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I found something awesome recently in an article on the Atlas Obscurer, and I just had to share it. They found a ballroom built under a lake. You can check out the article here. The ballroom happens to actually be a smoking room, but they called it a ballroom, and that was enough to send my mind reeling. What if it really were a ballroom? The glass roof, now covered in algae would have allowed dancers to view the creatures in the lake while they danced. I almost have to squeeze my temples to prevent all the ideas falling out. I love this.

Your challenge this week is to set a piece of flash fiction under water. Write a story in less than 200 words. Paste in the comments or use a pingback and submit before 7th August.

As always, I am slow to respond to entries because I read and moderate everyone, you may find a delay before your story appears and before I comment.

Now, obviously I have cheated, my entry is WAY over 200 words, but it’s my blog and this was genuinely an accident. One of the books I have on the back burner is called The Firmament. A YA dystopian novel, based on the Flat Earth conspiracy. This ballroom image just happened to spark an idea for the ending of that book. So here it is:

The Firmament – Excerpt from the last few paragraphs of the final chapter:

The corridor narrowed so much it was barely wider than my shoulders. Alaric had said the claustrophobic halls were something to do with keeping the structural integrity of the ballroom. But even the thought of being this far under water made my breath catch. The walls brushed my shoulders like gentlemen bowing. Finally, my ears popped relieving the pressure in my head.          

I approached the end of the tunnel. A soft melody that trilled like birds singing filtered off the dance floor and through the corridor. I glanced at my simple pink silk gown and felt underdressed. I’d spotted some of the women in extravagant Cinderella dresses before they stepped down into the tunnels. It was a mystery how any of them squeezed through. 

I came to a sudden halt as the tunnel ended and opened into the ballroom. Gasping, I clung to the wall. The ceiling was an enormous dome made of the clearest glass I’d ever seen. I could see the ocean and a plethora of oblivious sea creatures swimming through a forest of rainbow coral. They were free to roam wherever they wanted.

Luscious satin curtains lined every wall. A stage sat on the far side of the dancefloor, with two ornate white thrones and a full orchestra responsible for the melody played. Shuffling across the dance floor, a swathe of women in elegant ball gowns and covered in jewels, tapped out a maze of dance patterns with military precision; their partners wearing tuxedo uniforms. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t for their identical expressions. Those flat eyes, emotionless faces and false smiles would haunt even my happiest dreams.

I’d never regretted anything in my life. Not fighting with my dad, deciding to break out of the Firmament or leaving everything behind. It had been three months since I escaped. Three months since I’d seen Luke. He would have loved this. I was selfish. A terrible friend too obsessed with my own stupid mission to see him.

As I stood on the edge of the ballroom, unable to enter because of the pain in my chest, I realized it was guilt; guilt because I regretted leaving Luke behind. Now, for the first time in my life, I saw him, really, truly saw him. The irony was, he wasn’t even here. I closed my eyes and visualized his shaggy hair, sparkly gaze and gawky expression. I’d thought him plain, someone I’d only ever love as a friend. But even in the fog of my memory, he seemed vibrant.

“Lexi, what are you doing?” Alaric said, jolting me out of my thoughts.

“Nothing. Sorry.” I shook my head clear.

“Your coronation is about to start.” He gripped my wrist a fraction harder than was comfortable, signalling it wasn’t a statement, but a command. Alaric had never given me cause to believe he would rebel. He was an ardent enforcer of the Society. But the wideness of his eyes, told me his grip wasn’t for control, but fear.

I would be crowned. Not because they demanded it of me, but because I saw that behind all the opulence, the extravagant lifestyles and the stilted smiles, they weren’t free either. Not really. They were just as trapped as I had been in the Firmament. I’d thought escaping would be the end, a new life. I was wrong. This was only just beginning.

If I wanted to free mankind from the Firmament, I’d have to free Alaric and his people from the Society too. But the only way I could free them, was to become one of them.

Sacha Black © 2016 All rights reserved

Now to last time and your entries for your WIP’s first and last lines.

First in Shelley Wilson:

First Line:

Claws scratched at the cold rock just inches from his bare feet. The twisted limbs of these tormented creatures snaked through the bars of his cell as they tried to reach him. Starved and beaten, the monsters craved his blood.

Last Line (Not quite the last line as that would give away a huge spoiler!):

‘I’ve had help,’ she said, laughing as she climbed on his back, and settled herself behind his long neck.

