The Great Obstruction

I have writer's block.

And I say that like I have a disease or something. Except it's one that builds up a great big bloody wall in my head. On one side, there's my creativity, my ability to cohesively string words together into some sort of descriptive piece, crafting stories with deft flicks of a keystroke. And on the other side there's me, seeing this blank wall stretching in either direction for as far as the eye can see. Too long to go around, too high to climb over.

And of course, these things never suddenly appear. They creep up on you, built brick by brick by an army of gnomes. You can't tell it's happening at first. It starts to take longer to write a scene, as the wall's foundations are laid. Then, as the wall gets higher, and it starts to trip you, it gets harder to find the write words with which to begin, until, finally, you're sat there, hands poised over the keyboard, ready to begin, but nothing comes. You know what you want to write, but the words just aren't there. It's been thirty minutes, and still nothing. And when you finally look up, you see the wall, staring at you.


The most terrifying thing about writers block is that it feels like you're never going to write again. I know it's false, that eventually the wall will go, and I'll write again.

I just need a bit of time to let the foundations crumble, and I can smack that wall with a bloody wrecking ball.

Well, at least my knack for hyperbole hasn't left me!

A New Hope?

I caved.

I tried to resist, I tried so hard not to do it, but in the end, I couldn't stop myself. I just had to do it.

I'm weak.

What am I talking about? Have I given up chocolate for lent, and suffered a major craving that I couldn't resist and gone out and bought a bar of Cadburys? Have I gone and spent a whole lot of money on something that I don't need, but want? Or maybe I've been trying to give up smoking, and couldn't resist one more cigarette. Just the one ... it's only small, it won't hurt me ...

Nope, none of the above. For starters, I don't even smoke, and I'm not religious, so I've not given anything up for lent. And whilst I did buy a 3DS on Friday, I didn't pay the Earth for it.

So if it's none of those, what is it?

I started planning Pandora's Box. The great experiment is over. I must admit, I feel a lot better now that I'm planning the story, knowing that I have this structured backbone underpinning it. I'm still not quite sure where it's going, and I want to expand on some of the characters a little more, but at least I now kinda know what I'm doing!

The writer's terror

I can feel the onset of writer's block.

It's like I've got a spectre, hovering over my shoulder, preparing to pounce and deny me my ability to put together a cohesive string of words. It's been a while since he and I last saw each other, one dark, dismal day, four years ago. the spectre rose up and did his best to make every last sentence a war, every word a battle. I suppose that's why I like to plan out my stories before hand. If I have a structure to work with, the words come more easily, because I know where the stories are going, so my characters are able to tell me how they are going to get there.

Right now, though, I'm just not feeling it. I think I can safely say this test of 'free-writing' has proved to be a bit of a failure. Having said that, I have at least learnt something about myself: structure is all. Structure is king.

On the plus side, I finished Dragon Age 2 last week - awesome fun - and have recently rediscovered the joy of Wind Waker. It's funny how a game you've had for years can suddenly rekindle a whole new sense of joy. I've only just started on my quest, but really looking forward to sailing the vast sea of Hyrule. Of course, I picked a fine time to get back into playing it, with the release of the 3DS right round the corner. C'est la vie!

The Force is not strong with this one

I've discovered something about my writing style recently.

I don't like free-writing. By that, I mean I don't like writing a story without a plan. I like to sit and think about the path of my story, the characters in it, plan it out, starting with a list of bullet points and expanding on it until I have the main thrust of my narrative.

I like being in control. It's a stupid thing to say, I know - I'm the one writing the story. How can I not be in control. Except I don't feel like I am. I feel like I'm holding on to a castle made from jelly, and any second it's going to start coming apart and dribble through my fingers as I try grabbing for it like a cat pawing the air.

See, now that my book is finished, and the final draft is complete, I've decided to work on another project before I begin the next book. Heather suggested I write a fanfiction, as that way it would be a short inconsequential piece, just to get me back in gear. There was just one proviso: No planning. As it's been 8 months since I last did any writing that wasn't editing, I agreed to give it a go.

Turns out, I like planning a story. I like having the whole thing sorted out so I have my beginning, middle and end. I like knowing where a story is going.

And right now, I don't. It's all organic and flowing. For example, in the last chapter, I planned on having one of the main characters arrested, except that didn't happen, and she got off world. the little minx wheedled her way out of that trap, instead having a little chat with a bounty hunter.

It's bloody frustrating!

On the plus side, it's giving me a fresh perspective again.

At least the Jedi is doing what I want him to. For the moment.

The story's up on Fanfiction.net, entitled Pandora's Box (by MissingPerson), if you want a read.

Phillip J. Johns

On approach

"Full speed ahead, Anton. Let's see if we can outrun those storm clouds."

"Aye, aye, Skipper."


And here she is, the Storm Brother. I've been wanting to do a sketch of the airship for a while now, to help with my visualisation of Nathaniel's ship. I'm not entirely happy with the gondola, but it does the job.

You can see the detail of the armour-plating on the underside of the gasbag - I rather like the idea of airships as warships, but cloth gives way a little too easily. The Storm Brother started life as an Elburzian Condor-class airship bomber, but the line was discontinued years ago and the surplus ships sold off. As an ex-warship, her gasbag is covered in 2-inch thick steel plating. Yes, despite all that extra weight, she can still fly! That's what a lightmass engine's for.

Phillip J. Johns

Happy Valentines!

I had a lovely day on Monday.

We'd planned to go out for a meal, but the reality of expenses curtailed that idea, possibly not helped by the amount I spent on flowers - worth it though, just for the look on Heather's face when i gave them to her.

