A software that helps you to be a novelist

Erick Behymer wrote for us The Djinn Chronicles. Now he is back with the review of MyNovel. MyNovel is a novel writing software. It contains a complete word processor and will get you to think about and plan your characters, settings, and the events that will form the skeleton of your novel. But let’s read Erick review about this unique software.

A software that helps you to be a novelist

Rarely when testing software (mostly security related stuff), am I impressed by anything. I will spend hours picking apart a program, attempting to find any flaw or blemish, major or minor. When I was first approached to test MyNovel, I donned my glasses of pessimism expecting the worst. This is not meant as a detractment, it’s just something I do.

At a quick glance, MyNovel appears to be a standard word processing application, however, there are several major differences/enhancements. The first, and most striking is the ability to create a story template. At any point, you can change the details of your novel, add diagrams, events, characters, places, objects and even check progress/completion.

There’s even an “inspiration” option readily available. Specifically, the character and place generators are rather impressive, as you can choose between various name types. If that weren’t enough, you can choose and/or customize a color scheme.

Once you’re finished with your MyNovel project, there is a fairly comprehensive list of publishers available to choose from, along with relevant contact information and requirements. This takes a lot of the hassle of looking for a book publisher using a search engine.

All of these features are put together in an easy-to-use-easy-to-remember interface. MyNovel’s tools are put right at your fingertips, so there’s no endless searching to find what you need. Regardless of whether you’re a novice or a seasoned veteran to writing, I would strongly recommend that you take time to give MyNovel a try.

For the computer savvy, I have compiled a list of observations below:

MyNovel is fairly impressive, and has quite a bit of potential not only in features, but also performance. When idle, the program takes up a less than 3MB of RAM and during the most intensive states, 12-19MB. If that wasn’t impressive enough, it only requires ~25MB of disk space for a full install. Even running MyNovel at full throttle, it remained fairly quick and responsive to user interaction.

Posted in Culture, Reviews, Writings | 3 Comments »

The Djinn Chronicles

Today we add a new Category: Writings, where we’ll publish exclusive short stories, novels or poems available on ManuelMarino.com only. Today’s Author is Erick Behymer. Read his words about this work of fiction:

The Djinn Chronicles

Well, I do have one that directly involves the mythological creatures known as Djinn. Naturally, I have titled the first one “The Djinn Chronicles”, even though I have not had the time to continue the series just yet. It’s in a script-like format for ease of reading/translation into other mediums. I wrote it back in 2003, so it’s fairly old by comparison with a lot of my other works/short stories/etc. It’s about 64 pages in length.

Let me know what you think.

Leave your comments after reading this Writing, I’m sure Erick can’t wait to read your posts about his Djinn story!

Here’s an excerpt:

Victor: Hm… that sounds interesting. What kind of story are we talking about?

Anita: Have you read middle eastern mythology or the Koran?

Victor: I’ve heard bits and pieces about their mythology.

Anita: Lemme ask you this. Have you heard of the Djinn?

…

Victor: And that’s where it all began (laughs). At a diner, with a woman I had just met. It’s strange the way life deals cards to you in a poker game. Half the time you don’t even know what’s going until after everyone’s laid their hand down and the chips are gone. Usually by that time, someone has folded. Guess I should have folded my hand as well and just stayed at the garage.

Just to think that all my problems started with her and that damn book she mentioned. I should NOT have trusted her. But somehow, I wanted to. I wanted to believe that she was helping me, but I was too blind to realize that she was only there to screw me over and have me take it up the ass like some freak show in a cage at some small town carnival. I can’t believe I trusted her.

Now look at me. Sitting here in a place that I should not be, and everyone thinks I’m some sort of goddamn lunatic. I’m not. I am not crazy. And with all the medication they give me, sometimes I wonder if in fact this is all a dream, and when I go to sleep and see my wife, kids, and family, that it is THEN when I am truly awake. And the comfort of sleep makes this seem less and less like a reality and the dreams more and more of a lifestyle than a fantasy. I guess Anita was right. You don’t find too many compassionate people these days anymore.

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What is Anglo-Welsh Literature and why Should Anyone Care?

