Over the last half decade the fastest growing type of gaming entertainment has surely been online flash games. This has been due to the public's increasing (re)interest in casual gaming. That is, games that do not take a significant time or effort outlay to enjoy. With lives getting busier and time becoming more and more a precious resource, casual gaming is where it's at.
Flash, as a platform, has evolved to be the perfect medium for casual gaming. Flash allows the creation of graphics and animation applications that run inside your web browser and is a very mature technology supported by virtually every browser.
Most games are graphically simple and do not require a powerful computer to play. Flash does, however, support 3D graphics and so more and more games that need a bit of grunt are becoming available.
Listed here are a few of the main players in the online flash gaming world.
www.facebook.com
While not strictly a developer of flash games, Facebook has become the de-facto platform for online flash game delivery. Facebook features an amazing array of flash games, all tied to your Facebook account and designed to enhance your social networking. Most popular games fall into the strategy and role playing genres. Examples of the former are any number of Farm or Restaurant management games, while the latter include Fantasy, Crime and Sci-fi RPGs.
Shockwave.com
Originally a showcase site for Flash by its developers, shockwave.com is now owned by MTV networks and features a large variety of online games. The games are sorted into categories such as Puzzle, Action, Strategy etc and there is a game for whatever your mood may be.
Zynga.com
Zynga are the developers of many of the most popular flash games on Facebook, however their selection is available from their own website also. Their games include the very popular Zynga Poker and FarmVille.
Just about everywhere else
Almost all entertainment sites will feature a section with flash games. The major portals and TV and Film studio websites often feature games related to popular movies, tv shows and culture in general. If there is something you are passionate about, there will certainly be a flash game out there perfectly matched to your interest.
Casual flash games are typically fun to play, addictive and do not require much time investment. They are perfect to while away a few minutes at a time. Be warned, however, like any game, you may find yourself returning to games you love again and again and losing track of time.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Great Place to Visit: La Défence, Paris, France
Featuring a layout of gigantic business blocks around large open courtyards, with many cute walkways and passage ways connecting the buildings, La Défense is a great place to visit for those who like a long walk.
The main feature of La Défense, naturally situated at its centre is the incredible "Grande Arche". This office building, completed in 1989 is designed as a giant archway, to mirror the Arc de Triomphe which can be seen on the horizon. Views from the top of the Grande Arche can be had for those who enjoy heights. Underneath this giant archway is a popular area for people to sit and admire the view over Paris. Just in front is a large public area, known as "Le Parvis", that features live shows and entertainment all year round.
For the lovers of shopping, there are two main shopping areas in La Défense, both with their main entrances off Le Parvis: CNIT, which features up-market shopping, dining and the technology store FNAC and Le Quatre Temps, which is a large multi level shopping centre with fast food restaurants, supermarkets and department stores.
The atmosphere of La Défense is quite different to the loud hustle and bustle of Paris itself. While there are always lots of people moving about, the acoustics of the layout and the business nature of the talk lends a certain whisper to the ambient noise. The entire area feels like a mountain of concrete and steel and offers a futuristic change to the historic Paris.
La Défense is surrounded, however, by traditional Parisien suburbs. To the East, on the way back into Paris, is Neuilly-sur-seine, an up-market residential area. If you head that way, be sure to stop off at the picturesque island on the Seine, underneath the Pont de Neuilly. To the north and south are the suburbs of Corbevoie and Puteux and both feature typical Parisian restaurants and sights. To the west is Nanterre, primarily a university district.
Getting to La Défense couldn't be simpler, as it is the last stop on the busiest Metro line, the number 1, although at the morning and evening rush hours, it will be jam packed. Alternatively, it's a 30 minute walk from the Arc de Triomphe in a straight line. Just head straight towards the Grande Arche, ever present on the horizon.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Movie Review: The Golden Compass
Rubbish.
To be fair, I had only just finished reading the book when I saw the movie, so the differences may have been more glaring than they should have been. However, the movie couldn't have been more different in its understanding of the book to my understanding.
