sleepingIt is now the weekend! Yay! And I’ve forbidden Mark from working, so we might actually go out and do things, instead of sitting at home in front of the telly or the computers.

To celebrate I went out and ran for a few miles, and even tried my hand (once again) at parkour. I still want to get into that. The last time I tried it, however, I tried to jump over a low brick wall and ended up with scraped shins and hands. I didn’t end up like that today.

Then I came home and found Mark and Stephen drooped in the sofa, and here I sit in front of the computer, too lazy to do anything. But we shall do things this weekend! We must. Maybe.


ElectrocutedStephen is here too, thus, and this time he brought his girl-friend. There was a time when I was worried about that guy’s breathing, because he seemed to have this girl constantly attached to his face, but apparently they’ve gotten over that.

It is curious how you can settle into a plateau of existence. I’ve said so before, I think, but that plateau is a bit dangerous because you can stop thinking about how good you have it, and start to whinge about things you expect and want while on that plateau.

It is like, a poor guy is depressed because he never has anything and never can do anything, and then he wins a lot of money and does get everything he wants. Then he gets used to wealth, and start to complain about new things that he becomes aware of at that new plateau, and forgets that before the win he thought that the current life would be the apex of existence.

Sort of like Mark and me. Obviously I’m the luckiest fuck alive, because in my first relationship as an open gay boy I got the guy that I want to spend the rest of my life with. The guy that still makes me feel physically weak sometimes because he’s so beautiful. A year ago the life I actually have would have been utterly unthinkable.

Yet, sometimes I find myself whinging about stuff, and forgetting my luck, and I have to restrain myself. I’ve reached a new plateau, and I’ve got used to it, and the dangerous bit is that I might forget it.

Sort of like Stephen and his girl They seem to have reached a plateau where her face is not constantly attached to his. Maybe that’s a sign of new confidence between them. I wish I had such confidence in my writing at the moment.


princezukoI’m trying to come up with a villain for my episodic novel project, and I go to what is probably one of the better guides of characterisation for not so experienced young writers – “Avatar: The Last Airbender”.

It is kind of weird that a cartoon on Nickelodeon can be a literary inspiration, but it is true. The characterisation in that show is nearly flawless, particularly when it comes to the villains in it.

Zuko is the main antagonist in season one. He’s a sixteen year old prince, and he has been exiled from his lands. His father sent him away on a fool’s errand, ordering him to not return until he had found the mythical ‘Avatar’ that disappeared a hundred years before. Nobody expects him to ever come back. Before going, the Father burned off half of Zuko’s face to teach him respect.

Then Zuko runs into the avatar, of course, and he sees the chance to go back home, restore his honour, and maybe even have his father not despise him for once. See? There’s nothing evil in Zuko. He’s no a caricature. He is honour-bound, and feels protective of his people. He even has a sense of humour. He has a clear goal, a motivation, and his goal is diametrically opposed to the protagonist’s, which is all that a villain should be. A villain is the main character of his own story; not a caricature that only exist to thwart the protagonist at suitable spots in a novel.

Zuko really is a model villain. I wish I could think of someone like that, which is why I’m thinking about my villain, but my head is silent. No new imaginary friend steps onto the stage in my head and starts talking.


writingSometimes I think writers are a bit mad. I tend to think of my characters as imaginary friends. They seem so alive to me, although if they ever manifest themselves outside my head I may become a bit worried.

Mark always see it as so odd when he finds me muttering, as if I’m talking to them, and he can ask that ‘talking to your invisible friends again?’ I try to explain this, to him and to myself but it is never good as explanations go.

I’ll just have to settle for the knowledge that I’m probably a bit mad. Most writers apparently are, particularly the ones that deal with fiction rather than non-fiction. I don’t think historical writers see people like Henry VIII strut around in their head, demanding attention.