Ceri Shaw is a former college lecturer from Cardiff, South Wales. Currently he attempts to make a living as a Web Designer and as a freelance writer on a range of topics including Literature. He is a regular contributor to Americymru.com. Ceri wrote this article about Anglo-Welsh literature and its exploration of the themes of national, cultural and personal identity.

What is Anglo-Welsh Literature and why Should Anyone Care?

As a Welsh ex-pat currently residing in the USA I have noticed a profound disparity between the notion of Wales that many Americans of Welsh descent entertain and the reality that I left behind five years ago. Nowhere is this more evident than in the literary field. The triumphs of yesteryear are rightly held in high regard but modern literary trends and authors are sadly neglected. The legacy of Dylan and R.S. Thomas is , of course, sacred to us all, but Wales has moved on and a new genertaion of writers reflect that fact.In recent decades we have witnessed a flowering of literary culture in Wales and stereotypical Welsh writing so famously satirized by Harri Webb in his poem “Synopsis of the Great Welsh Novel” has been left far behind. We have seen the emergence of Welsh noir ( Niall Griffiths, Malcolm Pryce, John Williams ) which continues to be popular and other major talents such as Lloyd jones, Rachel Trezise, Trezza Azzopardi and Owen Sheers have made their presence felt.

But what is Anglo-Welsh literature and why should anyone care? I would argue that at its best it provides a unique perspective (in the English speaking world at least) on modern ideas of national, cultural and personal identity. As Gwyn Williams once famously said:- “The Welsh as a people have lived by making and remaking themselves in generation after generation, usually against the odds, usually within a British context.” Both Welsh-language and Anglo-Welsh literature have played a prominent role in that process. It is not a literature of rage. At the risk of offending a portion of my audience I will say that English colonial rule has for the most part been far too benign to produce a violent reaction but it is a literature of self-assertion and defiance, albeit sometimes confused and unfocused.

These themes are explored in a number of fascinating works by contemporary Welsh writers. Owen Sheers’ magnificent debut novel ‘Resistance’ is set in an alternate universe in which the Nazis invade and conquer Britain in World war II. It focuses in large part on the struggle to reinvent oneself, adapt and survive in the face of extreme adversity.
The book ends with both protagonists facing a stark choice which is really no choice at all. In order to survive they must turn their backs on everything they have known and attempt to find personal salvation in a future that is as uncertain as it is dangerous.The novel hints at the special relationship which the Welsh people have with their landscape. The hills of Wales are indeed magnificent but they pale into insignificance, at least in topographical terms, when compared with the European Alps or the North American Cascades. Their special gravity and power lies in the fact that every nook and cranny, every fold and crevice, is invested with some human significance. The sum of history and legend which the landscape reveals is almost an externalization of Welsh identity itself. It is against this backdrop that Sarah, the heroine of this novel, must strive to uproot herself and accept the evolutionary challenge.

A far more extreme adaptation and ‘remaking’ (or failure to adapt) can be found in the pages of ‘Niall Griffiths’ stark and brutal novel..”Sheepshagger”. Here we see what happens when ancient tribal resentments, personal greivance and drug-addled inarticulacy combine to prevent ‘personal growth’. The desperate and bestial acts of violence committed by the novels anti-hero are the products of a sense of loss and a seething resentment directed against those who have deprived him. He is unable to articulate his impotent rage by any other means. He asserts himself as a serial-killer. It should be pointed out that this exploration of the darker side of the Welsh ‘psyche’, whilst magnificent, also contains passages of graphic violence which would make Brett Easton Ellis blush.

The fact that the Welsh are a naturally restless people and constantly searching for a lost identity or fashioning a new one is perhaps more happily exemplified in Lloyd Jones extraordinary “Mr Vogel”. This novel which is by turns baffling and inspiring recounts an epic journey around Wales made by a delusional alcoholic. To say that the narrative is not straightforward would be an understatement but what this novel lacks in simplicity it makes up for in many other ways. We are never quite sure what the nature of the quest is but the journey is perhaps its own justification. Toward the end of the book, when his epic perambulation is almost complete, Mr. Vogel finds himself in a mental hospital where he offers the following observation to one of his fellow patients:-

“When was Wales? Wales has never been, it has always been.” he rambled on to his next victim, Myrddin the schizophrenic, who fortunately) was asleep. “I’ll tell you something for nothing.” he said, “true Wales is never more than a field away, and true Wales is always a field away, like Rhiannons horse in the Mabinogi. Got it?”