Frank in next with some lines from his poetry

First stanza:
on the radio
in the car when I was driving from work
the weatherman was chatting
to Ms Drive Time: …

last stanza:

some days
he said
our family can go all day
with just one flush
then gave
a forecast
for tomorrow

fine again

Barb in next with a first line and the end of the most recent chapter she’s written.

First Line:

I always knew my office was haunted. I just never knew I was the ghost.

The post Writespiration #93 Underwater Ballroom appeared first on Sacha Black.

Oh you filthy rot bags, not that first time… well you could write about that… but you don’t have to… Here’s mine:

I took a sip from the dark glass in front of me. The liquid was ice cold and the numbness sank straight to my stomach. Could I do this? What if I refused?

“We’re waiting rose,” his voice rumbled through the muggy air, and his steely glare was as hard as the gun’s barrel glinting at me.

I gnawed at the inside of my lip. The numbness in my stomach furling into knots. I’d never even touched a gun, let alone fired it. What if I injured the deer instead of killing her. Would she suffer? Would she feel it?

“ROSE!” he snapped. I flinched, as his hands rested at his waistline. I glanced at his belt buckle, his fingers flexing over the leather band. I shuddered, it was me or the deer.

I picked up the gun. It was lighter than I’d expected, its cool metal easing into my hand like I’d done it a thousand times before.

“Trigger. Then release the safety catch, Rose.”

I nodded, fingers quickly finding the right catches. Why did this feel normal to me? It should have been alien, wrong even. But it wasn’t. My hands knew the gun like an old friend. Maybe dad was right. Maybe I was destined to be a hunter.

***

Now to last weeks writespiration, where we all got a bit hot and steamy… I mean sweaty!

Sue Vincent got all reminiscent with a rather smelly travel experience.

Sweat? Not even a cold shower will make me look less like a freshly boiled lobster for more than a few minutes… and sleep is going to be a problem, even with the windows open. I remember being scared of that… All Christopher Lee’s fault of course. Vampires… that made me sweat as a child…Perhaps that’s why going to France was such a good idea? Living there I learned all about garlic… and the second-hand ooze of it through the pores of overheated bodies in the Metro. Keeps more than vampires away! Except, you don’t even notice it when you are as bad yourself… Paris was hot in summer too, but I loved it…I remember cooling hot legs in the fountains…mint tea in the Algerian café… and 3am raids on the all night deli for champagne and wild strawberries… Though perhaps I should draw a veil over that particular association…

***

Geoff confessed a bit too much?

I sweat – none of that gently glowing or perspiring nonsense. Genuine suppurating pores, pouring pores if you like, that’s me. Not proud of it just have to live with it. But it has it’s advantages. The cooling bit, the fact I don’t get very dry skin and the dog loves me as I’m the best way he has to get salt… So there you. Another conf

***

Helen got all dark and mysterious

‘It’s hot in here. But then that’s not surprising, I guess. I shift a little on the stone floor, hugging my legs in close, tucking my clothing close around me as I huddle against the curving brick wall, my eyes closed tight against the glare. Sweat. I am drenched in it, great pools under my arms, trickling down to sting against the scored lines in my skin, the edges crackling in the heat of the vast oven. How did I get here? What was my life, that it should come to such a pass?’

***

Hugh… well I think Hugh did get a bit hot and steamy!

Sweat? Why do I think of Rugby Players when I hear that word other than the awful substance which glows out of my body as soon as the temperature soars over 25C? Now I don’t mind rugby players and heat, but humidity and oppressive days can go and do a runner for all I care. They are unwelcome and not wanted by most of the population. As for sweat – stop damaging the underarms of my clothes, you beast!

***

The post Writespiration #48 Write About Your First Time! appeared first on Sacha Black.

A little while ago I set a writespiration challenge to write for 60 seconds, using the word silence as your inspiration. It was so successful I thought I would re run it. Like last time don’t look at the word till you’re ready to write.

Write till the time is up and share wherever it took you in the comments. Ready?

Your word is:

Sweat

Here’s mine:

It dappled his brow like specks of dirt, he repulsed me. His beedy eyes glared at me poking holes in my protective front. I wouldn’t let him get under my skin. A droplet of grey coloured sweat trickled down his forehead. I could smell the filth. The black under his nails. He wasn’t going to beat me

The post Writespiration #47 appeared first on Sacha Black.

There used to be a time when I would accept nothing less than perfection. I still fight the frustration when I’m not completely perfect.

