The Hobbit Movie Forum

[Felagund]

I've drawn maps too! And I tried to create a language called...what was it? Mimenjo (Meh-meng-GO) But never got round to using either, although I got quite far with the language. One of my five results I'm waiting back is HIGHER FRENCH - I'M PRAYING FOR AN A I GOT ONE IN MY PRELIM (MOCK EXAM)

[Light In The Dark]

are...erm...the OTHER sort of fantasies, the kind you don't want your mother to find .

GB

Tsk, Tsk, tsk.
In other news, I have the same dilemma, in which I try to go into in-depth Lore and such, trying to be like Tolkien and create languages and such, and then I realize I have no idea for the base story and such, even though I have the maps and Languages and races planned out. . . oops .

EDIT: Do I really use "And such" that much? No wonder I wouldn't make a good author .

[Zackira]

I think I made some maps sometime...and I remember my languages...

That was some bad-ass stuff! Sometimes I just...make a world, make a dilemma, and if I got the house alone, I just go around, pretending to be one of the characters in my own story. Its like day-dreaming and sleep-walking at the same time Its very very amusing. I can talk to people who are not there, fight, do anything! And then I hear a noise from far away screaming: ...whaT ARE YOU DOING!? STOP HITTING MY PILLOW!

[Beren]

Do I really use "And such" that much? No wonder I wouldn't make a good author .

I suppose you do use "and such" a lot...but I never noticed it until you mentioned it, and it has never bothered me. So don't worry about it

[Show]

Allright, I'll fall on this one. I found in an email to myself a setup I had for a story. I never wrote the rest, but let me know, if you want to take the time to read the begining, what you think.

The Traveler walked to the front door. Seeing the light from the distance he had made for the large inn. Knocking loudly at the door he finally got the innkeeper's attention. The night was dark and very rainy and there was no reason to have expected more visitors that night. When the door opened the innkeeper was looking upon a large dark shape on the doorstep. Under the hood of the cloak could been seen the end of a long crooked nose.
“What be you wantin’ on this night, sir?” the innkeeper asked after a moment.
Finally the figure spoke, “I wish to release my feet from the road, and perhaps to ease my appetite a little.”
“Why didn’t ya just say so! Come in, come in.”
In the main room there was a large fire burning. All the patrons had turned their chairs towards the warmth to stave off the cold of the rain. Some of the latest to get in were still trying to dry their coats. All seemed to be paying attention to two men stalking back and forth before the fire. The old Traveler decided to sit near the back and listen to what was going on. As it turns out that one of the two men had been trying to regale the people with the story of Sir Garulf. The only problem was that no one here had actually read the fabled squires accounts of the actual event that are presumed lost when Mordred finally fell.
The other man who was now pacing back and forth with the storyteller was a critic and kept insisting that he had the story all wrong. So far, between the two of them, all that could be agreed upon for certain was the hero’s name was in fact Sir Garulf. But the arguments about the name of his squire, those of the company, and even how the whole quest was begun continued to rage on.
Ordering some bread and cheese, to be chased down with a large mug of ale, the old traveler settled down to eat and enjoy the debate. Sitting in the cool darkness, far from the fire the old man enjoyed to here the two men debate over every little nuance of the story. Even others of the crowd would often offer their own versions of how they had heard it. Finally, near the end of his little meal the masses had finally all agreed that Sir Garulf had set out from somewhere, riding with his squire, Elis, and a company of forty other knights who were serving under King Roland, Sir Garulf’s father.
Chuckling to himself, since he knew for a fact that this was just about all wrong, he was amazed to her the details of the next part. The storyteller had decided to tell of the one secret weapon that Sir Garulf had carried with him when he went away to battle. He then launched into a detailed description of a small dagger. The blade was made of the brightest steel. But along one side there was a dark stain, the stain ran down to the hilt where it ended. The handle itself was encrusted with many jewels, for this was a ceremonial blade that was to be use for a birthing. This was the very knife that had bee used to cut the life cord that had bound the enemy Mordred to his mother.
It was at this point that the old man stood and walked up towards the speaker. The man halted when he reached the last table that was before the fire. The sudden movement from behind them had drawn the attention of everyone in the bar. It was then that the old man drew a knife that had been hidden inside his cloak. With a flourish he threw the knife at the table and embedded the blade to the point that the tip was coming through the bottom. The events were enough to startle everyone and even cause the few whom were sitting at the table to fall out of their chairs. After just a moment of swearing and death threats the room was stole over by a complete and utter silence. There, embedded into the tabletop was not just any ordinary blade. It was the very knife that had just been described. Every jewel in it’s place, every inch of the blade just as sharp that day one thousand years ago when it cut the cord of Mordred. There could be no doubt as to the authenticity of the blade. A maker of such skill had not been found in all the years since the elder days.
The only thing that anyone could see that the storyteller had wrong was the size of the bloodstain on the blade. Instead of just a spatter with a drip, the entire top half was stained. Also the blood channel leading to the hilt now bore that same stain. Such amounts of blood were not known to come from such a thing as a cord cutting. And now it was time to tell these people just what had happened in those mountains, all those long years ago.
Now that the man had the attention of the room, he decided to begin his tale.

[Beren]

At first I was envisioning The Cottage of Lost Play, but as I read on, I realized that the inn more resembled the Prancing Pony. But other than that, I don't see any copying of Tolkien here. Good job!
I love stories that begin with someone actually telling the story (from experience). There is something about sitting around a fire and hearing a story from someone's past that just feels authentic. Great beginning! I love the underlying backstory that there is so much of. Although hardly any of it comes forth in this little section, I can see that this is just the tip of the iceberg. There is a whole world behind this curtain of a story. I cannot wait until you "draw the curtain and show [us] the picture." (Twelfth Night)

[Zackira]

Oh, you really caught my attention with this, Show! You should try to finish it! Its very well written, slight of humor, mystique, all good things! Nice job! Well done! All hail!

[Show]

I came up with the idea for the intro because all the really good fairy tales always seem to have so many versions. I just sort of envisoned a crowd trying to listen to a story teller but unable to close their mouths because they had always heard it different when they grew up.
That, and with the intro I was able to lay just enough hints about the story that the reader would have all sorts of guesses for what the story really was. That and as the writer I would have this tiny well of knowledge that I could reread if I got stuck.
Deathlands: The Trader Years started out with the same premise, but I hardly think that story telling device could be copyrighted.

[Felagund]

It is very well written Show, engrossing from the word go. I agree with Beren, there is something beautiful and in my opinion genuine about sitting around a fire and hearing a story of the past. I used to do it with my old great grandmother - bhoy she could tell some tales!

[Felagund]

Here's a tiny little paragraph from a story I was writing. I think I overuse describing words:

"The sun that wondrous grey morning seemed to kiss her head in soft radiance as she danced with lightly-patterned feet upon the flowering grass of Invery Hill, to the call of the turtledove high above her in the gloomy light of a dew-laden dawn. The gentle breeze tapering in soft musical notes from the east hugged her body closely, and breathed fresh, cool spring air into the parched pores of her pale, flacky skin. She was aiming to perfect the American doodlebug, the latest swing export from the United States, which had caused such a fashion revolution in Scotland that every youth from Glasgow to Skegness seemed to be jiving to it."

It isn't one of my fantasy ones, obviously I've written pages and pages of rather randomly related paragraphs and chapters but can never seem to lump it together into a seamless narrative.