Author Interview Series – Jim Burke– Answer and Giveaway Winner!

Today (after much delay), I'm happy to announce the winner of the author Jim Burke's giveaway.  If you missed the interview, you can read it here.  Once again, I would like to thank Mr. Burke for taking the time to participate.

David asked

Mr. Burke, I was just wondering if you ever got the itch to direct one of your plays and/or would you, given the chance, consider adapting one of your plays for the big or small screens a la David Mamet?

Thanks for your question. I've directed some of my plays in the past, usually down to necessity rather than choice. It's a tricky business. As with writing, the scene I've directed in my head doesn't always translate to the finished product on the stage. Plus, I'm not a trained or experienced director, so I much prefer to hand my stuff over to people who know what they're doing. Mamet is a bit of a cautionary example really. The screen adaptations of his plays that have worked best are usually the ones he didn't direct, especially Glengarry Glen Ross. When he does direct, he seems to be so invested in every word he's written, the dialogue comes over as stilted, stuffed and mounted. So, although it's tempting for a playwright to control everything from the directors chair, the results don't often bear this out as a good idea. But I'm sure there are 1001 exceptions to this!

And the giveaway winner is... David!  David wins a poster depicting the timeline of the Globe Theater.  The print was acquired at the theater itself.  Congratulations!

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Brewing

I’ve had a fairly busy week so this time I will follow the prompt without elaborating.

***Writing prompt 118 - Think of an object that describes you. Describe it.***

I believe tea is the best “object” that describes me.  The word regroups many different drinks that are all obtained using the same method: brewing.  I am tea, and my brain is an infuser.  There is only one me but the ideas that come out of my brain are all different; they all have their very distinct flavour.  Some may be similar but others have nothing in common besides the fact that they originated from me.  Tea comes from many different countries and has a long history; I’m very curious about the world and history is one of my passions.  Just like tea traveled the Silk Road, I travel the world. 

Tea is very hot when it’s in the teapot but when you pour it, it cools down until it’s completely cold.  You can enjoy it at any temperature you feel is optimal.  I feel that reflects the way my mind works.  The things in my head are very hot.  Ideas can even burn me.  Then, I pour them out, either by talking or writing.  As they exit me, they become more enjoyable or easier to forget but as long as I keep them in the brewing teapot that is my brain, they don’t cool down.  Just like very hot tea, most of the ideas in my head can’t be shared as is; they need to sit outside for a moment.

Finally, just like tea, I inspire like and dislike, depending on the person.  Also, I believe that once you give me a chance, just like you would good quality tea, you will grow quite fond of me.

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Talk Back Billy

After a week of absence, here it is, my answer to the prompt.  This one was very difficult for me.  Enjoy!


***Writing prompt 633 - That snappy reply you never had a chance to say ***

There was once, in the middle of nowhere, a village.  It wasn’t a big village, nor was it interesting either.  There were no important roads nearby, nor were there any tourist attractions.  It was plain, boring and far from special.  Why tell its story then?  Because in this tiny village, there lived a man who always needed to be right.  It didn’t matter what you said to him, Talk Back Billy - that was his name- always had the last word.  In fact, anything said after his last utterance was the beginning of a new conversation.  He was witty, something funny but most of the time snappy.  Everyone in the village pitied the woman who would eventually marry him.  To be honest, his only hope was to find a deaf one.  There were none in the village; everyone believed that he would die alone.  It didn’t seem to bother the man one bit.

One day, as most of the villagers had gather at the only restaurant in town, a woman walked in.  She was tall and slender.  No one had ever seen her in these parts.  To tell the truth, these people were weary of newcomers; they didn’t like to see the peace disturbed and so they let Talk Back Billy handle her.  Under their watchful eyes, he walked up to her as the owner was serving her a beer.  Everyone wanted to hear what would be said but the kids were rowdy and the drunks loud.  Afterwards, some of the villagers would boast of actually having heard something when in fact, the whole conversation would forever be clouded in mystery.  One thing is undeniable, something queer happened during that short exchange.

