Morocco. Pt.2

On the Morrocco trip, we happened by the large film studio in Ouarzazate. It had some sets still open in a vast dusty plain, where sets for previously made epics still stand. Parts of the Elizabeth Taylor film Cleopatra were filmed here. Parts of those sets were re-used to film the more recent Asterix and Obelix. But the set which most interested me was the huge replica castle built for the film Kingdom of Heaven. It’s still in one piece due to another film being planned for production there next year. Our tour guide didn’t know the name of it yet, but he would be working there as a driver.

The castle was mainly wood and plaster painted to resemble stone masonry. The scale was huge, hundreds of metres square. We paid a small fee to get inside and take a look around, climbing up to the battlements and wandering through the courtyards and corridors. We did have some pictures but the person who owned the camera dropped it down a sand dune and it was ruined. But I wrote a journal piece as an inspiration to myself, as a reminder of what it felt like to be on both sides of those huge walls and how it must feel for a soldier in those times. Here’s what I wrote; as with the last post, this will be unedited and copied ‘as is’.

First, from the viewpoint of an attacking soldier laying siege to the defending fortifications:

Staring up at the castle walls, you feel ineffective. They are too big, the tops too high and the stone too thick. Maybe in an assaulting army with battle cries around you, urging those ahead who already climb ladders, trying to gain a foothold on the walkway, men who know death is a strong possibility as arrows rain down from towers and killing windows. The gates are heavy, barred and portcullised. But then you see your siege weapons, trebuchets and assault towers and catapults, and you rain down hell on the walls and gates and ramparts. You sit back out of range and suffer the heat and try to find some shade, wondering when the next attack will be. Too soon, you are called upon to protect the battering ram, which swings heavy and solid under a slanted hide roof. Bodies litter the ground and you wave a temporary truce to collect them. You eat and try to sleep and then take to the walls again.

Bit all over the place, but I was writing it down in a bouncy jeep hurtling across a desert. Now, from the defender’s viewpoint:

You stand on the walls and look down. The armies besieging the city stand ready to attack. From this distance they are small in stature but thousands in number. Behind them the mountains stand, oblivious and uncaring to the fate of the soldiers. Standing at the edge of the battlements demands that crossbows are used while longbows step back, peppering any in range approaching. Stairs leading from wall to tower to courtyard are less than sturdy. Inner stairwells are claustrophobic, leaving little room to manoeuvre before the killing windows, with others climbing over you to make their way past. The courtyard is walled away from the city, the main gate providing a last bastion of open ground before the invaders would reach the streets. Open ovens sit beneath tall chimneys, for both bricks and food. The place smells stale; a mix of dust, manure and stone. Buildings are tiered, differing levels, allowing interesting movement along rooftops, Wells provide water enclosed in an underground stream. Knockers on the inside of the gates would rock as something pounds on the outside. Noise would be muffled or amplified by the natural acoustics.

So that’s that. I guess it’s easier for me to see the pictures because I was actually there (surprise!), but it would be nice to know what anyone reading this thought as well. Can you get an idea of how it must have been? Where there any other details you would have thought I’d include? Feel free to comment!

In other news – NaNoWriMo is still kicking my arse but I’m making a late cavalry charge on it, so it’ll go down to the last couple of days. I’m going home to England for a month to work on a few things. And the editor-in-chief of Queen of the World has been switched to someone who loves fantasy, so surely good things await.

National Novel Staring Month.

National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short, is a love / hate relationship. Sometimes it inspires me to work harder than I usually would. Other times it hangs over me like a blanket of evil, whispering into my ear that I’m not going to make it.

Every year, thousands of people sign up for NaNoWriMo in an attempt to write a novel of fifty thousand words during November. This is my first year of taking part. I’ve been reading up on the forums of the website, trying to make a sense of it all. For some people it’s a breeze; fifty thousand words is obtained in a few weeks, and they assure everyone else that it is possible. All cheerleading and sabre rattling. Others find it a complete slog, shifting shit through a quicksand of ideas.

I’m currently in the second camp. I’m behind on my target and I’m finding it hard to catch up.

I think NaNoWriMo in itself is a great idea. The chance to bring people together through a mutual love of writing and to give them a goal is something I’m totally in favour of. I’m generally in favour of anything which brings people together through writing. So for that I commend it, and would advise anyone with more than a passing interest in the craft to take part next year (if you haven’t already had a pop).

On the other hand, my goodness is it a burden. Falling behind a couple of days is fine. You think to yourself ‘Sure, I’ll pick it up again next time. Easy.’ Nope. I’m so far behind I feel like I’m in a great big tunnel of fail. The light at the end is becoming dimmer by the day, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to find the end in time.

