On my book.

www.waroftheelements.com

My first attempt at writing a book was when I was about six or seven years old. As I recall, the project was begun on an old fashioned type writer. It had a ribbon and went clack, clack, clack every time you pushed a key.

The story was about a haunted house and ghosts and high adventure and I worked on it for about an hour before abandoning the project.

Since then I have embarked on a number of writing projects and like my haunted house story, they all somehow managed to fall by the wayside. How then is it that I finally managed to get a book written at last? Well, what follows is a brief account of the process...

It so happened that I attended a wedding back in 2002. Although for the life of me I can't remember who it was that was getting married, the wedding stands out for two reasons.

The first is that I was completely in love with one of the bride's maids, who I'm not ashamed to say looked breathtakingly beautiful on the day (and for that matter on every other day). She however, was not in the least interested in a shabby looking fellow, who at the time had a pony tail and regularly sported Beavis and Butthead t-shirts. It was a tough wedding.

The second reason was that I met one of the most remarkable gentleman at that wedding, who although of a middle age had such inspirational desires for the rest of his life. He had no qualms about talking to a shabby looking fellow, who at the time had a pony tail and regularly sported Beavis and Butthead t-shirts.  We struck up a conversation and I remember him telling me that he would rather go to jail than work a nine to five job. As he related the plans he had for the rest of his life, I was filled with a deep sense that I too should dream to do fabulous things and so set about dreaming. It was a great wedding.

Inspired by this interaction and by the pain of young love spurned, I was on the cusp of quitting university and setting off to the Middle East to do my bit to save the world. With great difficulty, however, I allowed common sense to prevail and abandoned this romantic desire. Instead, I undertook to finish the degree I had started and promised myself  that I would start and finish a book, no matter how long it took me and no matter how bad it turned out to be.

I began two projects. The first was about a young, heart-broken, law student, who inspired by a chance meeting with a mysterious stranger (at a wedding no less) went off to a magical world (which inexplicably mirrored the Middle East to a great degree) where he embarked on a number of adventures.

The second project was a comic book. The idea for which was inspired by a nightmare I had had, where an evil man with white hair and fire in his veins, stabbed me to death. I hoped for it to be the modern version of, A pilgrim's progress. I will go ahead and acknowledge that the concepts contained in this paragraph are diametrically juxtaposed and leave it at that. I promise you that an explanation will not cure the confusion.  

Of the two, I imagined that the comic would eventually fall by the wayside. The opposite proved to be true. Rest assured and for the love of whatever rags of dignity still cling to this mortal frame, I will say no more about what transpired as a result of the first idea.

As for the second idea... I did a rough draft of the first few comics, with terrible sketches. By this time all traces of my being stabbed to death and having to crawl through dark, slimy tunnels had been removed from the story. I still thought the white haired, fiery veined murderer was cool, so he stayed. I came up with a grand hero called Enoch, gave him a few creatures to kill and thought I was golden. Armed thus with my terrible sketches and a story line weaker than an episode of a b-grade soap opera I began to look for an artist to assist me. Unfortunately nobody seemed to share my enthusiasm for such a grand project. I had many, many frustrating meetings and eventually in desperation I decided to turn the comic into a book. I won't lie, I was deeply disappointed. In my mind comics were cool and books a dime a dozen.

Not one to capitulate easily, I hoped to capture the grainy feel of a comic in the book. My characters were to be splendid, strong and god-like, succeeding in whatever they set their hands to. My primary concern, however, was to try make the good guys cooler than the bad guys. It irritated me that the baddies are always so much cooler than the good chaps and yet for all of this, the goodies always win. In my opinion, that is cheating. Those who deserve to win must win and to heck with the moral lessons involved. My story demanded that if the goodies were to win, they would need to earn it or else suck it up and take their hidings like men. In short I wanted to write a story that I would want to read, no cheating, fast paced and offering an opportunity to escape on an adventure worthy of my participation.

So it was with these aspirations that I sat down on a cold winter's afternoon in 2002, to the sound of Russel Watson, and typed the first words of the book, 'The cruel wind howled furiously as it blew the snow through the icy wastelands of Nilheim.'  Like magic, it just came out and this is probably the only sentence in the entire book that has not been changed or edited. I cannot tell how many times I have read this one sentence over the last ten years or so as I have edited and re-edited the book ad nauseum. (At this juncture I absolutely have to digress. The Russel Watson CD has still never been recovered. We all know that the Karamite had something to do with its' strange disappearance but have no proof. The Karamite, like all the guilty of the earth pleads innocence and will no doubt take his dark secret to the grave together with a Jason Donovan poster.)