I’ve come to believe perfectionism it’s a disease. An infection that slowly eats away at your skin until it buries itself into your bone and spreads to every corner of your body like an angry cancer. The growing niggle questioning whether perfectionism is something to be strived for, or maybe, abhorred has become a raging monster, and now, a blog post…

As writers creative people we torture ourselves striving for something that deep down we all know is almost impossible to achieve. And if we somehow do achieve it, we spend our lives endlessly searching for that golden thread of genius within us so we can create another masterpiece. It’s like a drug, an addiction, a sought after high impossible to replicate.

But what is this blind search for perfectionism doing to our mental health and psyche? I talked about the shocking truth behind creativity recently, where there was an underlying point from Gilbert about depression in creative people.

Creative people in particular seem to suffer a high prevalence of depression, suicide and other mood disorders, including most frequently, bipolar disorder. Van Gogh was Bipolar and suffered tremendously until his suicide at 37. Syvia Plath, another sufferer with a mood disorder and eventually she committed suicide to at just 31. There are others, who vehemently argue against this trend of depression in creative people, and if you read enough research then like everything you can find enough studies that you end up sat on the fence completely befuddled.

I’m ignoring most of the science and am speaking from experience, with just a little science thrown in; from knowing many a creative person and seeing the effect of creativity gone awry, and from experiencing it myself.

My focus is on writers and one of the earliest studies of creativity and mood disorders focused on writers. It showed that 80% of writers had some variant of mood disorder. But why? Are we predisposed to mood disorders? Do we have hormone imbalances? Is it because we spend so long lost in our thoughts, pondering, reflecting, dissecting our every ideation and decision? Do we spend too long deliberating and judging ourselves? Does that lead the creative into a spiralling depression as we deconstruct ourselves and examine each tiny piece of us and our stories?

I know for me, boredom, and the restriction of my creativity is extremely bad for my mental state. I can end up in a very dark place if I am not allowed to thrive as a creative person. And yet equally, I can drive myself literally insane in the pursuit of that winning story, that character that makes someone cry, or laugh or fear for their safety. I can be so critical of myself its self destructive but especially for my sanity. I’m trying to pursue something I know I will never be able to achieve.

Despite constantly striving for perfection, I don’t believe it exists.

Will I ever be able to put the pen down, stop tweaking? Can you? I doubt it.

There’s just one more tweak? One tiny edit, a comma? A sentence? Sound familiar?

We grind ourselves down, wear down all our drive and pick and nag at our creative minds until we leave ourselves in a creative black hole. I think over striving for perfection gives us writers block and depression. If we pursue a concept that doesn’t exist we set ourselves up for constant failure.

Society is the same. Kids today think Barbi is perfection. (Yes that really is a real woman)

Kids think that plastic fantastic is acceptable and something to aim for. But sometimes when you get a little too hooked on achieving the impossible on too much plastic this happens:

Ok, maybe I’m being a little facetious but you see the point I’m making?

I wrote a poem last #1000speak, so this time I decided to share something personal. I have edited this, removed some of the bits that made me cringe, but it’s mostly intact. I wrote this piece when I was just coming out of a dark hole, it’s an odd piece of writing, more of a stream of consciousness rather than a story or anything much, but I think it makes the point, creative depression is not good by any standard:

Phantom Limb by Sacha Black

I am watching my life through his eyes, at his mercy.

My glass was always half empty, its why I never noticed the cracked cup, the leaking liquid. He didn’t arrive with the grandeur entrance I expected. He snuck quietly into my life like the silent thief, slyly changing the minutia, stealing my belongings until he consumed everything.

I can never see the world through those precious rose spectacles I used to have. The virgin eyes I owned are gone. Stolen. He took them for himself, replaced them with his dark and twisted ones. I didn’t even notice. Not until I was already exhausted from staring through his shadowy specs.

I understand what numb is; to really feel nothing.

It’s infinite.

He took my feelings away one by one. Every happy thought tarnished by a rusty anesthetized memory.

I am left watching my life play out through him.

I am his phantom limb. I see my life, but I’m not really there. I used to be present, alive, able to breathe. But now I’m surrounded by a vast suffocating nothing.

He torments me with the life I could lead. I am ashamed of him. I am meant to be strong. Unbreakable. Instead I crumbled like an ash statue. He blew over my life, and I drifted apart piece by piece.

He is the dirty little secret I punish myself for.

I’m tired of being a phantom limb.

I will not do it any more.

No matter how foggy his spectacles get, I will smear the lenses until I can see the tunnel in the distance. I know there is a light at the end of it.

