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Guest Post Sunday: How Roleplaying Games Influenced my Writing Journey

This week’s guest post is by Andrew Roberts.

I’ve often joked that one of the reasons I came to university was to play Dungeons & Dragons again. When asked if that’s how I spend my time at university, I say it’s what got me into writing in the first place. Even today, I often wonder how table-top roleplaying games contributed to my writing journey; after all, it’s a form of interactive storytelling.

Most people are familiar with the name Dungeons & Dragons, which is so ubiquitous that it’s often used as a short-hand for most table-top roleplaying games. For those who aren’t familiar, here’s how they work: one person, known as a “Dungeon Master” or “Games-Master”, tells a story and assumes the roles of characters – known as Non-Player Characters (NPCs) – in the world they have created. The other participants are the players, who assume the roles of Player Characters (PCs). Their actions are usually determined by rolling dice, and different PCs often have different abilities. While the Games-Master might have an adventure prepared, the players may not always follow it, so the storytelling often requires some improvisation and quick thinking on the host’s part. Most of these games tend to take place in a Tolkien-style medieval fantasy, but they do explore other genres too.

I was introduced to Dungeons & Dragons around 2003, when I moved to Staffordshire. I was later able to introduce some of my school friends to the game, with my brother hosting the campaigns. When he went to university, I took over as the host, running campaigns using a Star Wars roleplaying game. Things took off when I was 17, and my brother gave me a copy of a roleplaying game called Deadlands. Taking place in the American West, it combines steampunk and horror in a
fascinating alternative history. At that point, my roleplaying group had drifted apart, so I was struggling to find people to run a campaign. But I also loved the world the rulebook painted, and wanted to write a story in it. A lot of my early writing was probably Deadlands fan fiction.

The introduction to Deadlands also introduced me to the Savage Worlds roleplaying system, which accommodates more action-packed games. It was through that system I discovered the medium of “pulp” genre fiction – named after the cheap paper it was printed on – dating back to the early 20th Century. (Characters like Tarzan and Zorro started in pulp magazines, and the Indiana Jones films are heavily influenced by these kinds of stories.) At this stage of my life, I was struggling with A-Levels, so not able to run as many sessions. Looking for an escape, I found solace in writing pulp stories based on the Savage Worlds adventures I’d been reading instead.

Coming into writing via roleplaying has meant that I’ve often focussed more on making characters rather than stories. This includes my two swashbuckler heroes: Kestrel and Scar. It has also meant that I’ve developed a rather cinematic writing style, especially when it comes to action. That’s something I’m trying to improve for prose.

I still play roleplaying games to this day, having joined a university society dedicated to the activity. In fact, I’m trying my hand at writing my own setting which mocks the tropes and conventions used in such games. Perhaps it will open up some new avenues of writing for me.

Andrew Roberts has been writing as a hobby since he was 17, and is influenced by the old pulp magazines of the early 20th Century. While working as an accountant, he began working on a series of swashbuckler stories following the adventures of wandering rogues Kestrel and Scar. His discovery of the Swanwick Writers’ Summer School in 2016 inspired him to take his writing further. He took a hiatus from the accounts profession in 2018 to study for a BA in Creative Writing, and hopes to be able to continue his writing once he finishes his degree.

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Death of Deadlines: A Summer Sabbatical

It’s SUMMER!!!

I was travelling yesterday, so I’m posting this 12 hours after my usual deadline for posts (Wednesdays and Sundays at 7pm), but this feels like an apt moment to tell my awesome subscribers that I’m taking a month off so I can read as many books as possible without a deadline. (I’ve also taken up rollerskating, so this explains the pic below – there are books in the rucksack, I promise.)

I have finished teaching for the summer term, so now is the perfect opportunity to sit back and read the books I haven’t had much time for (namely, The Lord of the Rings). I will be back in August to write about all of the amazing/questionable/horrendous reads I have come across throughout July, and to tell you about the online writing courses and competitions I’ve entered.

Thanks for your ongoing support and good vibes. Tweet me @GCtheWriter with recommended reads and your writing/blogs/skating tips. See you in August!

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Guest Post Sunday: Fairy Stories, W B Yeats, and the Twisted World

This week’s guest post is by Yvonne Marjot.

In 1974 I was given a copy of Charles Causley’s Puffin Book of Magic Verse. On the cusp of childhood and adolescence (aged 12) I was already a veteran of Hobbits and Narnians, and had been making up tales and rhymes for as long as I could remember. My mum used to say I wouldn’t know the truth if I fell over it in the street, although come to think of it that *might* not be a compliment.

There are some great classics in this book, including an excerpt from the longest poem I know by heart, Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott, and Causley had a real influence on my writing, not least in his careful assertion (in reference to the magical nature of these poems) that ‘spells don’t work once you’ve written them down’. Understanding this enabled me to write some heart-wrenching poetry after my partner died in 2016, reaching out to him, knowing he could not reply. We’d have ventured across the bourne, torn space and time apart, and destroyed the universe to get back to each other if we could. Just as well that wasn’t possible.