The filmmakers seemed hell bent on bending the story of The Golden Compass to fit some kind of Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings mould, with snarling villains, deux ex machina plot points and a motley crew of characters. It didn't fit, so it broke. They would have been better served trying to follow the emotional journey of the book, with its incredibly poignant relationship between the humans and their mystical soul companions called daemons, rather than forcing a Hollywood plot out of it.
I imagine the film might work for those who haven't read the book, but I'm not sure what they would learn from the movie, as all the plot subtleties have been subsumed by special effects.
The most poignant part of the book, for example, was a scene where the heroine, Lyra, and her daemon Pan, try to get as far a way from each other as possible. This causes them both physical and emotional pain and as Pan tries desperately to reach his goal, stretching the mystical bond between Lyra and himself further and further, they give up and come back together, hugging and weeping at the ordeal of being so far apart. This makes a scene later on when the villains of the piece are attempting to cut Lyra and Pan apart for good sickening in its cruelty, as we know what's at stake.
Of course, that first scene isn't in the movie. The second is, but it has no feeling. Meanwhile, the filmmakers think it's more important to spend a fortune showing two CGI armoured bears fighting. That fight is in the book, but the stakes involved are much more important than in the movie. The plot has been re jigged and the reasons for the bear fight are meaningless.
Finally, the book ends on a tragic note, although setting up for its sequel. The movie sets up for its sequel on an terribly fabricated happy note, which I think has guaranteed no sequel will be forth coming.
Hollywood. Please try again when all memory of this version has been lost.
To be fair, I had only just finished reading the book when I saw the movie, so the differences may have been more glaring than they should have been. However, the movie couldn't have been more different in its understanding of the book to my understanding.
The filmmakers seemed hell bent on bending the story of The Golden Compass to fit some kind of Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings mould, with snarling villains, deux ex machina plot points and a motley crew of characters. It didn't fit, so it broke. They would have been better served trying to follow the emotional journey of the book, with its incredibly poignant relationship between the humans and their mystical soul companions called daemons, rather than forcing a Hollywood plot out of it.
I imagine the film might work for those who haven't read the book, but I'm not sure what they would learn from the movie, as all the plot subtleties have been subsumed by special effects.
The most poignant part of the book, for example, was a scene where the heroine, Lyra, and her daemon Pan, try to get as far a way from each other as possible. This causes them both physical and emotional pain and as Pan tries desperately to reach his goal, stretching the mystical bond between Lyra and himself further and further, they give up and come back together, hugging and weeping at the ordeal of being so far apart. This makes a scene later on when the villains of the piece are attempting to cut Lyra and Pan apart for good sickening in its cruelty, as we know what's at stake.
Of course, that first scene isn't in the movie. The second is, but it has no feeling. Meanwhile, the filmmakers think it's more important to spend a fortune showing two CGI armoured bears fighting. That fight is in the book, but the stakes involved are much more important than in the movie. The plot has been re jigged and the reasons for the bear fight are meaningless.
Finally, the book ends on a tragic note, although setting up for its sequel. The movie sets up for its sequel on an terribly fabricated happy note, which I think has guaranteed no sequel will be forth coming.
Hollywood. Please try again when all memory of this version has been lost.
Movie Review: Lost in Translation
This review has been a long time coming.
Not because I watched Lost in Translation when everyone else did, I didn't. I only just finally got round to it recently. I don't know how I managed to miss it. I love Bill Murray and, as you probably know, everyone else saw it and everyone else thought it was great. That might actually be why I haven't seen it. I haven't seen Juno yet, either.
So anyway, I'm 16,968 kilometres from most of my DVDs, so I've leaped boldly into the world of iTunes movie downloads. It's a strange world, seemingly plucked from a past where movies have no subtitle or audio options and full screen playback seems to take 5 - 10 minutes to sort itself out before actually showing me the movie I'm trying to watch.
I figured Lost in Translation would be a good starting point, given from what I knew of the plot: Bill Murray and Scarlett Johanssen are lost souls who connect with one another in a foreign city. I'm in a foreign city. My soul is lost. Must be the movie for me. Plus, it was $10. Which pretty much sells itself when you are broke and unemployed and living off your credit card.
