Fantastic Journeys Into Fantasy

I am very happy to have Mr. Tom Fallwell, a friend and fellow ‘Awethor’ as my guest blogger today.

Tom is a fantastic writer of captivating and enchanting fantasy fiction, including his latest book ‘Where Shadows Fall’

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There are many genres for stories. Whether they are told in books, in novels, in games, or some other format. There are just as many fans with the same variety of tastes that clamor for them. I have a great passion for reading and watching movies both, and I read and watch many different genres, but there is one that I find the most enjoyable, Fantasy. So what is it about this particular genre that grabs me? What makes it my favorite? There are many reasons, but if I had to describe why in one word, it would be “limitless”.

I don’t read to escape real life. In fact, I like my life, so I have no desire to escape it. I read for one reason, entertainment. The same reason I watch a movie or a television show. I am simply desiring some moments of entertainment. With a movie, it’s over in a couple of hours, but with a good novel, I can spend days, weeks maybe, reading, and that’s even better. So, my sole reason is for entertainment, and the more entertaining, the better.

Fantasy, as a genre, provides me with a vast universe of entertainment. I can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything. There are no limits in fantasy. No hard cut rules that must be followed. Fantasy can take you into the past, to the present, and even into the future. It can happen right here in our own world, or it can take you to a whole new world beyond imagination. Any possible race can be portrayed in fantasy, any possible creature, any possible setting.

I think, more than anything else, it is this limitless macrocosm of possibilities that make fantasy my genre of choice. I had one reader of my first novel, Dragon Rising, once tell me that my characters having quivers was incorrect, that they did not use quivers in medieval times. I thought, “What medieval times? This is another world, not ours. Of course they can have quivers”. Fantasy is not bound by such rules, at least not in my mind.

It is the unbound possibilities that draws me to fantasy. Sure, you can do the same with other genres, like science-fiction, but with those other genres, you have to make a plausible explanation about why or how. With fantasy, you can just say it is, because it is. Readers may have different views, like the one who thought I should not use quivers, but there are just as many readers that will not even think of such a limitation. So fantasy gives me a sense of freedom in writing that I don’t find in other genres.

Limitless boundaries to a limitless imagination. That is what fantasy is to me. Are you a fantasy fan? Why do you like fantasy? Feel free to tell me, or ask questions about my books. Stop by my website and use the Contact Form to get in touch. I would love to hear what you think. Happy reading!

Tom Fallwell

 

Visit me at my website or on Facebook.

http://tomfallwell.com

http://facebook.com/TomFallwellAuthor

Books by Tom Fallwell

Dragon Rising: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00RGZU56Q  

A Whisper In The Shadows: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VYL2426

Where Shadows Fall: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VYL2426

 

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I love it when something random triggers your muse!

Happy Writer

I am certain all writers of fiction understand that some of the most satisfying things you ever write are those which ‘jump’ out at you for no apparent reason, particularly if they do so when you are not actively seeking conceptual stimulation.

I have written a short story which is the result of one such instant. Yesterday a picture set off a string of thoughts which I have done my best to capture as a flash fiction.

The quandary I had was where to post it. The reason is, that although this is a story, it also has great merit to feature here in ‘Ramblings from a Writers Mind’ as it has significance as a writing exercise, even an aid for those looking for inspiration.

So I have decided just to leave this notification, along with this link, http://wp.me/p5od8T-5B to ‘A Little more Fiction’, my short story blog where I have posted the story in full.

I do hope you will go to ‘A Little more Fiction‘ now because I am sure you will enjoy the read.

Thank you, Paul.

Late train home

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I find the dull metallic hum, as the train pulls away from the harsh glow of neon lights on the station platform, somewhat comforting in its reassurance. As is entering the dark cavern of the subway tunnel whilst cocooned in the dim warmth of the vibrating carriage.

Once again the familiar tempo of steel wheels upon the rails, and the irregular rocking as the train rumbles along, calms the customary angst which always seemed too accompany me in hectic, overcrowded places.

Seated comfortably, time slows. Harmony descends upon me like a cloak of serene velvet. I sigh out loudly, a liberated wisp of disquiet flutters away, disappearing into the ether.

Unbuttoning my coat and flicking the hood from my head, I leaned back stretching my weary legs out in front of me. The carriage is empty. I am alone. Peace and calm descend.