That’s a touch dramatic, but I hate missing deadlines. True, I’ve had enough distractions in the past couple of weeks to give a vaguely admissible excuse, but that doesn’t mean I’m losing. I want to win, God-damnit, and get my forum picture to prove it for next year.

I basically took part so that I could take some time off from Queen of the World. I’d been writing about that universe and the characters within it for nearly a year, and I needed the time to focus on something else. I’m going to finish the NaNoWriMo project before I move on regardless of if I finish it in November, so it’s simply a matter of how long it takes me.

Right now it feels like aaaaages.

In other news; well, nothing much happened this week. I’ve been writing, procrastinating, eating and sleeping. I actually have a bed in my room now. That might not sound like big news, but it’s been about four months since I was sleeping in a double bed with the missus. Norwegian sleeping arrangements are weird.

Oh, the second part of the Morocco trip is coming. It’s a bit of a writing-inspiration thing. You’ll see.

If any of you are taking part in NaNoWriMo this year then please add your comments on how it's going. Also, go and like my fan page if you haven't already. Ta!

His presents filled the room.

This week Sara-Jayne of Inspired Quill and I went over ‘groundwork’. It’s basically a measure of my online presence, to help with marketing and networking. It involves keeping me active on various social media, as well as providing a platform for me to talk about my ninja squirrel encampment work.

It’s pretty straightforward. I need to blog at least once a week – technically this post counts! – as well as post on my Twitter once a day and use various writing forums and websites to keep up a communication with people. I also need to keep my new Facebook fan page updated.

Yep. Fan page.

They’ve changed the term for it (you now ‘like’ a page instead of becoming a fan of it) but it’s the same concept and people are generally intelligent enough to realise that. I understand it’s a publicity and advertising thing, but it really does make me cringe a bit. I’m generally not someone who enjoys making a big deal of myself. I’m not trying to say I’m humble... Well, I am, but that isn’t the point. I mean that I’ve always tried to keep away from the ‘look at me!’ aspect of whatever I do. When I was travelling I’d post pictures and make status updates and send emails and that would be enough. I wouldn’t need to actively draw attention to the fact. People either took notice of they didn’t. Same as when I worked at Blizzard – people either found it cool or they couldn’t care less. It wasn’t up to me to try and make them think I was cool.

Now I understand that the point of a fan page isn’t to show off. I’m not putting it up for my old school friends on the basis that they’ll think I’m all successful and whatever. I’m not bragging to my peers. It’s purely another aspect of online presence to help me provide information on myself so I can hopefully sell a few books and make a few contacts. But there’s still that (Alan Rickman) voice in my head saying ‘All your friends are going to think you’re a conceited arsehole.’ Which is dumb. But it still happens.

We also covered the first steps of cover art. I’ve had an idea in my head for Queen of the World for a while now, so we’ll have to see how it matches up with what the publisher thinks. I’m open for compromise of course, but I’m glad Inspired Quill have given me some say in what will go on the cover. Apparently a lot of publishers just give you a cover and that’s that. If all else fails I’ll just demand a picture of Batman on the cover. People always buy things with Batman on the cover.

In other news Halloween was quite fun, if messy. I’m making plans to be home in Essex for Christmas. And I found a credit card at the feet of some young lady at a bar. I thought it was hers, so I tapped her on the shoulder and offered her the card. She smiled and put it into the card machine, thinking I was offering to pay for her drinks. It was only when I tried to explain to her that I thought she’d dropped it that she pulled it out, turned it over and handed it to me. On the back was a picture of the owner, a hairy fella named Andreas. I think she was quite insulted but I couldn’t understand what she was saying, so I ran away. Hah.

Signed, sealed and delivered.

This is the first blog post since something fantastic happened. The second part of the Morocco trip will come up in a few days.

Yesterday the signed contract appeared thanks to the postman. I’m now signed up with Inspired Quill, an excellent new publishing house in the UK. Established this year, they are providing a platform for new authors to establish themselves in the industry as well as training and information on other related areas, such as marketing and online commerce. I’ve been really impressed with them so far. They’re in regular contact via email and Skype, and I feel like I’m being handled with a great deal of attention. It’s all I could ask for from a publisher. As a side note; according to their Twitter account, they’re currently open for submissions and are looking for bloggers, so if you’re reading this and have a manuscript handy or feel like helping them with their online outlets, then give the website a look.

It all came about from a chance meeting on the website Litopia. Litopia has a weekly live radio show called Litopia After Dark, along with an accompanying chatroom. It was that chatroom where I got talking to Sara-Jayne, the owner of Inspired Quill. After an enjoyable conversation she encouraged me to send in a submission. After reading through their mission statement and some of the interviews done about the company, I was really hoping they’d like my work. Fast forward a couple of months and here we are, ready to progress on to next year and a planned summer release. I’m really excited about how it’s all going to unfold. Writing as a career is something I’ve always dreamed of, but it felt like something done by other people.

