Joshua Kelsall

Ever since I started listening to The Smiths, there have been a lot of people grumbling that they are a depressing band, but I've always found them kind of uplifting. Okay, Morrissey's lyrics are quite bleak but most of the so called depressing songs, particularly There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, has a uplifting message, not to mention Johnny Marr's guitar playing which plays against Morrissey's lyrics to brighten up the song. Also, a lot of Morrissey's lyrics are quite funny too and I think people take the melodrama too seriously.

Anyway, what are your thoughts?

I've planned a series of books, the first of which is now finished, along with the plotting for the others. However what I wanted to know is with regards to the synopsis that I write for the literary agency, do I mention the plots for all the books or just the first?

In the covering letter I mentioned the basic premise of all four stories, because obviously that doesn't change. In the synopsis I have basically gone into detail about the plot of the first book because after all that is the one I am getting published. None of the agencies have any information on what to do on their sites, so am I right in thinking that I should send it as it is and that if they are interested, they will ask for more details of the other books when they ask for the full manuscript, or should I send a synopsis of each book?

I've just written the first draft of my synopsis for my book and was wondering what you might think of it. Does it entice you to read the book? Are there any mistakes? Is it well written? Those are the sort of answers I would like and I would be grateful for any constructive thoughts you may have.

In the beginning of time, the creators of this world made a grave mistake. They gave birth to the demon race; powerful devils that absorb the life force out of the living in order prologue their own lives. Unable to rectify their mistake from the heavens, the gods return to the earth in the year 1875, in the forms of two newborn humans; Mina Morgile and William Pinlush.

In their incarnations, the gods no longer remember their past, nor are they born together. William resides in an orphanage in a concealed town named Cavale, surrounded by a vast forest. At the age of fifteen, Mina enters the town and joins the orphanage whilst suffering an amnesia. As she begins to settle there is a murder, believed to have been committed for the sake of a stunning, Sapphire encrusted compass. In the relatively peaceful town where murders and thefts are scarce, the townsfolk are quick to accuse Mina of such atrocities.

The orphans find themselves a peculiar ally in Oliver Cloverfield, one of four mayors of Cavale. William suspects the man has many secrets, especially due to his fixation with Mina. This fixation comes to fruition when Mina is adopted by the man, only to find herself constantly watched and only able to trust but too servants. Mysterious events start occurring to the orphans, all with seemingly mystical qualities such as mind control and a shrouded creature who appears to drain the life out of them. In her new home, Mina begins to dabble into these secrets whilst her parents grow all the more hostile, particularly her adoptive mother, Marie Cloverfield, who soon forbids Mina to see William after their brief romance together.

It is at this point that a divide forms between the mayors of Cavale, with the Cloverfields on one side, still determined to conceal the truth from Mina and William, whilst their fellow mayors, Sylvia and Morgan Crossingly refute such ideas. The Crossinglys begin to aid Mina in secret, slowly introducing her into the magical world around them, revealing invisible passages revealed by an enchanted skeleton key and eventually when Mina finally confronts them all for the truth, they tell her of her past life as a Fallen Star, one of seven gods who created the universe.

Unfortunately things do not progress well and Mina feels bound to secrecy, therefore avoiding her orphan friends. Tension bursts when William, enraged to learn of Mina's lies, confronts her and their relationship falls apart in tatters. Mina continues to learn of magic whilst William begins to uncover the truth surrounding the murder that had taken place, as well as the theft. He and the other orphans had long suspected Jim Brawford, the local blacksmith, who appears quite mentally unstable throughout and when one of the youngest orphans, Edward is attacked by him, their beliefs are affirmed.

In addition to this knowledge William does too uncover the truths of demons and magic, yet he remains oblivious to his own past life. Armed with such knowledge William and the remaining orphans feel affirmed in the knowledge that they can vanquish Jim Brawford when he escapes from his imprisonment. Consequently, it is revealed that Brawford was merely mortal all along whilst the real demon flees Cavale with William in tow. William finds himself trapped in The Castle of Ancients, an underground structure in which the leaders of demon kind, Deimos and Elektra, reside and are trapped, waiting for his and Mina's combined energies to save them.