At this time of night the subway takes on a different form, its very structure becomes prominent. Vibrations resound in every wall, wafts of cool air frequently gust throughout; inhale, exhale, the subway breathes deeply. Recurrent metallic taps echo from the depths of the black underpasses in harmony with those rustling organic whispers. It is as if the subway comes to life, wakens as an entity in itself.

I love the subway at this time of night, which is why I like to take the late train home. I can relax.

I like to stare through the glass, trying to make out what the indistinct passing shapes that flash by actually are. Long, thick wires twist together, hanging in sooty swags from the tunnel walls, like massive black anacondas awaiting unsuspecting prey. The occasional light, dulled by a layer of caked on grime, giant fireflies? And dark recesses, small arches sunken into the curvature of the walls. What lays within? Possibly a door, a secrete door to another world, a parallel universe?

Then there is the reflection, my reflection, eerily unfocused, staring back at me from the darkened window pane. But is that me? I think not. Looking I see the reflection has a smirk on his face, he is hiding his knowledge of me, or a secret. He has the answers I seek. The answers I have spent my whole life trying to find. He smiles before fading away as the train enters a brightly lit station.

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These are my fantasies, my late night daydreams as I travel home. This is where my reality and illusion merge, where imagination and invention combine.

This is the birthplace of whimsy and caprice.

This is why I like to take the late train home.

© Paul White 2014

FFCO1808‎2014

Naked thoughts in New York City

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Restless.

I throw back the white cotton sheet.

Laying naked, letting the air circulate over my skin hoping for coolness.

No relief.

Padding barefoot I cross the room.

Sliding the glass doors open, stepping onto the balcony.

The slight breeze a welcome freshness.

Looking down, way down below,

I see the cars snaking through the city,

Yellow cars.

All cars are taxis at night, cabs running to and fro,

Making frivolous journeys for inconsequential people.

I see dots, little dots moving irregularly.

They are humans, tiny individuals,

Way below.

A fire truck passes, lights flashing,

Multiple glints against the glass buildings.

The deep honk of the fire trucks horn billows,

Suffocating all other sounds for that instant.

I look out, around me.

Towers.

Reflections, light and glass.

I see inside lighted rooms, empty offices, lounges, bedrooms.

Nobody has curtains, nobody draws their blinds.

Seduced by the height, blinded by reflection,

They think they are obscured from vision.

But I can see them, all of them.

I am standing in darkness, hidden in the shadows, looking out.

One pair of a thousand eyes, from a thousand dark places,

Windows, balconies, rooftops, all staring at the city,

Watching it move, pulsate, vibrate, gyrate.

Who, I wonder, is watching me as I stand here naked,

Breathing in the night air, cooling my skin.

I do not care.

Look all you want, feast your eyes,

Fantasise, ogle, masturbate if you wish, I do not know you, nor you me.

Even if you are there, in one of those thousand windows,

Or upon one of a thousand rooftops, if you exist anywhere but in my imagination,

I still do not care.

Another siren, echoes reverberating up the sides of the towers,

Lights flashing, reflected, refracted, distorted in the mirror glass.

I turn around and pad barefoot back to the bed.

The faint light falls on her skin, she sleeping with one leg out,

Twisted in the sheet I discarded, the other splayed wide and her arms akimbo.

Hair pouring over the pillows, a delta of soft threads.

There is no room for me now.

I do not want to wake her, or disturb her slumber.

I am not tired, I have no desire to sleep.

I grab a drink from the kitchen and go back onto the balcony,

This time I sit, open my laptop and light a cigarette.

I write this, my random thoughts of dark recesses, prying eyes,

Mirrored glass walls, and yellow taxis,

I write of my sleepless night in New York City.

END

© Paul White 2014

FFCO‎0911‎2014

Subject Matter

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I have written, in the past, about things that have inspired me as a writer, places, artworks, the weather, and many experiences, both good and bad.

Often ones inspiration comes from a collective of various and seemingly unconnected sources, which the writer mixes and melds into a single work.

Frequently the ingredients of this creativeness have fermented in the mind of the writer over assorted periods of time, before gelling into any particular form.

Yet inspiration alone is not the key to creating a good specimen of work, or even a mediocre scribbling.

We all collect ideas, notions and have basic concepts. We all hold beliefs and opinions which lend themselves to our own mindset regarding personal viewpoints, even philosophies.