So, on to the review, which has now been even longer coming as I'm typing this freeform and tangents are flowing. What I knew of the plot was pretty much spot on. Yes, Bill Murray is in it. He plays Bill Murray, except a bit less successful and with some incredibly poignant comedy acting rather than the usual Bill Murrayisms. Also, Scarlett Johanssen is in it, before she got all big and starry. They are both awesome and I'm frankly attracted to both of them. They are lost souls in Tokyo, as expected. They forge a strong friendship, bordering on a romance. The movie is clever that way. Both characters know deep down that while their lost souls may be soul mates, it may just be the setting that makes it work.
I was hoping to find some personal meaning or something to help me deal with my personal case of lost in translation. But really, I don't have much in common with an ageing millionaire movie star or the spouse of a successful photographer. But I got more out of the movie than I was expecting. It has an overall sense of psychological maturity and truth that is very compelling. The two leads are amazing and the age difference just doesn't become an issue. I often enjoy "moments in time" stories such as this. The two characters have an amazing few days together and then its over. The memories, the sheer fact that such moments are possible, will tide them over for the rest of their lives.
I thought I'd be self conscious about Sophia Coppola's direction, it's the first movie of hers I've watched, but she is very adept at her craft. A lot of the movie feels like the travel movies we all make with our digital cameras and, while that could be a clunky choice, it isn't as it gives the audience the common grounding of travelling in a strange city.
I loved it.
Not because I watched Lost in Translation when everyone else did, I didn't. I only just finally got round to it recently. I don't know how I managed to miss it. I love Bill Murray and, as you probably know, everyone else saw it and everyone else thought it was great. That might actually be why I haven't seen it. I haven't seen Juno yet, either.
So anyway, I'm 16,968 kilometres from most of my DVDs, so I've leaped boldly into the world of iTunes movie downloads. It's a strange world, seemingly plucked from a past where movies have no subtitle or audio options and full screen playback seems to take 5 - 10 minutes to sort itself out before actually showing me the movie I'm trying to watch.
I figured Lost in Translation would be a good starting point, given from what I knew of the plot: Bill Murray and Scarlett Johanssen are lost souls who connect with one another in a foreign city. I'm in a foreign city. My soul is lost. Must be the movie for me. Plus, it was $10. Which pretty much sells itself when you are broke and unemployed and living off your credit card.
So, on to the review, which has now been even longer coming as I'm typing this freeform and tangents are flowing. What I knew of the plot was pretty much spot on. Yes, Bill Murray is in it. He plays Bill Murray, except a bit less successful and with some incredibly poignant comedy acting rather than the usual Bill Murrayisms. Also, Scarlett Johanssen is in it, before she got all big and starry. They are both awesome and I'm frankly attracted to both of them. They are lost souls in Tokyo, as expected. They forge a strong friendship, bordering on a romance. The movie is clever that way. Both characters know deep down that while their lost souls may be soul mates, it may just be the setting that makes it work.
I was hoping to find some personal meaning or something to help me deal with my personal case of lost in translation. But really, I don't have much in common with an ageing millionaire movie star or the spouse of a successful photographer. But I got more out of the movie than I was expecting. It has an overall sense of psychological maturity and truth that is very compelling. The two leads are amazing and the age difference just doesn't become an issue. I often enjoy "moments in time" stories such as this. The two characters have an amazing few days together and then its over. The memories, the sheer fact that such moments are possible, will tide them over for the rest of their lives.
I thought I'd be self conscious about Sophia Coppola's direction, it's the first movie of hers I've watched, but she is very adept at her craft. A lot of the movie feels like the travel movies we all make with our digital cameras and, while that could be a clunky choice, it isn't as it gives the audience the common grounding of travelling in a strange city.
I loved it.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Sheep
Once, years ago, when I came to France with my rollerblades, I was the only one who had them. People looked on and stared rudely, part surprise, part shock at the sight of someone doing something different. The next time I came, everyone had rollerblades. The children, the angsty teens, even some brave older people, being pulled along by their tiny dogettes.
Right now, the craze is razor scooters. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, here in Paris has one. Business men, every child, even some brave older people, being pulled along by their dogettes.