Also in the book was William Butler Yeats’ Stolen Child, and it became one of my favourites. Raised on Andrew Lang and the Brothers Grimm, I thought of changelings as an evil perpetuated on grieving parents. But this poem presents an alternative—the child led into the faerie world as an escape from the grim misery of reality. And right now, with the world torn apart by pandemic illness, blatant and unrepentant racism, and the gender debate convulsed with prejudice and spite, it feels especially tempting to think about escaping into an alternative existence.

Yeats was born on 13 June 1865, 155 years ago, and he was no stranger to the misery of reality. I have no doubt he wrote poetry (felt compelled to write) as an escape from real life, but he knew it is so much more than that. It’s a way of facing reality and coming to terms with it.

In The Stolen Child, Yeats paints a picture of a wondrous realm of sweet cherries, rushing waters, dancing and feasting. Who wouldn’t want to foot it with the fae “till the moon has taken flight”? The faeries are stealing the child, but they persuade him with delights and it all sounds wonderful. But in the final verse Yeats brings us home again.

“Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.”

Here are the warm, homely pleasures the child will be losing. Wild frolics in the great outdoors are all very well, but he will lose the quiet security of home and the place where he really belongs. And suddenly that tempting vat of cherries has lost its savour.

In 1988 The Waterboys released Fisherman’s Blues, which included their version of The Stolen Child, very sympathetically done, with the verse spoken calmly over a quietly evocative soundtrack. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqAyfueYtT0

Telling stories is how we make sense of the world. And poets like Yeats speak to us just as strongly today as in the nineteenth century. Even in a pretty rhyme about fairies, so easily overlooked.

My own writing is full of mythical references, and links to the writers and poets I love, perhaps no more so than in my book of short stories, Treacle and Other Twisted Tales, which, along with longer stories, includes a number of Twitter-sized myths and fairy tales.

Y Gwanwyn (Spring)

The girl made of flowers
lay down with the fair-haired boy,
and naught but trouble
came of it,
as you might expect.

Selkie

I left the sea
for the love of a man;
the joy I have had
is a handful of sand.
Let me lie on the shore
till the sea eats my bones;
though I yearn for the deeps
I can never go home.

Deirdre

Shall the storyteller’s daughter
be found by the river?
No, for she’s awa’
seeking mischief
wi’ the blue-eyed boys.

Treacle and Other Twisted Stories, free for kindle on 13/14 June 2020. mybook.to/treacle

Thank you, Georgia, for inviting me to your blog. You can find me on Twitter and Facebook, and on my blog, The Knitted Curiosity Cabinet, and I welcome questions from readers on Goodreads.

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Choice and the Unknown: Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice

‘I found myself staring at the skull…’

I don’t know whether it is difficult to empathise with Louis, or whether I just don’t want to empathise with him at all. Turned into a vampire, he searches over centuries for a sense of meaning: an understanding of good and evil; querying the existence of God and Satan; attempting to figure out his purpose. A reason why vampires, like him, exist.

To me, it is futile to spend so much time considering these ideas (the same questions materialise in a mortal mind), and yet, Louis’ curiosity is absolutely absorbing. His passions stem from his desire to understand why he is immortal, but once he realises he has no way of understanding, he loses all sense of feeling.

‘You showed me the only thing that I could really hope to become, what depth of evil, what degree of coldness I would have to attain to end my pain. And I accepted that. And so that passion, that love you saw in me, was extinguished.’

Louis’ acceptance of his vampiric nature, this choice, leaves him distant and callous, because his acceptance comes from despair. His inability to accept what is unknown to him means he has lost all hope. He believes he is doomed.

I think, at the moment, this is something many people feel. I have noticed this particularly with pupils, who are desperately upset about what is happening in terms of their exams this year. There is a sense of a loss of control, and it is completely understandable. But I think you can choose how you interpret this feeling.

Either, this loss of control – which many of us feel at the moment in different capacities – sends us into despair and hopelessness, or, we can accept the unknown. We can accept that there is nothing we can do about certain things, things are ‘out of our hands’ and we must put our trust in ourselves, and in others, and try not to dwell on things we have no control over.

Presently, we live in a time of anxiety and dejection; but it can also be a time of hope. Claudia, the vampire child who grows to be a woman psychologically, but is trapped inside the body of a child, comes to terms with her existence, and makes decisions to support her future as much as she can. (I could write about the complexity of her being for days…) She picks a woman to be her vampire ‘mother’, someone who will dote on her and do whatever she asks. But Louis, at first, refuses (selfishly) to turn the mortal woman into a vampire, until Claudia says:

‘Monsters! To give me immortality in this hopeless guise, this helpless form! […] Now, you give her to me!’

It is such a beautiful portrayal of the power of language, and the frustration and pain Claudia feels in her confinement. But in this moment, after so many years, she finds a way to free herself, as much as is possible. She makes a choice: one of hope, instead of despair.

In this historic year of uncertainty, and overwhelming sense of the unknown: which choice will you make? Do you choose hope and acceptance, or their lamentable brother, despair?