Jones’ work is a tribute to the transformative and redemptive power of the imagination and its ability to refashion national, cultural and personal identity.

None of the above should be taken to suggest that Anglo-Welsh literature concerns itself solely with these themes or that other literary traditions neglect them. I would contend howver that owing to Wales unique history,a history in which its cultural identity has constantly been threatened with absorption by that of its much more powerful neighbour,they are much more acutely focused in the Anglo-Welsh literary tradition.

Books Referenced in the Text:

“When Was Wales” Gwyn Williams Penguin Books 1985
“Resistance” Owen Sheers Faber and Faber 2007
“Sheepshagger” Niall Griffiths Vintage 2002
“Mr. Vogel” Lloyd Jones Seren 2004

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Reading: it’s not for fun anymore

This is a nice article from Isaac Marion. Isaac has been running the online textual variety show, BurningBuilding.com, since 2003. He lives in Seattle, Washington, where he works various mundane jobs while trying to make his writing/music/art career take off.

Reading: it’s not for fun anymore

Recent studies have shown that across the board, in all mediums, Americans are reading for pleasure less than ever before. This isn’t just literature, novels, etc, this is all forms of the written word, including magazines, even the mighty Internet. Yes, that includes blogs. Less than one third of adults reported having read any literature in the past year not required for school or some other assignment.

Hmm.
Brlog…?
Brailg…?
Hmm.

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Portrait

Today we post this exclusive work of Robert Karl Stonjek. It’s an unpublished ‘meditation’ he wrote in the mid 90s.

Portrait

I had been instructed to ‘just sit’ under this particular tree. I don’t think he had decided on this particular tree beforehand, we just wandered about in the bush for a while, then into a clearing whereupon he said “this is definitely the right one, I can feel it. Can you?” I could, I was sure I could. I nodded.

I was instructed to just wander around, or sit if I wished, or sleep, or just do as I please. I was told not to wander to far, and if I had to urinate to do it over toward a particular bush that was pointed out to me. I was to just be there, that was the important thing - to be there all night. He would be back in the morning with his assistant. Some of my friends had insisted on coming along to watch.

I was told that there was a man in the bush, me, and by morning there should be just plants and animals. It all seemed to make sense. There was a kind of logic to it, but one can’t really explain what it is.

I stayed awake all night. The tiredness I experienced from the ordeal of a freezing night under a tree wondering what I really should be doing had caused some minor hallucinations - I seemed to see things out of the corners of my eyes but couldn’t make out just what they were. I thought “maybe I’m just tired”.

The assistant arrived first and quietly began placing plastic sheets on the ground. On one of them he set up the artist’s equipment, then he left.

About half an hour later, just as the sun began to appear, the assistant led in my two friends who were instructed, in a whisper, to sit on the plastic sheet and remain absolutely silent. I’d say the assistant is in his mid forties, the old artist could be any age between 50 and 75. He is so agile yet has a face that shows age. When he speaks he seems to be just as aware of the immediate future as the past, as if he does not travel along a thread of time as we do but swims in a pool of it.

When he arrived he did not come over to me but wandered over to a tree and asked it how my night had been. Upon reflection I remember that he was chatting to various bushes and flowers as well, asking them about me and whether or not we got along. My friends watched as if they shared a single eye between them.

The assistant quietly gave me instructions as the artist wandered about, gently moving me out of the way on one occasion, then instructing me to stay still at which point the artist walked straight into me, as if I were invisible to him. The artist announced that there was enough of my nature in the surrounding bush for him to work with. He squatted in front of one of the sheets of paper (there may have been a canvas there as well, I’m not sure). He proceeded to work with pastels, drawing the bush as it had been effected by me (the bush captures the spirit - the artist captures the bush).

After a couple of hours the deed was done and the assistant called us all over. He asked me what the significance of various items in the painting were. He seemed to have captured one of the odd wispy things I thought I saw during the night, almost as I had seen it - vague, just out of sight.

