The Mysterious Traveller

It feels ironic to stare at a digital page and wonder what on earth to write, when the blog post title 'why writers write' may suggest that I know what I am doing.  The truth is, I have no plan. No heroic analogy or intellectual reasoning.  On the rare occasion that I may strike gold due to a misplaced anecdote or whimsical tale, the fact remains that  there was never a structure to this in the first place. This also reflects my life; no plan, no structure.  I write with emotion, not logic or guidelines. I bless my cotton socks that I was relatively auspicious in my English language and literature classes, upon the hundreds of books I must have read growing up. And so, the idea of writing my own book felt as natural as following the page with my finger.  The logic comes from experience. I feel that, although I didn't study a degree in creative writing, my understanding of sentence and paragraph structure is pretty sound. I have almost certainly written some terr...

As I gorge through a packet of Maria biscuits alongside an ill-timed mug of coffee (it's after 18:00) I consider my options. Having a mental list of things is no good, due to the inevitable subconscious winds of change that blow priorities right out of the other side of your head. I need a physical list. Something that I can pin to my laptop or wardrobe door to remind me of the outrageous number of tasks, jobs, projects, ideas and adventures I try to juggle all at the same time. I say outrageous; perhaps others deem it healthy? Healthy to keep busy and follow such keen interests and hobbies?     I cannot deny this, of course. Those who choose a career in the arts are blessed with a creativity that can touch many hearts whilst subsequently earning a (relatively modest) living. But I digress; back to this list of mine! Although my love of list-making is surpassed only by that of tea-making, I can honestly say that my current (yet to be physical) list has overwhelmed me beyond re...

 ' Alas!' cried the old man, shaking his wretched fist belligerently at 2023. 'That you have bested me leaves a bad taste in my mouth! You thwarted me with broken promises and less hope than I can shake a stick at!' Fate had gifted the old man with a gnarled old stick, lain upon the damp verge beside him. But the very idea of picking it up for emphasis and farce was quenched as the darkening clouds kept their word and rained an almighty downpour onto the world below. The winds howled and isolated any chance of a peaceful stroll home.  'Bother and befuddle!' the old man persisted. 'This weather doth trouble my mind, and yet, compliments in such a way that leaves nought but admiration. Such timing!' Distracted by the poetic irony, he continued to shuffle against the breeze and into the future.  Days turned into weeks and then? Perhaps in to months; the old man knew not. His mind was burdened with unexplained circumstances and missed opportunities. The life...

When I look back on my artwork over the decades (good grief I'm old) sometimes I find it difficult to identify what I was trying to say, or express. Perhaps naivety blinded my true emotions because I would hide behind illustrations of quirky animals and picturesque landscapes, and not addressing what was really going on in my head. But why should art express everything? It is perfectly viable that an illustration can be created without a deeper meaning, other than sheer enjoyment. I admit, there have been pieces that I have painted that truly depict what I am going through, or a longing for something that is just out of reach. Many of my pieces portray a tranquil scene of the ocean, a small cosy cottage and a distant sunset; my romantic idea of retirement perhaps?! Art is a very personal, complex, subjective and sometimes controversial platform for anybody to get involved in. Whether you like it or not, your artwork is getting judged or questioned by everyone including yourself....

There was an idea, many years ago, that gave me credence  to manifest all of my emotions and feelings into a storytelling  device without necessarily divulging into the deepest, darkest corners of my mind (as we did in the previous episode). This device was called Electric Elkboy.  You may have already seen this character. Whether he appears as an icon or a profile picture, or maybe a piece of artwork posted on Instagram, I can imagine that you may recognise him. And if not, then welcome to episode 104 of the blog; where you shall be introduced. And even to the untrained eye, you may notice the visual similarities between Electric Elkboy and myself (unless you have never, ever met me!) Because, ladies and gentlemen, Electric Elkboy is my superhero alter ego.  The general idea was to create a character who I could transfer much of my own personality, traits and issues with a purpose to write fictional adventures that also depicted some emotional turmoil that I could n...

Lets get right into it, shall we? I've been lucky enough to learn more about ball and socket armatures since working with the Twirlywoo puppets for MacKinnon and Saunders. And when I rejoined the team at Scream Street back in January, I was stationed in the puppet maintanence department, which gave me the perfect opportunity to continue learning about these armatures and begin work on my very own*. I could finally combine my soldering skills with my character design in a very raw creation that would eventually become Old Man Prickles (TBC - however, as I did not revise this choice over the subsequent months, I soon became rather fond if it).  * if you ever get the chance to work for a different department (be it rigging, puppet maintenance or costumes etc) then it's really worth taking. Working in a studio environment, where there is a certain amount of added pressure, will be the best place to learn a new skill, even if you're a complete newb. Scream ...

   This is a very belated Star Wars related (accidentally rhyming with excellent timing) piece of writing. I'm not going to delve into my own review, because I'm not a film critic and I'm certainly not capable of writing anything mildy serious. Instead, I'm going to write a few words as a Star Wars fan, a cinema goer and a twenty nine year old child. I ******* loved it. I loved the film. I love Star Wars. I bloody love you. I went to the midnight viewing, opening night, with my good friend Daniel James after an evening of blue milk (courtesy of Aunt Beru), the Christmas Special (courtesy of bad taste) and watching the loveable BB-8 patrol the room (simply a courtesy). I was very nervous; I could feel my heart pounding the closer I got to screen 7. I honestly don't think I have ever felt so excited, scared and emotionally drained in such a hypnotic way.  I have since watched it two more times, bringing the total to thrice. And if the Odeon cinema p...