After the first chapter had been written, I sent it to a friend of mine who reads voraciously. He told me that he liked it and that I was on to a good thing. At the same time, my ex-girlfriend and her much younger sister told me they thought it was good too. This was a massive boost to my confidence. Especially so, since the younger sister was not prone to flattery and would as soon tell me I was a childish goofball as look at me. Incidentally, the fanciful young thing, did in fact call me childish on many occasions... Anyway, bolstered with these omens of goodwill I forged on ahead with chapter and verse...


I continued to work on my little project through the years, determined to finish it and as time and discipline allowed I would tinker at it. The story developed and changed significantly over time and indeed the only two things that remain of the original is the white haired villain and the name Enoch. Although, this being the case, I still would like to believe that the first few chapters do have a hint of, 'comic' about them.


My ex-girlfriend, (whose younger sister continued to call me childish and probably still does) was an indispensable support and would patiently listen to me telling her about my latest idea for the book. She would gently ask me on many occasions how it was going and at times, despite her incredibly hectic schedule, would proof read parts of it for me. Now, as always, I remain forever grateful to her not only for her assistance but for infinitely much more besides.


Apart from her, another two wonderful friends helped significantly. The first, tragically (for us) passed away in 2007 and went to be with Jesus. When she had first  heard that I was writing a book, she had been very excited and would often prod me on to finish it in her jovial manner. Her passing, reminded me that life here is temporary and our time short. I found inspiration to really apply my mind to the book and over December 2007 locked myself in my room and broke the back of most of the story.  


The second friend is a jerk I met back in 1996. When he first met me he hated me!? Don't worry though, he warmed up to me eventually and somehow we have stayed friends for the last 16 years. He really is a chop though!! At the end of  2010 he challenged me to get the thing published. Not wanting to back down to a challenge from the likes of him, I began the long process of finishing the book, getting it properly edited and published. I thought it would take a month or two, boy was I wrong! It took another year...


And so it came to pass that at long last in April 2012, just before the Easter weekend, I released my book. It has been hard work but I can honestly say that writing, The Lore of the Elements, has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. If those who read the book derive even a millionth of the pleasure I have derived from writing it, I shall be well pleased. As a fellow reader, I understand the quest of looking for books that you just can't put down. If there is only one person in this big world of ours that puts my story down, sighs with pleasure and wishes they could read it all over again from fresh, then I shall be content and  happy, secure in the knowledge that by my standards I have succeeded as an author. By my standards, I firmly believe that the success of an author is not in the number of books he has sold, but rather in the number of people who close the book with that feeling of sadness at finishing a great tale!! To hear people who have read it or are busy reading it, give me their views makes it all so worthwhile. Shall it become popular enough to eventually be labelled literature? Time will tell and one can only hope... 


Like a drug addict, I find myself needing my next fix and so I have begun work on the second book. My new promise to myself is that it will not take ten years to produce and time will judge the integrity of that promise! 


Where to from here? I hope to work more on developing my characters as I deepen the plot. I no longer wish to keep them so safe behind their god-like qualities. I want my readers to develop a deeper emotional tie with the story and the creatures who act the parts assigned them. I hope to deliver a profound reading experience to those who choose to read my work and to provide people with a form of entertainment that enriches the enjoyment of their lives. Until that time, all your comments are welcome on the book's facebook page which can be found at - www.facebook.com/waroftheelements or feel free to pick up a copy at www.waroftheelements.com 

Keep dreaming!


   

On why choosing music might be the same as making friends

In the mid-nineties, I discovered Crowded House. Right off the bat, I fell in love with them. Their tunes were catchy, their lyrics light and all in all, I was hooked. It was back in the days when if you wanted music you had three options;

1)  Buy the tape;
2)  Buy the CD;
3) Wait for a song to come on radio and tape it on your cassette player, all the while hoping that the stupid DJ didn't interrupt the song.

I was fortunate enough to be earning a wage at that point so I opted for the expensive choice and bought their CD.