Within Cavale, another divide ensues between the mayors and when Mina tries to flee Cavale in search of her lost friend, she is locked away by her parents, only to be later rescued by her servant friends and everyone at the orphanage. Mina then travels to London alongside the matron of the orphanage, Agatha Pinlush and the cook, Christopher Lanstock, two very able Sorcerers who concealed their secrets from William and the orphans all their lives. Unbeknownst to William, Agatha is also his mother, having brought him to Cavale many years ago for his safety and struck a bargain with the mayors to keep her parentage secret from all, including her son. This small brigade infiltrate the castle to free William, yet sadly, only tragedy awaits them within the depths of the demonic castle as well as the real villain responsible for all their pain.

I've finished my book completely, and its been about a year and half now. However it is some two hundred thousand words. That's roughly six hundred plus, pages. I was considering cutting the book down, but I aren't sure because I can't rid anything or find a good place to split the book in two.

Now, I am thinking of sending the book to a publishers, do you think it would be better to mention something along the lines of: "It is a long book, and I would consider splitting it, although I would like to give you the opportunity to read it in its entireity should you wish to" or should I split it first?

What do you think?

Please could you read the first section of my prologue and give your honest thoughts on it? I'm hoping to get this published so your views would really help me. Thank you.

– Prologue –

The house, situated on a cliff overlooking the transcendent blue of the ocean, was restored to its original grandness. Outside, daffodils, orchids and roses flourished while deep green vines twined around the stonework of the house. The grass was lush, no longer the scraggily brown it had been only months before and squirrels, badgers and the occasional hare, darted about the place in merry celebration.

The interior of the three story house was cleaner that it had been in years. Even the eves of the house had been dusted and cleaned, new oak replaced what was old and rotting, the fire no longer choked on its charred ashes, instead it burned and filled the house with warm welcome to any passing traveller. New bed sheets, table cloths had been sewn with fine yarn and draped over the varnished wood of the furniture. The moth eaten linens were replenished, windows were no longer opaque and the cracks and crevices that plagued the house before had been filled, sealing in the warmth expelled by the roaring fire in the entrance hall and sitting areas.

The doer of all this extensive work however, was not a master craftsman, expert gardener or dexterous seamstress, but a young boy no older than ten years. He sat alone on the top step, admiring the house and thinking of his mother’s reaction. His bright blue eyes lit up, glittering in the light from the chandelier. Yet despite his glittering eyes, a scrawny body that showed more bone than flesh, weak pale red hair that was almost orange and pale skin whiter than chalk, told a different story. It was a wonder perhaps that the years of neglect had kept his eyes seeming so innocent and bright, although perhaps it was just the anticipation that caused this. Whatever the reason, it would be the last time his eyes brightened for several years to come.

It had taken the boy almost a year and a half to finish the work he had done on the house; a year and a half of solitude while his mother travelled wherever it was she travelled to. She never told him where she was going, never told him that she was going. He had been heartbroken when he found his mother vanished but he quickly ceased the moment to begin his great cleanup. The only thing that kept him going was waiting for his mother’s return and the love she would finally bestow on him when she saw how useful he was, how caring he had been.

Noon had not long passed when his mother returned. As always, the boy had hunted a dear in the forest using the bow and arrow he had fashioned himself and taught himself to use. He dressed the table that he would leave until the food went stale, replacing it then in case his mother should return. With his task done, he wandered the house expectantly, checking the windows at every sound that came from the grounds until at last she returned to him. A hollow shriek erupted from the grounds, a shriek that belonged to no animal. Terrified, the boy took his boy and hurried to the window to see his mother outside at the door, rain splattering down upon her. Thinking she was angered by the rain, he hastened outside to help her.

As soon as he pulled open the door, the woman, in anger as fiery as her scarlet hair struck him to the ground. “What have you done to my house!” she yelled.

The boy staggered, already unleashing howling cries as he watched his mother stand over him, her eyes burning a deep crimson. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I thought...”