***

I’m not suggesting we should stop striving or aiming for the top. I’m saying sometimes we need to take a step back and remember, perfection is usually impossible. What we create may well be someone else’s idea of perfection. You will be someone’s favourite author. I highly doubt whatever I create, no matter how many drafts or how many edits I do, I will ever be truly happy with it. So why not accept that? And be kind to ourselves?

We need to start believing that just because ‘WE’ don’t think something is perfect, doesn’t mean somebody else won’t. There is no perfect – perfect is unobtainable because what you think is perfect, I won’t. No two concepts of perfect align. Our own concepts of perfectionism are dangerous, and unrealistic. Praise yourself, nurture yourself away from that pedestal. Perfection isn’t all that anyway, it’s boring, outdated. It’s the goody two shoes at the front of the class, the ‘know it all’ everyone sniggers at when they finally get a question wrong.

Isn’t that the point? Humanity is interesting because we are full of mistakes and problems. Aren’t the best characters the ones who fuck up, and make mistakes? Isn’t that why we secretly like the anti-hero?

Nurture yourself. Stop striving for the unachievable. No body likes Miss Perfect anyway.

But more important than anything, don’t forget…

The post Nurture Yourself in the Pursuit of Perfection #1000speak appeared first on Sacha Black.

***Warning*** Audience Participation Required!

What is it that makes us creative? I mean other than the obvious grey matter, neurological synapse firing and conscious and subconscious minds? 

What is it really? Where does it come from, and why does it leave us sometimes?

Elizabeth Gilbert (author of Eat.Pray.Love) has done an amazing TED talk, it’s in the top 10 list of must watch talks for writers and it’s even in the list of top 20 most popular TED talks ever. If you haven’t watched one before you really should, but particularly Elizabeth Gilbert’s. It would also help if you watch it before reading this post, although its not essential, I’ve tried to highlight the key bits.

She has done a lot of research into historical concepts of creativity muses, inspiration and genius. She talks particularly about the Greeks and Romans who labelled creativity and muses as ‘Daemons and ‘geniuses’. The fundamental point of this talk is that the Romans described this ‘genius’ was as a disembodied thing.

Rather than being a genius you either ‘have’ genius or you don’t. The ancients took responsibility away from us mere apes. A positive because when we are suffering writers block it is not our fault, our ‘genius’ has literally and physically disappeared. What I find particularly fascinating is the notion that we as humans and writers don’t/can’t or shouldn’t be a genius ourselves. Meaning we can’t be our own muse – we only have those moments of genius inspiration when our ‘genius’ is physically with us. Gilbert goes on to explain that putting the ‘font of all creativity’ on a tiny human brain is a huge responsibility and that as lowly humans this pressure is what causes so much depression in creative people. – I can see her point. What creative person hasn’t suffered at the hands of depression, or block?

During the talks Gilbert mentions one particular poet who sees poems flying at her from the horizon barrelling towards her like a pipe of air and they literally pass through her body. If she can’t reach a pen and paper quick enough the poems disappear unless she can literally grab its tale and pull it back into her body. At which point the poem would come out word perfect but backwards.

This is all lovely, but that means I can never be a genius, but then I suppose I am also not responsible for my failure either. Does this mean only the lucky few who have the genius can ever write well and be successful? Maybe that’s why we have just a few best sellers and so many that aren’t

The thing is I’m not sure I like the idea of this. In fact, I really don’t like it. It’s too bitter a pill to swallow. I refuse to accept it. I’m not a control freak but the idea that my own failure isn’t my own but equally my success isn’t my own either just the consequence of being lucky and having a genius is not one I appreciate. Is that not more damaging to our psyches then a bout of writers block?

I want to know that my struggles, my failures and therefore any successes are the result of my own hard work, not because a muse was ‘with’ me. Don’t the struggles and failures make any success that bit sweeter?

My questions to you:

• What does creativity feel like to you?
• What does it feel like when you get that moment of inspiration?
• How and when does it hit you?

But What Does ‘Having’ A Genius Feel Like?

For me, I am nothing like the poet. I can’t see or watch inspiration or my genius coming. Ideas don’t usually brew consciously in my mind. They just ‘pop’ out of nowhere. I liken my experience to the light bulb flash. Ideas appear, both suddenly and surprisingly. Don’t get me wrong, not always.

I can think about an idea, work on it, smush it about a bit, pull it apart and rebuild. I can trawl through pinterest shaping, looking, staring at images and words. I can bash out an idea in a conversation with a friend, or by doodling. I can grow things in my mind just like the rest of you.