It was absolutely fantastic and for a week I was in seventh heaven. Crowded House and I were on to a good thing. However, as quickly as it had started, my love affair with the band died. To this day I hate the lyrics, 'There's a small boat made of china, going nowhere on the mantle piece...' blah blah... Who cares whether you always take the weather with you? Certainly not me!
I think I gave the CD away and to this day believe that my life is all the richer for having done so.

Now at about the same time, a friend of mine was raging on about a band called Pink Floyd. I had no idea who these fellows were. So off I went to my local music store, found the CD and asked the sales guy to let me listen to it. I think he was a Satanist. He wore docs and had pierced a heck of a lot of his face. His lip, tongue, eyebrows and ears were all studded with a lot of earrings, and I do mean a lot. He also sported an assortment of tattoos. Over and above this, he had a very big pentagram on his black t-shirt. For all of this he was soft spoken and friendly. I had no idea that Satanists were so polite.

In any event, I remember him nodding his approval at my choice and naturally I felt apprehensive. However, it's not every day that one get's to impress a devil worshiper and so I let him play it for me.

What was strange was that I remember not really enjoying the music but, and it is a very big BUT, I thought that it had potential. So completely out of a desire to impress the servant of the dark lord I bought the album.

Some fifteen years later, I still listen to the, 'Division Bell' and I swear that as the years go by, my appreciation for the music grows. Subsequent to this, I have used the exact same technique to purchase all of my music. If I love it, I will not buy it. Instead I will wait for radio to kill it for me. But... if I don't really like it, yet get the feeling that it may grow on me, I buy it without a second thought.

This strategy has served me very well. I am happy to say that the music collection I own, although clearly not everyone's cup of tea is, in my opinion, second to none. I listen to all of my music on a regular basis and as the years go by, I develop a deeper appreciation for it.

So what is the point?
I think the point is that sometimes things and people just need to be given time to grow on you. We are all finite beings and can expect to die. Our desire for instant and lasting gratification is completely understandable. I mean, if I only have seventy years to live, well then let the good times roll and let them roll quickly please.

But what if we don't have to always choose that which has the greatest appeal? What if, like my music collection, we allow people who don't immediately please, but who have potential to grow on us, into our lives? What if we exchanged instant gratification for lasting and increasing contentment?

Now I am not blind to the fact that the relationship between me and my music collection and relationships between two or more humans are not in the same ball park. Heck, it's not even the same game. But what I'm suggesting is using a somewhat variant mental process to give those we normally wouldn't, a chance to build a relationships with us.

Who knows, maybe the album that goes platinum is waiting for you, dressed in docs and sporting a large pentagram on a black t-shirt...

On quitting my job

So I resigned from my job yesterday!

It has been on my mind for some time now but for some odd reason, I have just not had the courage to knock on my boss's door and tell him I'm leaving. Who knows how long this state of affairs would have lasted, but for an impromptu meeting with my directors yesterday. No doubt I would have left there some thirty years hence with a gold watch and a wasted life!!

It was so liberating saying the words, 'I'm handing in my resignation', which got me to thinking as to why it has been so difficult to leave a place that makes me miserable for eight hours every single day. I mean, it should be a no brainer, right? Coming here every day makes me nauseous, being here makes me unhappy and the best part of my day is when I leave this dungeon... Indeed, when you find yourself waking up disappointed because you are not feeling ill and hence have no legitimate excuse to stay home, it's time to leave...right?

Sadly, for the most part, the answer to that question, in this instance and for me, has been no. It is certainly not the first job I have hated and not the first job I have resigned from either. I have walked out of a number of jobs only to embark on projects of my own. So I certainly know that it isn't fear of the unknown that has kept me bound to this bleak island of despair for so long. I guess, this time things have been different because this was supposed to be THE JOB. The one I studied five years for, the one I did two years of slave labour (in the form of articles) for, it is the one I wrote four gruelling board exams for. Over and above this, I landed a place in a very respectable firm and was told by the directors that I have a future there, who knows, perhaps even a place amongst the top vultures in due course. Maybe therein lies the problem. For the past year or so, I have felt trapped and stupid at the same time. I mean, by all counts I'm on to a good thing, a steady pay cheque, a respectable job blah blah blah... The reasonable man would count his blessings and stick it out.