Talk Back Billy spoke first.  The villagers expected the woman to try to say something then be interrupted by the man voluble chatter.  It was not so.  She kept on talking and talking and talking.  She talked so much that the whole crowd finally fell silent, even the children and the drunks.  They all waited for his reply, yet, it never came.  The woman smiled at Talk Back Billy, downed her bear then walked out without even turning around.

As soon as the door closed on her, the whole place exploded with noise.  Everyone wanted to know what had happened, who was this woman who could have the last word.  They questioned the man, again and again, but he refused to answer and soon left the restaurant leaving a trail of gossip.

The story would have died here if something even stranger hadn’t happen afterwards.  From that they on, Talk Back Billy stopped talking back.  Actually he soon stopped talking altogether.  The villagers were bewildered.  They hadn’t enjoyed his ways much, but they liked this new Billy even less.  The poor man started losing weight, his eyes sinking in his skull in dark circle.  His skin turned dry and brittle.  He soon was rechristened Old Man Billy.  The villagers pitied him.  They were also scared of him.

Then, one day, he disappeared. His house was found empty, the inside covered in dust as if no one had lived there for ages.  On one of the wall, the words “Find the word thief” were written in trembling letters.  Billy was never found.  Nor was the woman.

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From the inside

Inspiration for this came at the last minute, a flash of genius in a sea of mediocrity.  I hope it will please you, for I'm quite proud of it.  Will you be able to guess who, or what, is our main character?*

***Writing prompt 300 - You wake up with a nameless feeling of dread in your gut, but you can't figure out what it is.  Write down everything that could possibly happen during the day that could be something for you to dread. ***

There is this feeling.  This strange feeling, every time I awake.  I can never name it, really, but it just sits there in my stomach, like a heavy weight.  I fear it will bore a whole in my body, or worse, eat its way to my very soul.

It wasn’t always so.  There was a time when I could just open my eyes and bask in the reddish light and everything was good. Nothing needed be done or thought; floating was all and filled me with mirth. There was a time… Oh, how long ago could it possibly be?  It’s so hard to tell.  But I’m sure… I know… at least I think there was such a time.  I have a fertile mind, but couldn’t possibly have imagined it all, could I? 

It doesn’t matter anyway.  Things are different, now.  This feeling of dread haunts my every waking moment.  Something is impending.  I can’t be wrong about this.  The crimsons walls that once cradled me are closing on me.  At times, it’s as if a strange force is pushing intently, trying to touch me. I cower but there is nowhere to hide.  My home has turned prison and even my imagination fails me; what is my jailer?

My silence has slowly grown from rippling vibrations to noisy tidal waves that besiege me from every angle.  Where there was once only the regular beating of a soft drum, there is now an entire orchestra, playing a cacophonous melody I am forced to hear.  I have tried to stop it, to cover my ears but it surrounds me, it permeates everything.

In distress, I await.  The world is quivering.  I can sense it. The world will soon crumble around me.

****

*HINT: The title might help you guess ;)

 

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Ahoy Puppet!

As much as this writing prompt seemed funny to me at first, I must say I had a hard time finding what I wanted to do with it.  In the end however, I decided to go for something silly.  I hope you'll enjoy it.

***Writing prompt 628 - You are a pirate.  Describe your perfect day.***

The Last Port Tavern

Pirate dating site

Profile #34686: Bubonic Roger Smythe

Physical description: two eaye, missin' a few teeth and fin'ers, hairless, red beard, a few manly scars, as tall as two barrels o' rum.
Pets:  A few rats and other vermin
Other: Own me own ship

Random question: Describe your perfect day

I enjoy wakin' up with t' sun and look at its reflection on t' blue sea. After givin' orders t' me crew, I like t' eat a breaksmartly o' cured meat, washed down by a few pints o' good ale. On a perfect day, I find t' treaaye I was lookin' for in t' mornin' and have me lads bury it before sundown without even catchin' a glimpse o' a royal navy ship. Lastly, no day be really complete without a stop at t' isle o' Skull where t' rum flows and t' wenches be buxom.