You see, the French seem to love their crazes. Even here in Paris, where there is mix of cultures and ways of being, almost everyone jumps on the bandwagon. Most people here (and it's everywhere, I suppose, not just France) are scared shitless of not fitting in. Of being different. The man from whom I'm renting a room is very anal. Everything has to be clean, but not simply clean. It all needs to be cleaned in a certain way, at a certain time. I got a big dose of the French fitting in syndrome when he explained that he was a maniac for cleaning. He has good English and immediately panicked (I'm not exaggerating, he started fidgeting about and sweating) when he thought I might understand maniac in its English connotation rather than the French. Maniac in French has no mental illness connotations, shall we say. He was panicking that I might think him somewhat crazy.
It may be a throwback to a time when people were locked up for being different, slightly off. So now, when there is a new fad, women, men, children everywhere look out their windows and see it and immediately rush out to join in.
It's how the dogette fetish started, I'm sure. It became fashionable to have a tiny dog, now every one and their dog has a tiny dog. Barely attached to a lead, running in and out of traffic, the women secretly hoping a car will hit it and she can stop caring for this fucking dog that she hates but only keeps because everyone else has one. But the cars never do hit them.
I think a lot of people feel the same way about their children, as they seem more than content to constantly put their kids in harm's way. They run out into traffic and the parents don't even bat an eyelid. They don't call them back and they don't tell them off for being reckless. In fact, they have a gleam in their eye that suggests hope. Hope that a car will hit them and they can stop caring for these fucking children that they hate but only produced as everyone else did. But the cars never do hit them.
I've been trying to escape this sheep flocking behaviour for most of my adult life. I don't want a normal career. I don't want a wife, two kids, a cat, a dog, a large house in the suburbs, two garages, two cars and a neat lawn. I don't care if people think I'm crazy. The "dream" doesn't interest me. I've left a country that has this dream firmly branded into its soul. I've arrived in a country that has chased this dream for thousands of years.
I must be crazy.
Right now, the craze is razor scooters. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, here in Paris has one. Business men, every child, even some brave older people, being pulled along by their dogettes.
You see, the French seem to love their crazes. Even here in Paris, where there is mix of cultures and ways of being, almost everyone jumps on the bandwagon. Most people here (and it's everywhere, I suppose, not just France) are scared shitless of not fitting in. Of being different. The man from whom I'm renting a room is very anal. Everything has to be clean, but not simply clean. It all needs to be cleaned in a certain way, at a certain time. I got a big dose of the French fitting in syndrome when he explained that he was a maniac for cleaning. He has good English and immediately panicked (I'm not exaggerating, he started fidgeting about and sweating) when he thought I might understand maniac in its English connotation rather than the French. Maniac in French has no mental illness connotations, shall we say. He was panicking that I might think him somewhat crazy.
It may be a throwback to a time when people were locked up for being different, slightly off. So now, when there is a new fad, women, men, children everywhere look out their windows and see it and immediately rush out to join in.
It's how the dogette fetish started, I'm sure. It became fashionable to have a tiny dog, now every one and their dog has a tiny dog. Barely attached to a lead, running in and out of traffic, the women secretly hoping a car will hit it and she can stop caring for this fucking dog that she hates but only keeps because everyone else has one. But the cars never do hit them.
I think a lot of people feel the same way about their children, as they seem more than content to constantly put their kids in harm's way. They run out into traffic and the parents don't even bat an eyelid. They don't call them back and they don't tell them off for being reckless. In fact, they have a gleam in their eye that suggests hope. Hope that a car will hit them and they can stop caring for these fucking children that they hate but only produced as everyone else did. But the cars never do hit them.
I've been trying to escape this sheep flocking behaviour for most of my adult life. I don't want a normal career. I don't want a wife, two kids, a cat, a dog, a large house in the suburbs, two garages, two cars and a neat lawn. I don't care if people think I'm crazy. The "dream" doesn't interest me. I've left a country that has this dream firmly branded into its soul. I've arrived in a country that has chased this dream for thousands of years.