When the idea for Queen of the World came up it was around 2007. Before I ever considered trying to write the novel – huge and daunting as it was, with a potential word length which made me cringe – I took up a position in Cork, Ireland with Blizzard Entertainment, where I worked for the next two years. Writing was still a part of my life but only as shorter work and bits and pieces for my ‘portfolio’. Queen of the World rattled around in my head, and various scenes and characters fermented and grew. I didn't write them, though. I was too involved in my career as part of one of the biggest video game producers in the world. I actually went to the head of Blizzard Europe’s customer service department for a meeting about how to get involved with their Creative Development team. I wanted to write for them. I wanted to write quests, stories and flavour text. I wanted to help create for the world of Azeroth, with its richly detailed history and memorable characters.

“So do you have any of your work available? Have you been published? What can you present to showcase your work?”

I didn’t think the answer ‘I have a DeviantArt page and some poems!’ would be a great comeback. I listened as he explained that the company, as huge and successful as it is, gets to pick and choose who works for it creatively. He said it would be a good idea to build up a library of work and to become successful in the literary world on my own, and then come back to them later when I could properly present myself. So off I went back to my desk, carried on working, and wondered what to do. I worked forty hours a week. I didn’t have any publishing credits. And Queen of the World was just too big, too much effort along with all the other matters in my life which needed my attention.

I left Blizzard in 2010. My girlfriend and I went to Vietnam to live and work for six months. During the trip we bought a pair of Suzuki GN125’s and rode down from Hanoi to Hue. We worked and drank and lived in shitty little apartments and generally had a blast. One of the main reasons for me to leave my solid job and dick around in South East Asia was to write Queen of the World. Only it didn’t work out that way. I was now working six days a week, more than at Blizzard. I was dealing with culture shock and constant budget balancing for the trip. Over those six months I managed 62,000 words which I didn’t think were very good. I started to doubt whether I could even write the damned thing, let alone write something worth publishing.

On the way back to Europe we landed in Paris for a few days. I walked barefoot on a tour of the sights, due to my shoes being ruined in Bangkok (A story for another day). As we got out of a taxi taking us to the airport my rucksack was stolen. In it contained my walkman, some expensive headphones, my pet stuffed monkey and my laptop. The laptop containing the manuscript. All I had was an old backup on my Hotmail account. I was down to 38,000 words.

I came back to Norway after the journey was all done. My girlfriend, who along the way had suffered the misfortune of becoming my fiancée, took me to her family cabin on the coast. There was no TV, evening-only internet connection, and no towns within an hour’s boat journey. I had a seat by a window overlooking the great scenery. I had a borrowed laptop. And I had a lot of free time.

So I wrote. I wrote every morning for the next nine weeks. I wrote up to 4,000 words a day. And at the end of it all I finally had my first draft. I edited it and redrafted it and edited it again. I had some friends read it to give feedback. I changed the ending. I cut some scenes. And in the end I was finally ready to start looking into submissions.

And now here we are. I’m chuffed to bits, looking forward to the year ahead and ready to make Queen of the World the best book it can be with the help of Inspired Quill. Here’s to proving that with enough effort, you can do the things which seem to be done by other people.

Morocco. Pt.1

I spent the last week in Morocco. It was ace. I kept a journal of the trip, which I’m going to write here word for word, with no edits or amendments. I’m quite rubbish at writing long hand, since it’s too slow for my brain and my handwriting is terrible, so it might suck. At least it’ll be honest. (This post is pretty long - just sayin'.)

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The country is hot, dry and tan. The influence of the colonial power which once ruled is still plain to see. Amidst the palm trees and the castle forts are huge blocks of French architecture and western style models on French language billboards. Women wear beautifully varied throws, scarves and gowns while guys wear shirts and polo necks. Kids wear Messi t-shirts and Reebok hoodies. Cars range from sparkling new to rusted, battered wrecks on wheels. Taxis have ‘official’ labels hand-painted on doors.

The city of Fes feels like the desert encircling it. Buildings, roads and walls are mostly a creamy, sandy colour but a surprising amount of greenery prevails under the pale blue sky. The streets are clean and the construction work light. The people are polite, patient and welcoming, apparently eager to ensure that a positive experience is had.

As we drive further out of the city and the hills retreat to patchy forest, the tarmac trailing through dirt, you begin to get a feel for the scale of the area. In the distance mountains loom as shadows on the horizon, too far to make out in detail but too large to ignore.