What are you looking for in a wench?

I wish t' find an obedient wench t' do me wash and keep me entertained durin' long days at sea. Scurvy wenches need not inquire.

******** 

The pirate speak was created using the International Talk Like a Pirate day English to Pirate translator.  If you feel like having some fun just follow the link.

 

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Thomas is angry

Hi everyone,

Did everyone enjoy a good end of the world party? I had dinner with my family.  Pretty normal, nothing out of the ordinary.

So here is the answer to last week's prompt.  I used Thomas, a character from the second tome of my work in progress trilogy (more on this coming at the beginning of the new year), and tried to see how I could tell a lot about him by showing rather than explaining.  Hopefully, it worked.

I would really appreciate it if guys did a little work for me on this one.  I would like you to tell me which voice you preferred and also what you learned about the character from the two different style. And yes, I totally did write more than one paragraph...

*** Prompt 277 - Write a single paragraph that conveys a lot about a character's life.  Think about how this can be achieved with voice and rhythm an repetition. ***

Thomas plopped onto the armchair and pinched the bridge of his nose with his long, soft fingers. He looked at the empty capsule in front of him.  It should have been glowing with blue light, humming dully as liquids came in an out in transparent tubes. His right leg shook incessantly of its own accord.  He got up.

On the virtual board, he flipped a few screens before stopping on one.  Equations upon equations covered its entirety.  There was barely enough space to add any comments.  He squinted at one particularly messy corner, rubbing his chin.  It was all there, under his eyes, yet, he couldn’t make any sense of it. Damn Dale! Had the man been tidier maybe he could have understood this madness.  He sighed and pulled out his glasses out of his smock but didn’t put them on.  Instead, he started to bite at the hinge.  He had, after all, perfect vision, but this human artifact always helped him think. 

He touched the screen, trying to enlarge a minuscule glyph.  He scrutinized it for a long moment only to come to the very same conclusion he always did: this was not a standard symbol.  It was the only possible explanation.  He had used that code for centuries, nothing about it eluded him.  Damn Dale and his imagination!  A nagging voice in the back of his head whispered that if it wasn’t for him, the man would still be around to help decipher his scribble.  Thomas looked at instruments on the table.  Then, with a sudden roar, he sent them flying across the room.  Panting, he went back to his seat to resume his regular, comfortable thinking.

*****

I plopped onto my armchair.  It was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable but it was the only place I could think.  I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.  This wasn’t working.  That empty capsule should have been full with amniotic liquid and a test subject.  My leg shook, restless.  I was feeling something close to defeat.  I got up.

I turned on the virtual board once again and flipped impatiently to the screen I was looking for.  I would have to set a bookmark.  I kept telling myself that but always forgot.  I looked up at the right corner.  There it was, that foreign glyph, mocking me.  Oh I had tried to decipher it, to bend its shape to match the characters I knew, some I had even created but deep down inside I knew that it was a useless task.  Nevertheless, I took out my glasses and started nibbling on the hinge.  Like my chair, they helped me cogitate.  And just like my chair, they were proving useless.

I touched the screen like I always did, enlarging the glyph. This was clearly Dale’s brainchild.  The man had been – probably still was, in fact - a genius.  He was always looking for ways to improve the equations.  I felt guilt.  If it wasn’t for me, he would still be working in this lab.  The guilt suddenly, but not unexpectedly transformed into anger.  He had been the instrument of his own downfall; I had nothing to do with it.  I looked up at the character, then at the lab.  The table was covered in numerous devices and instrument, taunting me.  To my own surprise, I roared and cleared the table in one swift movement.  The sound of glass shattering brought me back to reality.  Panting, I walked back to my seat and resumed my reflection. 

 

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