Still, despite things not quite going to plan, we ate a nice meal, drank a rather nice bottle of white wine, and watched Letters to Juliet on blu-ray.

Now, I'll admit that romantic comedies are one of my guilty pleasures, but I didn't think I'd enjoy this film when we first saw it. It seemed a little bit too ... gooey. But Amanda Seyfried is eminently watchable, Vanessa Redgrave is fantastic, and as for the setting, Italy in HD is utterly gorgeous. definitely a place to visit. Amusingly though, we kept expecting to see a white-clothed assassin scaling the towers. Damn you Assassin's Creed!

All in all, a lovely night.

I'm working on some sketches of the airship from my book, Liberator's Ruin at the moment. I've got the shape planned, so I might get round to doing a 3d drawing over the weekend. I'm not quite as good at drawing as I am at writing, but if I like it, it might make an appearance in my next post!

Note of interest this month: High Inquisitor armour is impervious to almost all forms of attack.
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Human Maintenance

I started this blog to talk about, among (many) other things, my writing. Which I've not done so far!

Anyway, after thinking about the effect of cybernetic replacements on a person's mentality, I came up with this little piece:

           "‘Adam, how are you feeling today?’

            Adam glanced up at the speaker, but stayed where he was, slumped on his sofa, glass of brandy on the small glass coffee table beside him. It was a woman, dressed in a smart navy business suit, her hands covered in leather gloves, and her blond hair tied in a loose ponytail. He ignored her and returned to gazing out the window. The sun was beginning to rise, bathing Leicester in an amber glow. Traffic along the London road into the city centre was building up, but it was still dark enough that all he could make out were the bright headlights zipping along the road.

            His apartment was on the eighteenth floor of Theston Towers, an apartment complex towering over the railway line. It afforded a commanding view over the city, but to be honest, Adam couldn’t really care less. It was still better looking out the window than talking to his clinic-appointed psychiatric engineer. It was annoying that the clinic had given her access to his apartment, a damned infringement on his privacy. Not that they cared, not after the level of surgery he’d been through. It was bad enough that he’d signed himself out three weeks early, but they’d only agreed as long as he would allow home visits. And he did. Anything, just as long as he could get out of that place.

            The door clicked shut behind her, and the woman strode across the apartment lounge, heels tapping out a rhythm on the laminate sheet floor. She stared down at him, one eyebrow raised in appraisal. He hadn’t moved from the sofa since last night, still dressed in a pair of loose trousers, fastened at the waist with a knotted cord. The knot was crude, but the best he could manage these days.

            She glanced at the windows. Abruptly, the glass opacity index increased until the view disappeared. Adam blinked as the apartment’s lights came on at the same time.

            ‘My name is Evelyn Sathwood, Adam. I’ve come to see how you’re doing.’

            ‘I know why you’re here,’ he said, curtly. ‘You’re here to do maintenance. Well go right ahead.’

            ‘That’s a funny way of putting it. Is that how you see yourself? As a machine?’

            Finally, he looked at her. ‘What else am I? Seventy-five percent of me replaced. Seventy-five. That means that only twenty-five is still human. I don’t even have my own heart anymore, just some lump of biotech. You could say I’m a little bit heartless.’ He laughed at his own joke before he sank back into his morose mood.

            Evelyn frowned at him. The accident had caused a lot of damage to his body, leaving a big, angry scar across the left side of his torso, and weals up his face as if he’d been badly whipped. His left leg had been replaced from the knee down, the prosthesis covered in a shiny black carapace. His arms had come off the worst; she’d read the reports, and he’d tried to shield himself from the explosion with them. When they finally dragged him from the ruins, there wasn’t much left of them except ruined stumps. Both had required amputation as the shoulder. Their replacements were clad in the same black carapace, between which she could see the carbon-titanium nanotube musculature. They had even replaced several internal organs, and before he’d checked himself out, he’d been in line for dermal enhancement.

            ‘You’re still a man, Adam, even if you don’t see it.’

            He snorted. ‘Whatever. You know I get drunk quicker these days? Less meat to soak up the alcohol, even with an artificial liver.’

            Adam reached for his glass. There was a faint whirr as his fingers closed around the glass. He had it halfway to his mouth when a loud crack­ rang through the air and the glass shattered, spilling its contents across his chest.

            ‘Great, another glass gone,’ he said, brushing the debris onto the floor.

            Accessing the apartment’s management routines, Evelyn detailed a pair of cleaning bots to deal with the glass. The little machines zipped out of their storage bays to hoover up the fragments and mop up brandy.

            While they worked, Evelyn pulled over one of the dining chairs and sat down in front of Adam.

            ‘You’re still having trouble with fine motor control.’

            ‘Oh wow, I can see why they sent you to see me. You’re really observant.’

            ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Adam.’

            ‘So they tell me. Do I look like I give a fuck?’

            ‘Obviously not. I’m here because I want to help you. Do you have to be so rude?’

            He looked at her sullenly. After a few moments, he finally relented. It wasn’t fair on her. She was just doing her job. ‘I didn’t ask for this,’ he said, gesturing at his prosthetics.

            ‘No one does,’ Evelyn replied. She tugged off her left glove, revealing an artificial hand. Unlike his, the surface was covered in bronze-coloured patterns, like henna-tattoos.

            ‘Oh.’

            ‘That’s why they sent me, Adam. They thought that you might react better to someone who understands your … condition.’

            ‘Got me all figured out, huh?’

            Evelyn smiled. ‘They do have your psyche record.’

            ‘Touché.’"

Well, that's all I have for now, but I'm seeing the glimmer of a story forming