And yet... despite putting a brave face on it, in the quiet of night, whilst alone, I have known, just known in the depths of my being that I am not in the right place. What does one do when trapped, a closet career hater, scared to death of what society, your family and friends will say if you give it all up, come out and say, "I hate my job and I am going to leave"?

I tell you what you do my friend, you quit the freaking job, sell your bakkie (the doors of which cannot be locked), publish your little fantasy novel, do a bit of legal work on the side and then you go on a six month tour through Spain, Greece and Turkey... And that gentle reader is exactly what this irresponsible blogger intends on doing!!

On why I don't think it's a good idea to lock car doors...

I distinctly remember the telephone call. My Dad had locked the keys in the bakkie and between him and a very good friend of mine, (whom we shall have to call "Bob") they proceeded to completely dismantle the locking mechanism of the drivers side door. The vehicle had originally had an immobiliser, a gear lock and two functioning locks fitted to each door. The immobiliser had, had to be dismantled (at my cost, I might add) since my father had supposedly lost the keys that had the mechanism which allowed you to start the car. Then the gear lock had been destroyed by a locksmith after Bob had lost the other set of keys, which contained the key to open said gear lock. Naturally, his children took the blame and though it was them who had sinned, in a gesture worthy of the noblest of gods Bob paid for half of the locksmith's fees. I, of course, paid the other half. In a bizarre twist of fate, soon thereafter both my Dad and Bob found the keys which they swore had been lost. To this day, however, they vehemently blame each other for messing up the car door lock.

Be this as it may, the truth of it was that I was no longer able to lock the bakkie and so the situation remained for two and a half years thereafter. Part of the problem was that in a gesture of extreme goodwill my Dad had used steel putty to glue the window winder to the little thingy that it turns when the window goes up or down. This, of course made taking the door panel off to fix the lock impossible because let me assure you, steel putty live up to its' name.

It was against this backdrop, then, that my adventure unfolded. My work as an articled clerk took me to some of Johannesburg's dingiest spots. At least two or three times a week I would have to attend at the Johannesburg Magistrates Court and/or the High Court, where I would be obliged to park on the street. Now for those of you who have never visited either of those grand bastions of justice, I can assure you that they are not housed in the type of areas where one would feel safe raising a family. Also being somewhat of a cheap fellow and a very poorly paid one, the R10.00 parking areas were never an option. That then, is how I began and continued parking the van on the side of the road, unlocked, at every single destination I visited, for two and a half years. I would simply close the door, say a prayer and go about my business.

I will admit that it was incredibly liberating. The bitter yolk of suspicion and fear which almost every South African is forced to carry on a daily basis was dealt a grievous blow. You see, I had come to terms with the fact that the vehicle was as good as stolen and that being the case, why worry about the inevitable. Every time I returned to the car, I would think, 'Well at least today I get to drive myself home and not walk.' I often left the car windows open at night and more often than you would believe possible I would forget the keys in the ignition too! Yup, I'd get back to the vehicle, open the door and there they would be hanging. It became a joking point amongst my friends and passengers would stare aghast as I simply closed the door, and with a shrug of my shoulders explain that I never locked my door.

I have been held up at gun point, my life has been threatened more than once and I have been at the receiving end of more than my fair share of petty crime. Indeed, I am not blind to the fact that crime is a painfully real phenomenon in South Africa. Why then, such apparent folly in the face of this great threat? It is simple, I agree with the hypothesis proposed by the great Dr Viktor Frankl. Mankind's ultimate freedom lies in our ability to choose. I have no power over the choices other people exercise. I will not choose for others nor will I allow them to choose for me. God respects all free will and so will I. If someone has decided that they will steal my property or cause harm to my physical being, then that is a decision they have made and there is not too much I can do about that. High walls and locks do about as much to deter a criminal as a wrapper around a chocolate deters a hungry snacker.

I will use my freedom to choose a life of open doors, carefree living and walking with that cheeky little swagger that comes with knowing I am not scared to be stolen from. Since, if you do, I will simply forgive you for having done so. If the price of that comes at losing my stuff, then so be it! I will gladly wager every possession I own against enjoying an existence without fear and though it cost me all I have, I know that having enjoyed this freedom, I am receiving the better deal.