ZEPELLIN KING.

1. The reader is a friend, not an adversary, not a spectator.
2. Fiction that isn’t an author’s personal adventure into the frightening or the unknown isn’t worth writing for anything but money.
3. Never use the word “then” as a conjunction – we have “and” for this purpose. Substituting “then” is the lazy or tone-deaf writer’s non-solution to the problem of too many “ands” on the page.
4. Write in the third person unless a ­really distinctive first-person voice ­offers itself irresistibly.
5. When information becomes free and universally accessible, voluminous research for a novel is devalued along with it.
6. The most purely autobiographical ­fiction requires pure invention. Nobody ever wrote a more autobiographical story than “The Metamorphosis”.
7. You see more sitting still than chasing after.
8. It’s doubtful that anyone with an internet connection at his workplace is writing good fiction
9. Interesting verbs are seldom very interesting.
10. You have to love before you can be relentless.
    
    
    Courtesy of Jonathan Franzen

Atop the pedestal is Major Seville standing like a demented preacher whilst he sings some old grim folk tune. He is looking upon his gang as they tear poor Lazlo to pieces in the Orchestra pit. The folk tune he sings is all about death and suffering, it was written by the Blacks but it belongs to us now. We are the suffering. There’s not much else to be found in the lawless states.

     Folks say the Patrols are coming. No one I know has seen them, but it’s about time. Not that it matters to me, though. I’m sitting, arms bound behind my back and I know that Lazlo is the first and I’m going to be next. Lazlo’s screams have stopped, once Major Seville’s gang has had their fun they’ll come back onto the stage and drag me down.

     Major Seville calls this a due sacrifice. The people need to eat of course. They’re going to ration me and the others out to the people of the town so no one starves. Lazlo’s different; he’s food for the Sun God. Major Seville’s gang cut out Lazlo’s heart, apparently it’s what the “Astecks” used to do, or so that’s what Camille told me. Camille’s dead too. We ate her three moons ago. That was around the same time the outsider came.  

The walls of Mrs. Bird’s living room are lined with book-cases filled with books hidden by picture-frames, statuettes and oddities. She catches me looking at the bookcases and points over to the middle row of one of the shelves. ‘That’s where I keep my books,’ she says. The middle row is not covered by anything, it is the only row on any shelf to be free of obstruction. ‘I don’t know why I keep them there, there’s no bigger reason than sometimes they bring me solace.’

     ‘Solace? What requires it?’ I ask.

     Wryly, ‘I’m dying, John.’

     Looking back at the bookshelf with her work, my gaze drifts leftward to a painting. The Trial of the Mayberry Wives by Louis Vion, an impressionist who passed away almost two decades ago. He died in relative obscurity with almost all of his work held in private collections like that of Mrs. Bird. Ever since I first stepped into her apartment, it was this painting that captivated me.

     The dark greens make the foliage that surrounds the three women as they sit on a stone bench ominous. Without saying a word you can feel the women’s internal struggle with the mix of creams and the lightest of blues that Vion has painted these women.

     I hold a bouquet of flowers in front of your face; there are red Roses, scarlet Pimpernels, white Oleanders and yellow Verbascum.

Close your eyes.

What do you see?

Colours, just blotches of colours; that is impressionism.

I stare at a picture of three women sitting on a stone bench amongst an overgrown garden. I close my eyes. What do I see? I see depression and agony.

Walking into the pub the sound of Blues Rock dominates, near annihilating all other sounds. The smell of pub food and alcohol seeps into your nose as you notice that you are the focus of everyone in the room. All staring, looks of either shock or worry and then you don’t see them anymore. You don’t hear the sound of the Blues Rock. You don’t smell the smell of the pub food and the alcohol, in fact, you smell nothing at all. It is at this moment you realise you’re dead.

     You see a bright light, that’s not anything spiritual, that’s just your Occipital Lobe flaring (I think). Now there is nothing but blackness. It’s not that bad is it? The nothingness doesn’t last long; soon it will be replaced with something that looks a hell of a lot like what you just left. Many apologies if this news disappoints you.

     This is not the land of second chances that you are about to enter, nor is it heaven or hell; it’s sort of somewhere in between, but the same can be said about the place you just left.

Mrs. Bird lives on the fourth storey of the Walton Building with three cats, two plants, one typewriter and not a single bird. Mrs. Bird is a writer. She’s old and doesn’t get out much; all she knows of the modern world she learns from television, which doesn’t get turned on very often. Her long, thin fingers type away day after day on her outdated electric typewriter. In her world, the typewriter is brand new. Mrs. Bird is a woman lost in the past.