“You can’t draw someone’s spirit” he told me, “but I can draw the effect your spirit has on living things. During the night, they absorb as you radiate. During the daytime the flow of energy is reversed. At the right moment there is no difference between the two: there is a fulcrum, a crossing over point. All I have to do is capture the bush on paper, as it captured your spirit through the night, and we have a portrait of your spirit.”

I can never tire of looking at that drawing. As I stand before it I am gradually able to distinguish between a person looking at some depiction of bushland, and my spirit peering into its’ own reflection!!

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The true rewards for being human

This is another writing gem, from Jeff Doak, Application Developer for Sprint Nextel. He currently resides in Rome, NY, and has interests in music, nature, lifetime learning, programming. Lives with wife, three kids, cat, hermit crab, and fish. Check his “neglected” website.

The true rewards for being human

Fall – my favorite time of year. Here in the Northeast U.S. it is a beautiful time of year. The snow is falling today, but not sticking. The wind has a chill to it, but not harsh. It is a great time for daydreaming and self reflection.

Posted in Arts, Culture, People | 1 Comment »

Every journey an adventure

Rob Mitchell is a singer/songwriter from Nashville, TN. He has played songs around Nashville and appeared at the Bluebird Cafe. Musical influences are James Taylor, Jim Croce, Jimmy Buffett and John Denver. Rob is not a writer but what he wrote for us is a real writing gem:

Every journey an adventure

Today the weather in Nashville is brisk. I woke to a chilly wind from the North whisking it’s way accross the dairy farm behind my home. Our dog is still curled deep in the cedar chips inside of her dog house as I fill her bowl with water. She stirs and looks at me with a bareful look. I think she wanted to sleep late too!

I notice my steps are short and stiff. The ache is evident in my thighs. Last night was the second of my new nightly routine of running. One mans quest to regain lost youth and health. As I walk back inside I make a mental note to learn to welcome the pain as that is my benchmark of progress. I’ll now cook breakfast for the kids and let my wife sleep late. She deserves the break.

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The Lost Sleeping Tablet

This is the beginning of the latest writing by Peter George Mackie. Please contact him if you want to know more about his works. The first chapter of his piece of travel writing “Flowers of Zagreb”
can also be downloaded at www.authorsonline.co.uk.

The Lost Sleeping Tablet

Dave was pondering over a map of the former Yugoslavia when he landed on Zagreb, the capital of Croatia, which he had visited in the summer of 1977 at the age of 20 and had made friends with so many 17-year-olds who were still listening to ’60s music.

Most of them had travelled to the West at some point and were very interested in what he had to say about places he had been to, such as Amsterdam and Copenhagen.

Having known people who had been to this country before, he was only mildly surprised to learn that the locals were able to travel in and out of and all around Yugoslavia at will and felt it to be a country which seemed to be moving forward and whose young inhabitants exhibited what he perceived as a unique friendliness and a liveliness which was quite unlike anything he had ever known before.

He also found that many of them were interested in literature and the arts and it was there that he met his first real love, Elidija, a music student, who was one year younger than himself. Although it was only a one-night stand, that evening when they had made love in her friend’s flat in one of the back streets of Zagreb would always stand out throughout his life as one of his most treasured memories - and he was also very glad that he had been able to satisfy her as she was a virgin at the time.

Dave then found himself transported to the summer of 1986 when he had visited Belgrade for the first time and had met a young art student somewhere in town. They had taken a look in the window of an art workshop where some local artists or students had seemingly hurriedly put an exhibition together and they both agreed that none of the exhibits were very good.

It was a roasting hot day and, when the young student reached the flat where he lived with his parents and sister, after a long walk in the scorching heat, he removed his shirt and shoes.

It was at this point that he introduced Dave to his sister, a good-looking young girl with long black hair, who knelt down in front of him, also in bare feet, and exclaimed, “Serbian girls are the best!!”

The young art student, whose name Dave had probably never learned, then explained that the room in which they were sitting was his and his sister’s bedroom.

It did not seem to Dave all that surprising that, in a poor area of a country like Yugoslavia, a teenage brother and sister would be sharing the same room, which must have also been the case in other countries, probably including Britain, in the past.

At that time, people were keen to emphasise that they were one country and, when Dave visited Sarajevo that same summer, he thought that it was the most beautiful and unusual city he had ever seen - and the last thing that would have occurred to him was that there would be a war there six years later. He was also disappointed that the spool for his camera had run out by this time so that he was unable to take any photographs.