The city of Ifram is like a Swiss village, picturesque and calm. Huge European villas line alongside smooth roads and small parks. Evergreen woodland covers the surrounding slopes, separated by acres of plains. As we drive away, soon Ifram looks like a miniature model replica of itsel, red rooftops over white walls.

Near the desert of the Sahara, while not quite reaching the sand dunes so famous, the the air is dry and still. The only like, apart from tinder-bush, is contained in farms or around dams – the latter huge pools of water deep within a canyon of sun-kissed rock. A concentration of date trees sits in a valley bowl, bordered by the homes of those who pick and sell them.

We stop for lunch in a place which looks like a Persian palace, appropriately named The Kasbah. The food is good but a tad expensive. We also attract a horde of flies, which dive bomb us as we eat, assailing our Coke bottles.

The landscape between towns is dotted with forts which seem synonymous with the Foreign Legion, all flat surfaces and right angles. Here and there we see a wall or barricade built for no obvious purpose. In the towns, the streets are full of small shops, eateries and cafes. Kids leaving school are like kids anywhere else; happy, yelling and waving at passers-by.

The Sahara itself is magnificent. We have all seen the TV shows and movies but when in the middle of it, surrounded by the immense dunes and nothing else, you start to understand the scope of it all. Sitting atop a huge peak of soft sand watching the sun creep over the horizon, after sleeping under the stars which are as clear as diamonds and riding camels through shadows cast by moonlight, you realise how trivial your problems are in the grand scheme of existence.

We found a snake on the ride back to base. After a fantastic stay in a desert camp, excellent food to eat and feed to kittens, topped off with traditional Moroccan drum music, we rode our camels like fucking sand pirates. Along the end of the trail we come across a baby sidewinder, which flees into a bush. The guides then burn the bush and hurl stones at the snake. Humans triumph.

Driven further west, we pass what look like termite mounds which act as an irrigation system to store water for the agriculture which sits within spitting distance of the sands. A stop on the road lets us get out and feed a group of monkeys who hang out in a small woodland cluster. We feed them peanuts. They seem quite chilled out, in contrast to the climate. Skar, one of our group, takes a ride on a donkey. A small time bandit with nothing to steal.

The Gorges are a stunning sight. A deep chasm road lets us walk between colossal rock faces, below which a stream meanders, water seeping up through the soil. Vendors line one side of the road, selling trinkets, silks, art and minerals. The natural colour of the scene is vibrant and lush.

We stop in a hotel in Ouarzazate with a pool and a great number of couches and pillows. The decor is both traditional and minimalist. The staff are friendly and polite. The food is a little more western which helps you appreciate the local cuisine by comparison. It’s a nice, peaceful atmosphere.

We leave the next morning refreshed and having slept properly for the first time in three nights. We go to a film studio which has been in use since the Sixties. It is a wonderful location which has served as Rome, Egypt and Jerusalem. We buy tickets to look around a Crusades-era castle. It is one of the most inspiring constructs I have ever had the fortune to explore.

The Atlas Mountains are next, driving up and up along cliff-side roads which fall away to greenland and dammed rivers. We stop for lunch at a cafe overlooking the other peaks in the range. The food here in Morocco is generally impeccable, with everything well cooked and deliciously spiced. We eat liver, heart and testicle on our way. Well, maybe that last one wasn’t so delicious.

Riding down and on to Marrakech we say goodbye to Jourad, our guide, a truly nice and affable man. Marrakech is a far cry from Fes and a startling change of pace. Scooters, horse carts and cars fight for space in cramped, spiderweb streets. The air is hotter and the sun seems brighter. Every building is made from the same sandstone and it feels like walking through a Pharaoh’s maze. Our Riad hostel is small but pleasant, with an open air terrace which we spend the evening enjoying.

The next day, after obligatory sunglass buying and deodorant saturation, we find ourselves in a herb and spice shop. The owner is laid back, charming and genuine. He brews some ‘Kings Tea’ from eight different ingredients. We buy plenty for when we get home, as well as some spices to give Moroccan cooking a try.

On the whole the trip was an unexpectedly overwhelming success. From the moment we landed and walked across the tarmac to a glorious sunset, each aspect has been incredible. The people were accommodating and tolerant, encouraging, defying all of our misguided preconceptions about Muslim countries. The scenery easily rivalled South East Asia for spectacle and wonder. The food – especially tajines – is almost worth the price of the flights alone. The hotels and Riads, the service, the aftertaste of colonial France, the reasonable cost of most things... I can say without question that this was the best short term holiday I’ve had. I will recommend that anyone with some free time and a few quid to spare investigates this marvellous place for themselves.

There's some more about the castle visit and how it relates to improving my writing, which I'll include in a second post in a couple of days. Until then, go find some tajine!