The nice thing about doing research for a story set in an alternate universe version of the Victorian era, London, is that everything one learns can be used for a Steampunk story later on. Seriously, this time period is a goldmine, from extreme class differences that can be used to set up an alien invasion revolution fought off by the rich and fueled by the poor, to periodic cholera outbreaks that could be caused by a magician who killed a troll and deposited it into the Themes and didn’t think about the ensuing contamination that would sure to occur.
And then there is a traditional steampunk story that could be written with this information, full of steam-powered hot air balloon warships with skulls painted on the canvas and baskets. Possibilities: they are endless!
The only thing about all of this is that I have a very firm set of characters to work with, and sadly I’m having so much fun reading about the supposed time period they are to interact in that I’ve not given them much of my time. Can’t write a story if you’re too busy reading about political parties in the late 1800’s– not to mention reading about the aforementioned political parties when they have no bearing on your story.
That is why I’ve imposed a time limit on myself. I’ve got the rest of the weekend to cackle with glee and figure out the currency exchange rate in 1874, but come Monday I simply must buckle down and write and write and write. Research is to give the plot meat, the characters dimensions. Not take over the entire process until the characters give up the ghost and pack up their toys to go home.
Not saying that there are any toys in this instance, but you know what I mean.
It’s dreary outside, but I’m huddled against the breeze that is so malicious against my lizard-blood anyway. Nothing like natural (dim) light and freezing your arse off to get the blood pumping, the creativity flowing.
Well, maybe not the last part.
I could blame the internet on my lack of progress with certain projects, but honestly, that would be like saying the sky is falling, and an aeroplane is the cause of such a travesty. They’re distantly related, but not concurrent.
.
My least favourite place in the world is the laundromat. I manage to look like a brooding young hipster with my old laptop and camo-coloured messenger bag, but it doesn’t stop the loudness of the other people using the building. Or hell, even the loudness of the machines.
But the worst thing about the Palace of Clean Laundry is the children who run around screaming like banshees and knocking into things. They think they run this mechanical vorpal pit, so they make us all deal with their animalistic behavior.
And me without my Boomstick.
No, I do not wish ill upon these children. In fact, I hope they will grow up strong and healthy, so that they may have a long life ahead of them. After all, how else are they to learn of the drudgery of life, and suffer through another batch of children fresh off of William Golding’s island, running amock through the next generation of laundromats, wishing they had a shotgun for the children or themselves?
This wish for their health doesn’t stop me from glaring at them when they creep up under the table and try to haul down my precious computer by the power cord. And it doesn’t stop me from kicking at their head with a low growl.
The possibility of incarceration stops me from the latter, and their parents from the former.
(damn those parents, ruining all my fun.)