I'll let you know more closer to the date (early March). In the meantime, here is a design motif I will use throughout the website. I finished designing it last night and you are the first peeps to see it! - Daniel
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| DGN Productions motif |
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Sunday, 9 February 2014
Launching DGN Productions soon...
Hello there friends in cyber-land. Thought I'd let you in on a new project I am launching. It is called DGN Productions, and will essentially be an online hub for my art, novels and comics. Pretty exciting stuff!
I'll let you know more closer to the date (early March). In the meantime, here is a design motif I will use throughout the website. I finished designing it last night and you are the first peeps to see it! - Daniel
I'll let you know more closer to the date (early March). In the meantime, here is a design motif I will use throughout the website. I finished designing it last night and you are the first peeps to see it! - Daniel
Tuesday, 27 November 2012
Holy News Stories, Hero! Message straight from the Shambhala Cave to your Shambhalan Transmitter
 |
| NOTE: "Vegitables" are digital vegetables for those playing at home. |
Shambhala Hero, listen up. The season final of Don't Shoot the Messenger will be posted in two days time.
Holy Ending, Daniel. I hear you say. Which is not only a clever reference to Burt Ward's version of Robin, but also perhaps a little bit sacrilegious considering the content of the story.
But do not fear. A new story is here...
I have decided to release The Last King of Shambhala, chapter by chapter, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday (starting next week). In addition to regular programming, stories and insightful ramblings.
Yes, The Last King of Shambhala is the story that has had top reviewers raving, been rated as one of the best independent books of the year, and had been given approval by this guy.
So join us next week, same bat time, same bat channel.
Oh, and The Last King of Shambhala is still available for pocket money on Amazon, if you want to support your favourite writer's hopes and dreams, or you want to find out what happens ASAP.
M62MP76AK6Z6
Saturday, 26 May 2012
Novel Writing Hacks from Author Daniel Grant Newton
Have you got a novel in you that you've always wanted to write? Perhaps you haven't had the time? Or you get started, but can never finish it?
Well, as someone who spent most of his life trying to get one of my ideas into a finalised manuscript, and now being someone who has done it, I've found a few secrets of the trade to make inspiration easier, improve your story, and importantly, get it done. This isn't an exhaustive list, but very powerful all the same - I may write a follow up article later with more tips.
1.) Write about what you love.
Writing a book takes a long time (although perhaps shorter with the tips below :P), so you need to be passionate about the subject to keep going: researching, idea generating, editing, etc. This might be the most obvious of these tips, but it is one of the most important, and overlooked, pieces of advice since the people of Troy were told that curiosity kills the cat.
2.) If you're bored or aren't inspired with a section, scrap it and get more creative.
If you're bored with your story, so will your readers be. You may have planned for 'A' to happen, but if it is a task writing it, think about other possible outcomes - and go wild. If any bit of your book didn't fully engage every cell of your body, it needs to go!
3.) Daydream about your characters and story for the pleasure of it.
This is when you get your best ideas. It also allows you to get better acquainted with your characters. It gives you out-of-the-box ideas. It gets you in the flow. I don't know how - but it does - so try it.
4.) Jot every idea down.
Good, bad or ugly, write them down, or you'll forget them. I wrote enough alternate story directions for The Last King of Shambhala to complete at least ten completely different books, allowing me to choose the best and build on them. Sometimes an idea will seemingly be useless, but it will later spark a better idea, or will fit perfectly somewhere else later on.
5.) Create impossible problems for your characters, plan them out, and then look for creative ways to solve them.
The bigger the problem, the more tension and excitement. These can be physical disasters, or emotional tangles ... But a combination is even more powerful.
Further to this, in those "will he make it or won't he", there is nothing like (even if it is a BIG cliche) a character seemingly dead, but then to emerge out of the smoke alive to the relief of their companions.
6.) Want to write quicker, plan out every chapter.
I wrote The Last King of Shambhala in five or more years. There were a few reasons it took half a ten year old's life, but one big one was I planned it out as I went.
This meant it was more creative than it may have otherwise been, but if you have a more simple storyline, and want to write it quicker, plan it out chapter by chapter. It doesn't need to fit the chapters, you can be open to new directions, but it will save so much time.
I wrote the novella Don't Shoot the Messenger in three weeks. Why? I planned out every chapter (and it was about 35,000 words rather than over 100,000, I guess).
7.) Show not tell. Adam is NOT "angry".