I must be crazy.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Nostalgia
I've never liked having my photo taken. However, I've just found a couple of photo albums of me circa birth - 15-16 or so. It's so much fun looking at them. Thinking of captions. Wondering whether I have a couple of years to take a photo of each one with my iPhone, as I don't have a scanner here, and uploading them to Facebook.
It's quite a bit like looking back at old blog posts (tallied it up and I've been blogging, on and off, for just over nine years now!). It's a portal into a former me. The photos are portals into former mes, former friends, former family and former pets. It's all quite nostalgic!
I'm getting soft in my old age!
It's quite a bit like looking back at old blog posts (tallied it up and I've been blogging, on and off, for just over nine years now!). It's a portal into a former me. The photos are portals into former mes, former friends, former family and former pets. It's all quite nostalgic!
I'm getting soft in my old age!
Saturday, March 13, 2010
The singularity is near. Repent.
When I Twitter my Facebook updates.
When I Twitter my Buzz updates.
When I blog my Facebook updates.
When I read my memory updates.
When I reply my iPhone updates.
When I write my Google Docs update.
When Shatner updates My Outer Space updates.
When I update I update.
When I update I update.
Update.
When I Twitter my Buzz updates.
When I blog my Facebook updates.
When I read my memory updates.
When I reply my iPhone updates.
When I write my Google Docs update.
When Shatner updates My Outer Space updates.
When I update I update.
When I update I update.
Update.
It continues.
Here was the plan:
If a letter from the bank arrived today, telling me my bank card was ready to pick up, then I'd book a train back to Paris for Tuesday.
The letter arrived! "Your card is ready at your local agency, it will be there from today" So I fire up the website for the train and am about to commit when I decide I better wait until the card is in my hand and I'm sure I have no more business here in Sanary to conclude.
I rock on up to the bank, my letter and retrieval voucher ready and filled out. "Nope, it's not here", says the dude behind a tiny little display counter, whose job it is to redirect people to the ATM machines as this BANK doesn't deal with money.
"Um, what? This letter says it is available, how can I get a letter from the bank and the bank itself hasn't received it?", I ask in shaky French.
"No idea, you need to talk to your account manager. Who is on leave today. Come back Monday."
"But, but I don't have enough French to argue with you, you rat faced, incompetent loser. How is it you can keep a job here? This isn't the first time I've seen you have no answers for a customer", I would have said, shakily, in shaky French, had I not been shaking with rage.
I tucked my coccyx back between my legs and left. Defeated once again by the Frenchman's unwillingness to look the French bureaucracy in the eye and get a job done. What's more, he's no doubt now bitching and whining about these foreigners who expect so much from him, their unreasonable demands that he concur with the directives sent out automatically by his soulless corporate head office. Lamenting that his job will soon be replaced by a machine, like that of his bank teller compatriots.
What job? You don't have one, dickhead. I hope they turf you out on the street and you die in a fire.
Ah, feel better now. Who said blogging wasn't therapeutic.
If a letter from the bank arrived today, telling me my bank card was ready to pick up, then I'd book a train back to Paris for Tuesday.
The letter arrived! "Your card is ready at your local agency, it will be there from today" So I fire up the website for the train and am about to commit when I decide I better wait until the card is in my hand and I'm sure I have no more business here in Sanary to conclude.
I rock on up to the bank, my letter and retrieval voucher ready and filled out. "Nope, it's not here", says the dude behind a tiny little display counter, whose job it is to redirect people to the ATM machines as this BANK doesn't deal with money.
"Um, what? This letter says it is available, how can I get a letter from the bank and the bank itself hasn't received it?", I ask in shaky French.
"No idea, you need to talk to your account manager. Who is on leave today. Come back Monday."
"But, but I don't have enough French to argue with you, you rat faced, incompetent loser. How is it you can keep a job here? This isn't the first time I've seen you have no answers for a customer", I would have said, shakily, in shaky French, had I not been shaking with rage.
I tucked my coccyx back between my legs and left. Defeated once again by the Frenchman's unwillingness to look the French bureaucracy in the eye and get a job done. What's more, he's no doubt now bitching and whining about these foreigners who expect so much from him, their unreasonable demands that he concur with the directives sent out automatically by his soulless corporate head office. Lamenting that his job will soon be replaced by a machine, like that of his bank teller compatriots.