She did not allow him to finish. She raised her hands high, facing the ceiling where the new beams had been constructed. She let out a piercing shriek that shattered the drums of her son’s ears. He crawled beneath the piano in the corner of the hall, hiding there as the beams from above fell to the ground. His mother had no care for where he had gone, her shrieks continued as she demolished the work her son had strived to build. Glass and clay shattered, the mortar and stone cracked, flowers wilted and vines burst through the gaps, clawing its way within the house. Animal cries matched those of the boy as he whimpered under that piano, begging his enraged mother to stop, but all the while dreading what would become of him when she was done. As the sounds ceased, the boy held his breath. Footsteps and leather-booted feet were descending the stairs, striding his way. They stopped at the stool of the piano. The stool scraped as it was pulled back and the woman seated herself, flipped the lid of the instrument and began to play.

The young boy had never heard a lullaby before, yet the mellow soothing tune filled his heart. Foolishly he crawled out from his hiding place, only to be met by sharp nails, digging deeply into his shoulder.

The house, situated on a cliff overlooking the transcendent blue of the ocean, was restored to its original grandness. Outside, daffodils, orchids and roses flourished while deep green vines twined around the stonework of the house. The grass was lush, no longer the scraggily brown it had been only months before and squirrels, badgers and the occasional hare, darted about the place in merry celebration.

The interior of the three story house was cleaner that it had been in years. Even the eves of the house had been dusted and cleaned, new oak replaced what was old and rotting, the fire no longer choked on its charred ashes, instead it burned and filled the house with warm welcome to any passing traveller. New bed sheets, table cloths had been sewn with fine yarn and draped over the varnished wood of the furniture. The moth eaten linens were replenished, windows were no longer opaque and the cracks and crevices that plagued the house before had been filled, sealing in the warmth expelled by the roaring fire in the entrance hall and sitting areas.

The doer of all this extensive work however, was not a master craftsman, expert gardener or dexterous seamstress, but a young boy no older than ten years. He sat alone on the top step, admiring the house and thinking of his mother’s reaction. His bright blue eyes lit up, glittering in the light from the chandelier. Yet despite his glittering eyes, a scrawny body that showed more bone than flesh, weak pale red hair that was almost orange and pale skin whiter than chalk, told a different story. It was a wonder perhaps that the years of neglect had kept his eyes seeming so innocent and bright, although perhaps it was just the anticipation that caused this. Whatever the reason, it would be the last time his eyes brightened for several years to come.

It had taken the boy almost a year and a half to finish the work he had done on the house; a year and a half of solitude while his mother travelled wherever it was she travelled to. She never told him where she was going, never told him that she was going. He had been heartbroken when he found his mother vanished but he quickly ceased the moment to begin his great cleanup. The only thing that kept him going was waiting for his mother’s return and the love she would finally bestow on him when she saw how useful he was, how caring he had been.

Noon had not long passed when his mother returned. As always, the boy had hunted a dear in the forest using the bow and arrow he had fashioned himself and taught himself to use. He dressed the table that he would leave until the food went stale, replacing it then in case his mother should return. With his task done, he wandered the house expectantly, checking the windows at every sound that came from the grounds until at last she returned to him. A hollow shriek erupted from the grounds, a shriek that belonged to no animal. Terrified, the boy took his boy and hurried to the window to see his mother outside at the door, rain splattering down upon her. Thinking she was angered by the rain, he hastened outside to help her.

As soon as he pulled open the door, the woman, in anger as fiery as her scarlet hair struck him to the ground. “What have you done to my house!” she yelled.

The boy staggered, already unleashing howling cries as he watched his mother stand over him, her eyes burning a deep crimson. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I thought...”

She did not allow him to finish. She raised her hands high, facing the ceiling where the new beams had been constructed. She let out a piercing shriek that shattered the drums of her son’s ears. He crawled beneath the piano in the corner of the hall, hiding there as the beams from above fell to the ground. His mother had no care for where he had gone, her shrieks continued as she demolished the work her son had strived to build. Glass and clay shattered, the mortar and stone cracked, flowers wilted and vines burst through the gaps, clawing its way within the house. Animal cries matched those of the boy as he whimpered under that piano, begging his enraged mother to stop, but all the while dreading what would become of him when she was done. As the sounds ceased, the boy held his breath. Footsteps and leather-booted feet were descending the stairs, striding his way. They stopped at the stool of the piano. The stool scraped as it was pulled back and the woman seated herself, flipped the lid of the instrument and began to play.