His spirit at this point moved back to the map again where someone or something was trying to tell him that, in the future, the young people in Zagreb and Belgrade would be reconciled again but did not explain how this would be done… but it was found necessary to heal the town of Split, where the Dioclitain palace was falling down……

Dave was presently transported to the back garden in Scotland where he had played as a child in the 1960s.

In later life, he would realise how lucky he was to have heard all the music at that time, when it had first come out, as he considered that something special had happened then, which could only have occurred once in the whole of human history.

His mind moved on to when he was 12 years old, when he had had some very vivid and profound spiritual experiences which people around him at that time had confused with mental illness.

His father had had him incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital, where he was to spend two and a half years, and Dave would never to be able to forgive him for having destroyed him spiritually as well as having taken away two and a half years of his youth, which he would never get back, and, due to which, he would never be able to form steady relationships, his courtship with a young girl having been put a stop to by the hospital authorities.

Dave’s mother, on the other hand, was convinced that Dave, who was always the first in the class at Maths at school, was going to be a genius, but his education was neglected in the hospital and he would never be able to make much of his life…..

In fact, throughout his whole life, Dave’s father had never been able to accept the fact that he had ever grown up and would continue to play psychological games with him. For instance, only a few years before, when Dave was in his forties, his father, having lured him back to his house to see whether or not a certain magazine had arrived for him in the post, threatened to call the police because Dave had accidentally dropped a cup and saucer into the sink. This, in turn, brought back all the old traumas of what his father had done to him when he was younger, the memories of which he had been desparately trying to shake off…

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Dreams are Real Enough

Peter Buckley just sent me this article he wrote for us, and I feel it to be really powerful… read:

Dreams are Real Enough: Notes on Writing and Dreaming

I wish to talk to you about dreams. I will try to resist sentimentality. Dreams are both beautiful and dangerous, and I want to demonstrate how they can be utterly pestilent, as well as a positive force that propels us through life, and writing.

I can discuss dreams with little reference to the “dreamer”, or “myself” – self-importance is futile in my case because I am not one of those “lucid dreamers” who possess the ability to control their dreams. My current project, “Peter and the Hare” requires me to evoke dreams, not entirely to the letter of the original inspiration, but, still, they are not “mine”. To say I “write” dreams would be like saying I lasso clouds. How can I claim ownership of something that only half-exists? And who creates the clouds? Writing for me is a collaborative effort.

The “something” that reveals itself to me in my writing is not particularly mysterious. It is always the same thing I am chasing, and that it remains a “something” hardly matters, as long as I have the desire and energy to chase it.

What I hope to produce is a body of work akin to a body of a centipede. This strange insect constantly grows extra legs and on those legs, more legs and more, more, more, until it dies or I do. Just to confuse things, the legs might not always be those of a centipede.

It is important for dreams to run free, yet to capture them we must impose rules, or make compromises. The most skilled writers can capture the energy of the original ‘dream’ while making it easy-to-read and accessible to others. You are writing with your readers, not against them. This is what I occasionally (and sometimes deliberately) forget…that centipede thing? What was that about?!?

“Peter and the Hare” is very experimental; please do not assume that I know what I am doing. The stories on my site are more like impressions, and it is up to the reader what impact they are allowed to make. The overall effect is anarchy. It’s a playground, but one I take seriously. It’s also just a place I put my stuff.

The fact that it’s a weblog affects the content. The internet is insane, uncontrollable – it can make us more intelligent or more ignorant. It can broaden our horizons, or expose us to unhelpful ideas. It feeds us this exhilarating white-noise. I’m hoping “The Hare” will confuse, shock, and entertain in equal measure – just as dreams do, and the internet itself is a dream.

If my blog is about anything, (and I want it to go anywhere, and be “…about anything”) it’s reality. So in an article about dreams, I should say something about reality. But reality can not necessarily be singled out as a “thing” separate from dreams. And dreams are real enough.

The whimsicality of dreaming can be seen in my work’s humorous elements. Laughing is better than crying, they say, and I laugh a lot. I’m not sure what “their” stance is on doing both at the same time, so I’ll assume that’s ok too.