     Her favourite meal is the Saturday Special from a Chinese Restaurant called Lucky Jen’s. She tells me it gives her dreams. It is from these dreams that she writes.

     Mrs. Bird met me through a mutual friend one year and seven months ago. Each day she greets me at her door and she eats the food I bring. Her apartment is large, yet it is cramped with a lifetime. This woman doesn’t seem to have gotten rid of a single thing in her life. In the far left corner of the living room, behind the stacks of books and boxes of all sorts of miscellanea, is a tricycle. The tricycle is old and rusted; it must be only a few years younger than Mrs. Bird.

     One day, Mrs. Bird will die. However, she is in remarkably robust health for her age. She tells me if it weren’t for the Saturday Special she’d be long dead and buried.

     Today is Saturday and the elevator is broken. By the time I reach her door my legs are like jelly, I should have taken the bus here. I reach out and knock on the door. ‘Mrs. Bird?’ It’s meals-on-jelly-legs out here.’ I say.

     Beyond the door there is shuffling, Mrs. Bird’s fingers may work like a charm but her legs not so well. The door opens. ‘Hello, John,’ she says. ‘Walked across town have you?’

     ‘Yes, and up the stairs.’ I say, entering her cluttered apartment. ‘The elevator is broken.’

     ‘Oh dear. Well at least you’ve had a good work out.’ she says.

     I hold up the clear plastic bag which holds inside the Saturday Special. ‘I’ve brought your favourite.’ I say.

     ‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘You can put it over on the coffee table and feel free to rest your legs.’ she says pointing to the coffee table by the window. One of her cats, the name of which I cannot remember, is sitting in the afternoon sun. At this time of day, the sun shines perfectly through the window and onto the glass top tea table.

     I walk over and place the bag on the coffee table before sitting in the old leather chair by the table. The chair is a relic of the sixties. Slowly, Mrs. Bird walks across the room towards the coffee table and sits down in a relic of the seventies. ‘I had a dream last night.’ she says.

     ‘Oh?’

     ‘Yes, I haven’t had one like it in a long while.’ she says, looking at her sleeping cat in the window shelf. She wore the slightest smile on her face.

     ‘What was it about?’ I ask.

     ‘I was young, with a woman. It’s been a long time since I’ve loved. I miss it. I used to enjoy it. Do you enjoy it?’ she asks me.

     ‘Love?’

     ‘Love, and sex.’

     ‘Well, yes, I do.’ I say, slightly taken aback.

     ‘Have you ever been with a man, John?’ she asks me.

     ‘No, I haven’t. Only women.’ I tell her.

     ‘Damn,’ she says. ‘I was hoping you could tell me what it’s like.’

     I think to myself for a moment. ‘Missed opportunities.’ says Mrs. Bird. ‘Absolutely no good.’

     ‘Indeed.’ I say, looking down at the Saturday Special. If she doesn’t touch it soon it’ll be cold in no time.

     Mrs. Bird reaches out and picks up the plastic bag, taking out the Saturday Special. ‘Let’s not let it happen again.’ she says, holding up the box of food. ‘Here, have some.’

     I wave my hand slightly. ‘No, thank you,’ I say. ‘I don’t like Chinese.’

     ‘That’s a broad statement,’ says Mrs. Bird. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t make comments like that, you never know, you might enjoy it.’

     ‘Maybe another time.’ I say.

     ‘Another week? You could be dead in a week.’ she says.

     ‘I’m willing to take a chance.’

     ‘Young and stubborn,’ she says. ‘The former doesn’t last long, and when it’s gone you regret the latter.’

This isn’t Luke Skywalker’s Star Wars of Jedi and Sith; this is Han Solo’s Star Wars.

Genre: FPS/RPG

Setting: Ignoring the majority of Expanded Universe material in order for absolute freedom, Star Wars: Natural Selection will place itself between Episode IV and V of the original Star Wars trilogy. The locations that feature will be the dark and seedy underworld of the Star Wars universe.

High Concept: Ever since we’ve had Star Wars video games we have had tales of Jedi Knights, Sith Lords and a butt load of Mind Tricks and Force Lightning storms. The first thing Star Wars: Natural Selection is throwing out is Jedi Knights and Sith Lords. Natural Selection is the story of a Smuggler, and like Han Solo, he finds himself on the wrong side of a powerful criminal overlord who sends the best Bounty Hunter he is to chase him down.

There is a grand total of one lightsaber in Natural Selection and it is not in the hands of the protagonist. The protagonist will be forced to use their trusty blaster mixed with their gadgets, wits and whatever they find in between.