What job? You don't have one, dickhead. I hope they turf you out on the street and you die in a fire.
Ah, feel better now. Who said blogging wasn't therapeutic.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
A message
I was just on the royal throne, exorcising some demons and I noticed that my bottle of Brut deodorant was positioned in such as way that it said "RUT: odorant".
It felt like a message.
It felt like a message.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
2010: The Year of Not Easy
That's what I'm calling 2010 in internal memos. And external communication as well, I'm not one to hide how utterly insane I can be.
It started with moving to France. To be honest, the journey was easy. Exhausting. 24 hours long. But, you know what, I got through it. No hassles at customs, no lost luggage and the usual head cold I get whenever I fly didn't happen.
I also had sent a box of stuff from Sydney, stuff it turns out now that I'm here I could do without. Should have waited.
But then it started to get weird. I started by staying with my grandmother in the south of France. She was ill when I arrived and was the very opposite of welcoming. In fact, despite being totally prepared for this, I wasn't. It was imaginary, my resolve. So I decided to start looking for a flat share in Paris.
Found one at the end of February, but it's a bit too expensive. So, I've got two months or so to find a job and find other accommodation. Not easy. Plus, I now have too much stuff to transport on the train, so going to have to hire a car.
And when I got back from Paris to find the place, I got sick. I intended to go back last Thursday, but the money I sent to a French bank account for paying the rent was delayed. So, next Tuesday was going to be the day. Except I can't transfer the rent to the guy I'm sharing with because I need a code. Which has been sent to Australia. So Tuesday isn't looking likely. I went and got my own bank account, but the codes and cards and various sundries and whatnots won't arrive until Friday at the earliest. I've signed up to pay the rent from 1 March (it's the 6th today) and it's looking like I won't get back there to live for another week and a bit. So, two weeks down the drain. Two weeks of money I can't afford. Not easy.
And my grandmother has been so much better. Not sure if it's the weather getting better, or maybe now she knows what I'm doing here she's happier. But I don't actually feel like leaving. Not to mention I've made a couple of friends here at a school for learning French I've been going to. It all starts to work out, just as I leave! That's how leaving Sydney felt too. Once I'd made the decision to go to France, life was being truly wonderful to me. I need to take from that the lesson that happiness is possible, even if I seem to find ways to avoid it.
Sometimes you have to go down to get back up. It was like that last time I was unemployed, I hit rock bottom and climbed my way back up. I've slid back down again. I can only hope that each time I do this, I end up higher than I did before. Sometimes you have to pull it all apart and put it back together to make it better. Not easy. But I'm going to make it!
It started with moving to France. To be honest, the journey was easy. Exhausting. 24 hours long. But, you know what, I got through it. No hassles at customs, no lost luggage and the usual head cold I get whenever I fly didn't happen.
I also had sent a box of stuff from Sydney, stuff it turns out now that I'm here I could do without. Should have waited.
But then it started to get weird. I started by staying with my grandmother in the south of France. She was ill when I arrived and was the very opposite of welcoming. In fact, despite being totally prepared for this, I wasn't. It was imaginary, my resolve. So I decided to start looking for a flat share in Paris.
Found one at the end of February, but it's a bit too expensive. So, I've got two months or so to find a job and find other accommodation. Not easy. Plus, I now have too much stuff to transport on the train, so going to have to hire a car.
And when I got back from Paris to find the place, I got sick. I intended to go back last Thursday, but the money I sent to a French bank account for paying the rent was delayed. So, next Tuesday was going to be the day. Except I can't transfer the rent to the guy I'm sharing with because I need a code. Which has been sent to Australia. So Tuesday isn't looking likely. I went and got my own bank account, but the codes and cards and various sundries and whatnots won't arrive until Friday at the earliest. I've signed up to pay the rent from 1 March (it's the 6th today) and it's looking like I won't get back there to live for another week and a bit. So, two weeks down the drain. Two weeks of money I can't afford. Not easy.