I’ll reproduce some of my poem, Bubble, here - one of my worst poems (!) but it might at least demonstrate a point. The full text is here:

“When you live inside a bubble
the archway of the stars
becomes the pattern of the ceiling.

The edges of each table-leg
are softened with used teabags
that stain the carpet mahogany brown,
and the stain lingers perpetually.

This character is trapped in a dream. Is he fortunate, or is he to be pitied? The most un-clichéd answer is “neither”, but even that’s been worn-out.

Dreaming = escape, and this is wonderful. But it can also take its toll. Firstly, it demands dedication – the dream will always demand “completion”. My characters often seem blinded by their dreams. “The Hare” is the most habitual dreamer – he can hop from world to world, and doesn’t seem troubled by this destiny. Conversely, there is Dmitri, a comedy-Russian stereotype I have a lot of fun with. Dmitri is a realist who has seen too much to dream. He dislikes dreamers. In the middle of this are a cast of anonymous people, who stage dreamlike conversations. It’s not clear when or where they are happening, and it doesn’t matter. What emerges from conversations such as “It Takes a Train to Laugh…” and “In England, We Say Toilet…” is the pain of dreaming; dreaming breeds loneliness, delusion, an inability, (even unwillingness) to communicate. Perhaps I feel guilty about dreaming and about creating, for as long as we each build our own castles, there will be wars.

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can play together all night.” - Bill Watterson

But we can deal with dreams in two ways – they’re both disposable and essential, because things can be simultaneously insightful and very, very silly. These “in-flight movies” can teach us to wander through life with a sense of humour. Confusion need not be a source of angst, but something to be embraced; a coping strategy that gives us hope.

Posted in Arts, Culture, Ideas | 1 Comment »

The mistery of being Artists

Here’s an interesting exclusive article Roland d’Humières, 56 years old psycho-analyst from Aix en Provence (France) has written for our Weblog.

The mistery of being Artists

Whatever is his/her Art, painting, music, dance, writing, or any other, whatever he or she chooses, this way is for an Artist, the most difficult activity he/she may choose in the life. Lot of people imagine that it’s an easy way to live…What a wrong perception of things!
Art is an unlimited way to express unlimited feelings of ours. Quite simple definition? Ok, let us see further on…
We are born in a civilization that strictly forbid emotions and feelings, since the birth:
Forbidden for a baby to cry, forbidden for preteens to feel, forbidden for teen to express themselves, then, forbidden again for adults to cry, to show feelings , endly forbidden for us to be sincerely what we are, deeply in our soul…
People learn to live without true, sincere, real emotions and feelings….
So, an Artist firstly have to find this famous inspiration. That means he must be able to find, to identify the most deepest feelings in his/her own singular beings, despite that was forbidden in his/her childhood, and remains forbidden already for the rest of the world… Easy? Try it!
Then, secondly, the Artist have to find his/her own way of expression. Here is the biggest difficulty:
As in this country of south-america where it is allowed to be “loco” but inside a real cultural codification, an artist have to find the best way to express himself, inside allowed codifications of the Art. As rules exist for everything, rules do exist for an artist in his /her discipline, as soon as society agree with it. So, to express unlimited feelings, the Artist is forced to use imposed standards! Great!!! Easy, did you say?
Here is the reason why the artist’s life is so painful. Allowed to express feelings, but with limited academic standards! Such circumstances do have a name in Psychiatry: schizophrenic situation. As well, everyone can understand why such genius lifes were so painful. Schizophrenia seems to be a professional illness, then…
When the Artist is rebel to those standards, the last wall to destroy is the misunderstanding of the other. He or she has to confront the other’s look. This “other”, you, me, everyone never learn to accept his own feelings. As well, never learn to express it… And those very others will judge if an artwork is or not a masterpiece? Unbelievable stupidity!
In fact, the art piece will, or will not, wake up our feelings, whether they enter or nor in echo with Author’s one. It fits or not, like a hazard game…. Like chemistry…
Then, the only way for us to understand art pieces, to appreciate it; the only way to help artists get possible through a patient singular work:
To be in a frequent contact with it, to tame our own feelings, and to open our mind to the other.
This has a name too: LOVE

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