Everybody makes assumptions of others by how they perceive them, therefore readers will get to know your characters better when you 'show' not 'tell'.
For example, don't say "Adam isn't happy and wanted his boyfriend James to know, no matter how childish he seemed", instead say "Adam crossed his arms and glared out the window, periodically glancing back at James and huffing until his lover diverted his eyes from the Playstation and onto him."
Yes, I made that example on the run, so it isn't Dickens. Or even Meyer. But you get the point.
8.) Research - the key to opening creative doors
Research, research, research. If you have followed step one, this will be fun. If not, read step one again.
Knowing more about the subject allows for accuracy, but more importantly, it expands your mind, dude, and allows for more creative direction and solution.
9.) Quick 'cheat' way to bulk up the persona of your characters - write in another's voice
A quick way to create better characters is to play about with the voice or mannerisms or persona or beliefs of a famous movie or book character, or famous person, or of someone you know.
Your character shouldn't be a rehash of some other character however, by doing this, you might be able to develop your character in another direction by mixing elements and mannerisms of this character with your current character.
I'd suggest even mixing multiple characters with your original character, but still keeping the essence of him or her.
Extra tip: Try using a character that is completely out of place. Like Fran Fine as the voice of an evil warlock, or the Terminator as a flight attendant, or Goofy as a werewolf.
10.) If uninspired, watch inspiring videos on YouTube before getting into writing
Some times you just aren't in the zone. If you have a chapter about a romantic date, go onto YouTube and watch a montage of BBC adaptions of Jane Austin movies for five minutes. If it is a boxing scene, watch a Muhammad Ali fight montage. This isn't for copying, it just gets the juices flowing.
If you'd like to see the result of putting these tips into practice, you can now buy The Last King of Shambhala at any good online book store.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Part Two: The Last King of Shambhala Preview
The below is part two of a preview of my latest book 'The Last King of Shambhala'. Click here for part one.
“I have never been here before,” I said, pausing briefly to listen to the echoing of my voice. “Well, I don’t think I have. I have no memory of a life before.”
“I am Vibhishana, the Protector of Lanka,” the being responded, now talking with perfect articulation in a language I could understand. “Welcome back.”
“Sri Lanka?” I asked.
Amisha used to sit me down with a map and ask if any countries looked familiar. Or if I felt a connection in my heart to any. To her disappointment, none looked familiar to me, nor incited any special feelings, but the practice did improve my geography.
The being shook his head, and a smile formed on his pussycat lips. “What you call Sri Lanka is a sacred place of beauty, but it is not Lanka. This is Lanka, although very different to how Lanka once was. But it is still surrounded by the Trikuta Mountains,” he said, pointing a paw to the surrounding mountains out the windows. “Still an inland island. A fortress of secrecy.” He paused. “And still, only through Lanka, can one find Shambhala. However, the door to Shambhala is not found within the temple walls, but found within.”
“Within Lanka?” I asked.
Vibhishana leaned forward and placed a stubby index finger on my forehead. “Within,” he said.
After an initial static shock that emanated from his finger, my vision blurred and filled with vibrant colours, some outside the spectrum of human perception. My eyes adjusted and the colours faded.
The temple was as it was before – but Vibhishana was no longer to be seen.
Suddenly, an apparition of a monk clasping a chicken to his chest floated past. His image was smoky, semi-transparent and bathed in a warm light.
As quickly as the figure had appeared, it disappeared.
Then another two appeared. Women dressed in bright saris, one red and one blue, with gold trimmings and vivid patterns. They danced, and as they did, their long brown hair swished and sparkles flew from their saris and glistening eyes.
As they passed, my vision blurred again, and I marvelled once more at the kaleidoscope before me. But as the colours faded this time, the chamber appeared completely different.
It looked brand new and was filled with people dancing, drumming, laughing and singing. There seemed to be representatives from every culture in the world on the shimmering floor. There also seemed to be creatures that were humanoid, but not quite human, and cows and goats intermingling.
In the middle of the hall was an ancient-looking, sandy obelisk. Coming from the top of the obelisk were ropes with fluttering flags attached to them.
I approached the obelisk and noticed people praying around it. When I put my hand on the structure, symbols on it lit up and glowed with an ethereal light.
My eyes drifted upwards. Where the ceiling should have been was a white light emitting heat and a thin veil of smoke.
