So, I had a good day yesterday. Managed nine pages in total. Another two on the train this morning and wrote myself out of a cul-de-sac, invented a cool character and moved the story on to act two… Take that Ideas Toad!
Well at least for a month anyway. I served the Ideas Toad his eviction notice this morning but he didn’t seem particularly bothered.
You should be able to keep tabs on my progress here at MKF and at my profile page on Script-Frenzy.
Somehow I’ve got to fit in my full time job, the #orgy meat in London this weekend and BangFace at the end of the month and still deliver 100 pages of script. It’s going to be a busy one.
I didn’t get around to finishing The Nomads so I guess I’ll have to wait until May to see that one off, sorry to those few who’ve seen the incomplete first draft and were looking for more.
The Ideas Toad is squatting in my brainpan, like some ancient evil god in the primordial soup of creation. It’s a giant stale turd and it leers at me, stinking, resolutely refuses to capitulate and coalesce into a well formed thought.
All I’m getting is men in black longcoats and stovepipe hats and the texture of old paper and rotten lace.
This is no way to prepare for Wednesday.
I’ve had all day now and I can’t shift that damnable toad.
I know I want to do something gothic but as to what… Well I wish I knew.
No sci-fi though, just magic-light or mundane.
For some reason my mind keeps popping back to Peter and The Wolf but with a tense, sexy atmosphere to it.
But not that at all.
Everyone on the script frenzy message boards seems to be doing Demons or Buffy again, or CSI rewrites. Not for me.
I’m thinking more Neverwhere and Carnivale and Dark City.
But not that at all.
Heck, who am I kidding, no one’s going to read the damn thing, it’s just practice after all.
Perhaps an early night and a morning brainstorm will sort out the headmeats.
I think it was late in twenty thirteen or fourteen when the last of the Sperm Whales was found dying on a beach on Australia’s west coast. They said it had sang itself to death, beached itself from the madness of loneliness. Final miserable proof of intelligence if any where needed. Ironically it was the Japanese who shouted loudest about the horror of such a majestic creature being hurled over the precipice to extinction. It brought human awareness of what it was doing to the world’s ocean into sharp focus and mankind saw that it was on the brink of an extinction level event the likes of which had only occurred twice in the entire planets past. The difference was that this had been caused by mankind. By centuries of over-fishing we had culled the top-level predators for our own food, the marlin, the tuna, the cod, the hake, we had tipped the delicate aquatic balance. The fishing industry took an enormous hit as the memory of that last great beast of the sea moaned and baked in the hot antipodean sun, its peeling skin exposing first white blubber then red raw nerves to be pecked by gulls, it’s flukes pinched by crabs and rats alike. There was a televised twenty four seven candle-lit vigil for it. I remember watching it and crying sea-salt tears of my own.
The Probe slipped in from the elliptic to the asteroid ring circling the system. It had spent a good proportion of galactic spin decelerating into its current trajectory, expending a great deal of its bulk in carefully chosen particles from within its body. Keeping its shape as evenly weighted and asteroid-like as possible, mass-driving bits of its being against its direction of motion from deep, hidden barrels. Apart from the odd minor roll and course correction, the rock, smooth and featureless like a huge river polished pebble, yet as matt and black as the surrounding vacuum, pitted and scarred by countless minute impacts during its frozen velvet journey, was still. Surrounded by the rubble of proto-planetary matter, it scanned silently and as unobtrusively as it was able. It listened.
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