All and any combination of these can form outlines or sketches for future efforts, they can be the précises and plans for the next chapter, a new novel, or a poetic masterpiece.

They can, but are often not!

I hear that writers get something called ‘block’. I have never understood this term, except as a feeble excuse to dillydally.

To write one must write.

That is to sit and jot down any and every word that comes to mind, string your thoughts out onto paper. It is totally irrelevant if there is anything remotely cohesive or comprehensible as a result. The fact is that you are writing and by doing so you will inevitably start to create something tangible.

In all probability, it will need to be re-worked, re-written and edited. But then what efforts do not?

Now, disregarding the incohesive jottings from a stagnant mind, what of your subject? What, you ponder, shall you write about today?

This should not be that difficult really, you already have a wealth of ideas, many rough outlines and frameworks to choose from, and yet nothing feels acceptable to you at this moment. You could do as I advised above and just scrawl, but you have sat down today with intent and purpose so you are, come what may, going to write something worthwhile, Aren’t you?

Taking the above on-board, it is clear that inspiration from whatever foundation, may not be enough on its own to germinate that much-needed seed of for selecting a subject to write about, because your inspirational suggestive is not necessarily that of any particular matter, it could be used within the text, as a plot, or a description of a place.

So even with all those wonderful conceptions and tasty ideas floating on the bouillabaisse of your creative mind, not one single word will you write until you have a topic to adhere to.

I shall let you into a little secret of mine, a way that on a daily basis I collect a whole host of subjects to write about.

  I read and I listen.

I read the papers, not the daily comic style rags, but the more serious broadsheets. I read about business and stock markets, science and medicine. I am not reading these just for the reports, I am looking for the human factors involved.

The same is with the radio, I listen to the interviews and the plays, the documentary productions, literary and theatre reviews. Once again it is the social and personal aspects that I seek for subject matter in my own writings.

Allow me to give a couple of examples by way of explanation.

A few days ago while driving home I tuned into a programme that was delving into the issue of female autism. This report was enlightening enough regarding the subject itself and was full of stimulating information which I could, and still can use in the future.

However, one particular statement touched me to such a degree that I knew I had found a wonderful gem which I shall use in the near future.

One of the experts told of an interview with a young sufferer who, upon being diagnosed, said with much relief. ‘It felt as if I had a black spot inside of me. I thought it would never go away’.

That one simple sentence was, for me, like finding a pot of gold at the bottom of the rainbow. Those of you who are artistically minded will for certain understand the enormity of such a stimulus.

Another example, which I have already taken advantage of by writing a poem I called ‘My heart’, and posted on the 26th of June 2014, was during a play where one of the lines was about skeletons ‘kissing with their skulls’. I wrote the poem shortly after arriving home that evening.

(I have included that poem at the end of this post, as I am sure you would have some problem scouring the net for a single piece of poetry posted on a social network several months ago. You see how good I am to you)!

These are one way I find my subject matter for the day, or project, or book. It is also why my posts are quite wide and varied, and often seem to be associated or themed for a period of time.

Once I have decided on my subject, I then draw on my inspiration and experiences to create a unique, personal and original piece of work, which I hope that you will enjoy reading.

I also hope that my writings, my blog’s, the flash fiction, poetry, (and very soon), my new novel, does and will continue to connect with your own inner person, much in the way I was touched by the stimulus that enabled me to create my work in the first instance.

Here is that poem I promised you earlier.

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My Heart

My heart is a grave for lovers

Where skeletons embrace ever crumbling lust,

And skulls kiss in breathless anguish.

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Scarlet blood long soaked into the ashes,

Forgotten passions abandon, the cast off flesh,

Sensuous agonies of the soul

Haunt faded moments embezzled by time.

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Rise up from the earth,

Stand upon your tombstone,

Seek your absent self, your withered spirit

Wandering aimlessly in immortal eternity.

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But look not within my heart,

For it is but a grave for lovers.

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This poem and many others can be found in my book ‘Shadows of Emotion’

SHADOWS of EMOTION is available for Kindle / eBook or as a Paperback

UK. 

Paperback http://amzn.to/2ARTthy

Kindle http://amzn.to/2hKrpc8

USA. 

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=shadows+of+emotion 

OR simply paste this  ISBN-13: 978-1500510312 into your search bar

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