The young boy had never heard a lullaby before, yet the mellow soothing tune filled his heart. Foolishly he crawled out from his hiding place, only to be met by sharp nails, digging deeply into his shoulder.

When I am at school, and have a free lesson, and have no other work I usually go to the study hall to write. Even if I am there with friends, I usually get on with my writing and I feel positive about what I have written. I don't know why but I just work much better there when I'm writing, but I'd like to work at home too.

At home I am distracted by everything, lack any sort of real motivation and what I do write I nearly always scrap. I want to know what I should do to get more inspired to write at home, what would you suggest?

Before I start, I am a really family orientated person and I despise falling out with my family ecxept for in extreme circumstances because I value my family above everything.

My parents split up before I was born, and I have never known them say one nice thing about the other. I was shunted between them and both slandered each other to me. My Dad describes my mother as a adultress tart and she depicts him as an abusive monster. Now, my dad did an does get mad, but he's never hit me and my mum has had a lot of men, but I've never known her cheat. Long story short, there was a court case, my father won and I lived with him, seeing my mum at weekends. This continued for six years until I decided to see them a week each, which is what I initially wanted.

Now it has all been dredged up again. My mum tells it that my dad and grandma (now dead, though I have very fond memories of her) were horrible, especially her and that she orchestrated and forced my dad to lying and being so callous.

My dad tells that my mother and her then boyfriend, especially him, were to blame. That her boyfriend constantly threatened them and that my mum kept shunting me back and forth between their houses, only I was too young to remember.

I remember non of this, being six and below at the time. I feel manipulated and used by them both and I really want the truth. I turn eighteen tomorrow and I really want to end this, but I don't know how to go about it. They won't meet each other and I know that niether will give me the truth.

What would you do?

So I have an idea for a fantasy story and I'd like to hear your thoughts.

It's got three main characters: Dorian:

Dorian is the son of a Necromancer, his mother. He is attatched somewhat disturbingly to his mother and in a blind rage, kills her. This causes him to become a Necromancer and he continues his mother's work, to summon the Queen of monsters Caoránach. He also discovers his mother's diaries and learns that he is an illigitamate child and his mother, a fallen woman.

Elvira: She is a Fairy warrior. Very proud, she is offended when she is sent to become a changeling. She takes the place of a small child in the Ashwell family.

Edward: The father in the family that Elvira is inhabiting. After the death of his youngest daughter, Nellie, Edward's wife leaves him.

Dorian uses the spirit of Edward's daughter to summon Caoránach. When Caoránach attackes Edward, Elvira is forced to reveal herself for what she truly is. Elvira and Edward flee to the Fairy Kingdom, but are betrayed by the Queen and flee again to the caverns. They meet Demetrious, a dwarf who then helps them.

The three journey towards the elven kingdom, on the way learning that their own kingdoms have fallen and are now working in slavery camps for the awakening. When they reach the Elves, Elvira and Edward are attacked by banshees, leaving Edward mentally deterorated. He is left behind while Elvira and Edward leave to find allies.

It is then learned that Caoránach plans to summon a dragon, Oilliphiést. I don't want to go into too much more detail, but this leads to a great battle and an infiltration, as well revelations detailing Dorian's mother's past, the Fairy Kingdom and Edward's past. What do you think?

This is the first draft, but I'd like to get some of your opinions on it.

It was an inconspicuous place. Rosebushes that flourished around the house, ivy twined up the walls, attracted by the warmness that emitted from within the place.

Not too far way, was the sea, and it could be heard from the house, gently brushing the sand as it swept in and out, washing away the dirt left behind by beach dwellers, their pets and possibly he occasional hobgoblin that stole away and, like a joke, frolicked aimlessly into the tide.

