Premise is a thing that divides, like plotters v pantsters, black v white, or even Brexit losers and winners. Ok, maybe not quite that extreme. I haven’t studied all the arguments for and against but, I know I want one for this story. Premise nearly always gets a mention in ‘how to write’ books and I even have a whole book dedicated to the subject. However, as I just want to find one and then get on with writing; I’m going to use the method in the book below to reel it in.
Continue reading “6. The Premise”
Conflict, conflict, … it is so important I can’t say it enough. Now we have womanising Nathaniel, we need conflict in the story. Without it the reader will be bored, and I will be even more bored, the story will be a corpse. We get conflict by giving Nataniel a dilemma.
Continue reading “5. Conflict, conflict, conflict,”
I was born Nathaniel Fripp under the star sign of Aquarius in the year of our lord Nineteen eighty seven.
Mum and Dad got married young, they were both in their early twenties. From an early age I sensed they didn’t get on. Probably why they only had one child, me. They are still together now, I don’t visit often as I don’t like to see how much they loath each other and can’t understand why they don’t just breakup. Dad is a good looking bloke for someone in their late fifties and he has always been a snappy dresser. It was one of the few things I admired about him, he looked good, and he dressed well.
Continue reading “4. Nathaniel Fripp, in his own words”
All stories have a germ of an idea to start. That germ can be anything, for me it is a notion that I’d like to write about a prolific womaniser who has a system.
‘Character first’, every book on creative writing I own alludes to this, so it must be right. So the next blog is a character biography of my womaniser, Nataniel Fripp
More information than you will ever want to know is to follow.
Day one is to tell what I am going to be blogging about.
A while back I made a life choice, I wanted to write fiction and I was going to do it. It was an itch I needed to scratch and crazy me had it in my head to dash out a few short stories and plays and as if by magic I would be a great writer. How dim can one be? Stuff was written, yes, and I marvelled at what a natural I was, born to it in fact. But, all that remains of that work resides on a ridiculously well encrypted memory stick, chucked to the back of a dusty shelf.
Continue reading “1. The struggle begins”