But I’m not talking about those ideas I am talking about ‘THE’ ideas, those magical special ones… the really really good ones, those flashes of inspiration that lead to an amazing story, or a spectacular project… the ones that lead to a bestseller.

When this happens my ideas appear either completely formed or 80% formed and the other 20% is right around the corner.

It’s hard to explain my light bulb moment physically, but normally it’s in the car, or somewhere in appropriate when I definitely don’t have access to a pen (so frustrating). When it happens, its like an actualy pop, in my mind, something squeezed inbetween a few grey cells ‘POP’ there is it. My eyes always bug out of my face and a sense of electric excitement and anxiety take over my brain. Excitement of having an amazing idea, and anxiety that I might lose it if I cant get it down on time – that bit I suppose is like the poet. I definitely get flustered and mildly panicked if I cant write down whatever is it that has appeared.

So I will ask you again:

• What does creativity feel like to you?
• What does it feel like when you get that moment of inspiration?
• How and when does it hit you?

And one more question for good luck:

What do you think about the concept of Gilberts ‘genius’?

The post The Shocking Truth About Creativity appeared first on Sacha Black.

It’s official, November 26th took me to a staggering 50,070 words… I celebrated and then promptly wept into my repetitively strained fingertips at the realisation I still had another 30-40K to go dawned on me. Did I mention the need for several redrafts?

KILL ME NOW.

I am also at the point where I can’t decide whether to add in a twist, which would fundamentally change an aspect of the book.

hmmmm.

Anyway, good luck to all those still NaNo-ing. As Dory would say “Just keep swimming, Just keep swimming”

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Not everybody thinks the same way. Ok, that obvious. But what does it mean for your writing? I am incredibly visual. So for me, when I read, my eyes switch off; I just see images. When I think, despite being a writer and thinking about writing a lot, I still think in a mixture of words and images, when I am being explained something I need a diagram. But, even if I wasn’t a visual person, I would still value ‘images’. Pinterest is a secret obsession of mine. It truly is an endless supply of muse’s, inspiration, character ideas and writing tips. If you don’t have an account get one, you won’t regret it.

Every time I get a new idea, I create a new board, I have boards for settings, locations, characters, tiny details of worlds and characters, boards for research, boards just for inspiring images to take my brain away to other places, I have a board for just about everything, including Christmas present ideas and games to play with the kid!

My point is, Pinterest.com is possibly one of the most useful sites I have ever been on or signed up to. It is my constant referral page, a mood board I can carry with me in my pocket with 10,000 images all at my fingertips. You could have ten million pictures if you really wanted, your only limited by the amount of time you have! My only negative about pinterest is that as much as I am visual, I also like to see and touch my mood boards, so for me this is a downside, but the ability to be able to have SO many images in one place, far outweighs the fact I can’t touch, re position and faff with the images.

If you don’t have an account, and you signed up as a result of this, let me know how it goes. Happy Pinning!

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It simply gives you one word and you have 60 seconds to write about it… I cant seem to get it to give me a different word, but I am thinking I may use this when i get stuck or lack inspiration and take out the dictionary….

I had the word:

‘welt’… and I wrote:

The welt was etched into her skin like the script on a tombstone. She pawed at it as pain burned up her arm. She wondered whether it would ever heal, knowing deep down it was going to leave a scar.

The post One Word appeared first on Sacha Black.

But first a quick update –

I’m now at 27… and something weeks…. how did that happen!? I think that puts me firmly in the third trimester?

I have no idea what has happened in all the blogs I read, so forgive me I will spend the next week catching up on everyones.

BUT I have finished my dissertation! YAY. I still can’t quite get my head around the freedom yet! I still feel like I am meant to be doing something and I am still clock watching like I am under pressure! Except I’m not!!

We had a car accident a couple of weeks ago, were all fine, there were a few hospital trips, the teeniest of ruptures which meant blood passed between me and the baby but it was soooo small no one was worried.

So, now I just waddle more than I was waddling because of the SPD!!

So I am free now, to do whatever I want… So I have created a pile of books to read the height of me! and I have got my novel back out finally after what feels like a life time… and all things creative… I have been making wallets – duct tape wallets – pics below.

and now my problem…

The Creative / Artistic Problem… HELP…

I have been collecting images and such like on Pinterest and google as inspiration for different aspects of my novel. I want to do mood/picture/inspiration boards of some variety… I feel like I need to write notes in/around them, but the other part of me thinks I should have notes and images separately… I cant really decide how to do it or what they should look like… I have 670 images that need cutting out in preparation for this, and they will make several different boards, but I would love some suggestions as to how I should do it…

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