And my grandmother has been so much better. Not sure if it's the weather getting better, or maybe now she knows what I'm doing here she's happier. But I don't actually feel like leaving. Not to mention I've made a couple of friends here at a school for learning French I've been going to. It all starts to work out, just as I leave! That's how leaving Sydney felt too. Once I'd made the decision to go to France, life was being truly wonderful to me. I need to take from that the lesson that happiness is possible, even if I seem to find ways to avoid it.
Sometimes you have to go down to get back up. It was like that last time I was unemployed, I hit rock bottom and climbed my way back up. I've slid back down again. I can only hope that each time I do this, I end up higher than I did before. Sometimes you have to pull it all apart and put it back together to make it better. Not easy. But I'm going to make it!
Friday, March 05, 2010
What do I want?
Firstly, I want to post as Sacha. First time.
Secondly, I want to become a full-time writer. You know, stay at home, write something everyday, experience life, drink and fret. I'm quite accomplished at the writers' life style (at least the clichéd one), so I really need to add the writer part to that.
I'm giving myself 10 years. It seems like a long time, but if it happens sooner: gravy. I like gravy.
I'm doing a course that, in 10 months, will have pushed me to write a first draft of a novel.
I'm resurrecting this blog, which was always my outlet, through Chas, to keep the writing skills up. The funny thing is, despite the existence of this blog and various other (and quite numerous) bits of writing I've done, I've NEVER considered myself a writer. I don't know why, whether it was something I was told I couldn't be in high school, or a mental block in my own world view, but I just never considered it.
I know this. I love writing.I have a creative imagination. I always have. The stories and ideas and philosophies and howtos running around my head have never had an outlet. I've always looked at film making, or game development as a possible dumping ground for my imaginings, but they are difficult, time consuming professions that require many people to be involved.
Writing is solitary. You don't need anyone else to get the story out of your head. Of course, you need many people to polish a story or any piece of writing to a form it can make a living for you, but the hard part, the part I need: the downloading of the creative madness from my brain; that, I can do myself.
So, as Chas mentioned below (well, me, but I've lived with Chas being my online agent that he basically is someone else), I'm about to start a very scary 3 months of living with a stranger, looking for work to pay the rent and writing in my spare time. I'm a pessimist, and a realist and I can't see my chances being that good. I may have to enjoy Paris while I can, and head back to Australia where I have a better chance of finding work. The French don't put much stock on 10 years of experience and a willingness to work hard. They want specific degrees for specific jobs. They want clones and robots. It's a pity I have no way of proving worth until I'm already through the door. But, I digress, this post is about writing, not the French. I've got plenty to say on both.
Secondly, I want to become a full-time writer. You know, stay at home, write something everyday, experience life, drink and fret. I'm quite accomplished at the writers' life style (at least the clichéd one), so I really need to add the writer part to that.
I'm giving myself 10 years. It seems like a long time, but if it happens sooner: gravy. I like gravy.
I'm doing a course that, in 10 months, will have pushed me to write a first draft of a novel.
I'm resurrecting this blog, which was always my outlet, through Chas, to keep the writing skills up. The funny thing is, despite the existence of this blog and various other (and quite numerous) bits of writing I've done, I've NEVER considered myself a writer. I don't know why, whether it was something I was told I couldn't be in high school, or a mental block in my own world view, but I just never considered it.
I know this. I love writing.
Writing is solitary. You don't need anyone else to get the story out of your head. Of course, you need many people to polish a story or any piece of writing to a form it can make a living for you, but the hard part, the part I need: the downloading of the creative madness from my brain; that, I can do myself.
So, as Chas mentioned below (well, me, but I've lived with Chas being my online agent that he basically is someone else), I'm about to start a very scary 3 months of living with a stranger, looking for work to pay the rent and writing in my spare time. I'm a pessimist, and a realist and I can't see my chances being that good. I may have to enjoy Paris while I can, and head back to Australia where I have a better chance of finding work. The French don't put much stock on 10 years of experience and a willingness to work hard. They want specific degrees for specific jobs. They want clones and robots. It's a pity I have no way of proving worth until I'm already through the door. But, I digress, this post is about writing, not the French. I've got plenty to say on both.
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