin, marked by dirt and rain. I let go of one, watching it fall heavily towards the ground below from here, disappearing out of my view before it reaches its final destination.
I look up again, my attention caught by the opposing rooftop, the white flag with the familiar insignia flapping, and raging; in the stormy wind. It glares at me, eerily; I don't return its eager stare. That is not what I came for.
I get up from my knees, when the last knot has been tied, and it's my turn to fall down towards the asphalt far below. From above, all you will see is the white fabric, mocking the flags and their insignia back.
But above me, there is nothing.
Below me, is the whole wide world.
POET in the JAR
(A sort of novel idea, or something, that just popped into my head. I couldn't get it out in any form of poetry so here it is, raw and unedited for later uses. Enjoy meanwhile.)
Monday, January 25
The Mausoleum Of Fragile Objects
Alright, so, I changed the project title a little bit after my sis had a very, very good laugh about my first suggestion (therefore I won't mention it here), but anyway that's it, the project name of my new novel project. I am writing this for Forgefire Press and when the time comes - in perhaps a week or so - I will tell you exactly how you'll be able to follow the story from that site.
Here is a teaser for you (the current synopsis):
"The rumored beauty, long since gone, buried in a dusty mausoleum in the corner of a forgotten graveyard. Her tomb, sealed from the outside, as arranged. The man who loved her most of all, determined to last 38 days trapped inside her small enclosure, in order to make a statement to deaf ears, to walls that will no longer listen.
Every day is night.
Every breath, a knife.
Every step, an echo.
Every death... a life."
POET in the WRITING JAR
Here is a teaser for you (the current synopsis):
"The rumored beauty, long since gone, buried in a dusty mausoleum in the corner of a forgotten graveyard. Her tomb, sealed from the outside, as arranged. The man who loved her most of all, determined to last 38 days trapped inside her small enclosure, in order to make a statement to deaf ears, to walls that will no longer listen.
Every day is night.
Every breath, a knife.
Every step, an echo.
Every death... a life."
POET in the WRITING JAR
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)