The place was so quiet in the evening, especially where He lived with his Mother. It was quieter still that night, with her dead at the foot of the stairs and He, alive, knife in hand at the top. He looked down to where his Mother lay, eyes closed, neck broken, skin and guts torn and bleeding. He welled with tears and scurried down the stairs to where she lay and embraced her. He took notice then of her mouth, visible by dim candlelight. It curled in the mocking smirk He knew all too well. In his delusion, the fool imagined that she was testing him, of course that was it! He imagined that all of this had been a test: her revelation, His pleas, her mocking and subsequent death. It had all been planned!

In this knowledge, He took His Mother in his weedy arms and with tremendous effort and strain, heaved her over his right shoulder. She wasn’t a big lady, but her weight was enough to make his brittle knees knock, his lips quivered with pressure. The first step was the hardest; He nearly keeled over under the dead weight as He tried to have up His first foot. He had never been strong, or clever for that matter; in fact it would be hard to say whether (until this point) He was good at anything at all. His Mother would certainly agree, how she took it upon herself to remind him of that!

But now the Woman was dead and He, changed. He carried her to her bedroom and carefully tucked her into bed. “How innocent is her face as she sleeps!” he muttered to himself, leaning over to kiss her cold, pale, hard mouth. He then fell closer to her ear and whispered. “I’ll be back to wake you soon Mother,” And He disappeared after that, into the room He had found Her in, only half an hour before.

I have spent the past four years writing a book, which is a fantasy that has vampires in it. I am worried though, with all this twighlight and vampire diaries stuff, that my work (should it be published) will be put aside as just copy of these works even though they are nothing alike. Are you tired of this vampire phase, or would it not bother you if it was a good, origional story?

William is an orphan, he is lonely until one day he stumbles upon a girl in the vast forest surrounding his town. She has no memory of her past but when she arrives a dark shroud is cast over the town, starting with the death of a wealthy gentleman, come to buy a valuable compass. As the danger closes in, Mina is adopted by the mayors of the town who seems to know more than they are letting on. Mina and the orphans try and uncover their secrets, though when this happens, Mina grows apart from her friends, who are closer to uncovering the ghastly murder. This eventually leads to William's disappearance, taken away by the killer himself. Mina finds herself locked away when she attempts to search for her lover, yet her parents lock her away. She manages to escape however and is reunited with William, only briefly before the tragedy consumes them both.

Deep within a vast forest, the most vast and unknown forest in all of creation nested a Raven. Her charcoal-black feathers ran smoothly along her well-defined body. Her beak was greater than that of most normal ravens and she was quite larger, more intimidating and fearful than the rest of her species. With eyes, darker than the darkest cave, she scanned the area below for prey with urgency. Not searching for her own gain, instead for the seven eggs beneath her. Their mother knew their hunger; it only fuelled her burning desire to provide for her hatchlings and luckily for her, the perfect first meal, was stumbling its way towards them.

An adolescent girl, no older than fifteen years, staggered aimlessly from tree to tree. She pushed off from one, only to lose her footing and fall onto the next, as though the trees were using her for a game of ping-pong. It must have been a brutal game, for the girl's once angelic body was now shrouded in a demonic plague of bruises and grazes: as well as numerous scratches from brambles and thorns, which sprouted from the dried up creek around her. Unaware of the sinister bird above her that was now preparing to take flight, the girl, with an almighty sigh of exhaustion, fell against an oak tree whereon the Raven was nesting. There she remained, unable to get up again, even if her body willed it.

The Raven perched on a branch on the tree opposite the girl. There it watched her fall into unconsciousness, before clicking its beak in anger because the girl had not yet died. Nevertheless, the girl's wounds relaxed the Raven’s rage. The girl was weak, exhausted and even helpless. In addition she was lost in the great forest where none could find her. It was unlikely that the girl would rise above her injuries. It was even more doubtful that she would survive the rest of the day, let alone the oncoming night. With that in mind, the Raven took off to her nest where she waited patiently. There the Raven would wait, listening out for the girl thirty feet below; waiting for her to draw that final breath…

Thinking about going to leeds to see the Decemberists, are they any good live?