The protagonist, Jon Kater, is hired by an unknown client to escort three refugees from a remote Outer Rim moon that has found itself under the control of Imperial Forces. What begins as a routine smuggling operation begins to turn into something completely different when Kater’s ship is attacked.  Kater finds himself in possession of the only Force Sensitive in seven systems, and several factions all want to take them away from Kater.

Jon Kater will confront a psychotic, megalomaniacal Imperial Officer who is straying away from the Emperor’s orders in Heart of Darkness/Apocalypse Now meets Star Wars, a vengeful and unrelenting Bounty Hunter who has taken a fallen Jedi’s lightsaber as a trophy, and a powerful crime lord, a brainwashing force cult who have their own nefarious wishes for the Force Sensitive and more.

Through the course of the game’s story, Jon Kater will hide out on a Garbage Hauler after escaping from a Space Station, infiltrate Imperial Deserter bases and encounter Star Wars: Natural Selection’s version of Willard from Apocalypse Now, explore city hubs crawling with all kinds of scum and villainy as well as suffer reality warping hallucinations at the hands of a Force Sensitive (ala the Scarecrow moments in Batman: Arkham Asylum)

Competitive Analysis:

·         Puts players in the shoes of fan favourite character Han Solo where he is the centre of the story and not some guy with a lightsaber, robes and space magic.

·         Freedom. The missions in the game will be able to be approached in all sorts of different ways whether it be stealthy, underhanded or guns blazing.

·         Emphasis on Character Development. You are responsible for your character’s actions and as a result Jon Kater may be anything from hero to villain.

·         Non-Combat interaction with NPC’s is common to search for information, whether this be in a Cantina, Emporium, Arena or Club.

·         Unusual characters. How often in a Star Wars video game are you presented with no Dark Lord of the Sith to defeat, or even just a Dark Jedi? What I’ve come to realise is that it’s not very often at all. Star Wars: Natural Selection brings up the dark side of the galaxy in the time when the Empire was still in power, when Jedi were thought extinct and there were only two Sith in the universe.

Today I saw something that made me angry with the internet (Surprise!). Someone posted a comic with humorous intent and declared that it was their first attempt at a “meme”, but there was no meme to be found. No O Rly Owl, no Troll Face, no Advice Dog, not even a Rage Quit. This was someone with a grand misunderstanding of what exactly a “meme” is.

Sorry to disappoint you, but a meme is not simply something funny on the internet; it’s much more than that. Basically, a meme is an idea that spreads from person to person within a culture. The concept tends to think of memes as cultural analogues to genes because they self-replicate, mutate and respond to selective pressures (The sad truth for the fellow that sparked this rant is that his “attempt at a meme” will without a doubt fall victim to those darn selective pressures).

The word “meme” was coined in Richard Dawkins’ (You know, the Atheist who kicks ass) book “The Selfish Gene. The word’s origin comes from “Mimeme” which means roughly the same thing coming from the Greek word for memory; Dick thought it’d be a good idea to shorten it to emphasize the commonality with genes.

Religion seems to be one of the largest generator of memes, whether it be the witch-hunts, punishing apostasy, demonizing infidels or the promise of Heaven.  But the Internet will probably take over soon enough.

So memes are a bit like the game. They spread like a virus never to be stopped.             

End rant.

If you’ve had a peak through this blog already, and know that I am a bit obsessed with films, then thanks! You’ve just saved me effort! For those who haven’t, you get the idea.

It’s also no secret that I’m a big admirer of David Bowie (the rather dominating picture of the Thin White Duke is a bit of a hint) who, if nothing else, has shown me the value of the ability to adapt and not to fear change. But I’m also a big admirer of David Lynch (whose Blue Velvet I watched again last night, everytime I’m blown away), and David Fincher (watching Se7en on your laptop in free periods might not be the best idea), and David Cronenberg (…Cosmopolis trailer). In fact, I’m getting to the point where I’m doubting whether I could ever make a film as brilliant as theirs simply because my name isn’t David.

Come to think of it, there are two more I admire; Nicholas Winding Refn and Nicolas Roeg, there really is a pattern here.

After watching Christopher Nolan’s Following I’ve decided I’m going to shoot my next films in black and white until I can get my hands on some decent lighting equipment as well as time to set them up.

Let the trials of extremely low-budget indie film making begin!
____________________

I’d also just like to add:

Dear People who write this “f*ck” “S**t” etc,

Stop it.

I can see you hiding behind your little *’s. I know it’s been said before, but it doesn’t change anything, if you’re going to say fuck, just say fuck, you’re still swearing one way or the other.

Okay, I’m done.