My eyes scanned the room again. Occasionally, as my eyes zoned out, I caught glimpses of the crumbling temple I’d left behind. I must admit this made me wonder whether I really had left the temple, or was merely having a hallucination of some kind.
“They are celebrating your return,” came a voice beside me. It was Vibhishana.
“None of them have noticed me,” I muttered, turning to him.
“They cannot see you yet,” he answered simply.
“Then why are they celebrating my return?”
“Because they trust in the process of life, and they do not need to see you for them to celebrate you being here. They understand when you feel the essence of something, and celebrate it, it will come.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
I peered at Vibhishana’s curling cat lips.
“Who am I?” I asked. “That is why I am here, isn’t it? I am here to find out who I am.”
“This question evades most on your plane of existence. You are not the only one who has forgotten who you truly are. Perhaps only the newborns that cannot yet talk know the truth of their being.”
“Do you know who I am?” I pressed. “Because if you do, can you just tell me? None of this is really making any sense at all, and I’d prefer it did.”
“Here, it is the search, not the answer, that we cherish. For even the most revered mandate is not fixed, but constantly explored.” He paused to gaze into my eyes.
His large round eyes were rather hypnotic. When I looked into them, I became lost in an endless ocean of nothingness. A feeling very hard to describe, but akin perhaps to a vivid daydream you cannot remember once it has finished.
“Amisha told me I could read the Akashic Records, and that would enlighten me to who I am,” I said, still in a half-daze. “Of course, you could just tell me and save me the trouble.”
“Amisha knew who you were, but she did not tell you because she knew the value in the search.”
“I take it I can still read the Akashic Records then?”
“Come,” said Vibhishana.
He led me out of the hall and into the night air, under a sky speckled with stars. We walked among towering ash trees with little star-like lights in their branches. The trees grew by a sparkling lake that reflected the starry sky, and the mountains were inky and jagged in the distance.
We then trekked up a grassy hill towards a hut.
Upon reaching the doorway, Vibhishana gestured for me to enter. “Inside you shall find Sangoma. He is always happy to meet those at the crossroads of dimensions.”
I ducked my head inside and sat at a pine chair opposite Sangoma.
Sangoma had dark wrinkly skin, with long, intricately beaded hair raining down from under a faded bowler hat. His suit and gold alligator-headed cane gave the impression of a distinguished gentleman, but his unkempt bushy black and silver beard, bare feet and assortment of jingling bracelets and anklets told a different story.
A scrawny dog came from outside and lay by his feet.
“Namaste,” I said to him, and bowed my head. “I am called Damon. And you must be Sangoma?”
“I am not interested in labels,” sniped the elderly man, as he emptied a sack of shells onto the floor and inspected where they fell.
“You are in search of the Akashic Records,” he said, glancing up at me.
“I am in search of the truth; if the Akashic Records is the label you give it, then yes, that is what I am after,” I said, grinning.
“Your quest is a noble one,” he said, expressionless, save for the blinking of his eyes.
“I’d like to know who I am,” I said. “It has been about 12 months now, and I am no closer to learning who I am, or rather, was.”
“Who do you want to know?” Sangoma asked. “The dream character or the one who is dreaming?”
“Neither,” I grumbled. “I think something has been lost in translation. I want to know who I am in real, physical life.”
Sangoma stood up and hobbled over to a bookcase at the back of the hut. His finger traced along the spines of the heavy, leather-bound books on the shelf. He stopped at one with a maroon cover and pulled it out.
As he placed it on my lap, I read the title embossed in gold on the cover:
The Last King of Shambhala, Akashic Records.
I paused.
“Is this the story of my life?”
“This is the first book I give everyone who comes here wanting to know who they are,” he replied. “This book belongs to the final King of Shambhala, but the story within the leather cover changes depending on the reader.”
I flicked through the pages. “The pages are blank,” I said, scratching my cheek. “How can I learn who I am when the pages are blank?”
Sangoma’s face crinkled into the beginnings of a smile. “Trust that the words will come, just before you need to read them.”
With this, he stood up, twirled his alligator-topped cane, and left the hut.
I focused on the first page and tried forcing words. Nothing happened.
After a few minutes of effort, I took a deep breath, relaxed my eyes and gazed back down. I spoke aloud. “Who am I?”
As I spoke, the words began to appear...
The Last King of Shambhala
Chapter One to follow. (The above is a preview of my new book 'The Last King of Shambhala', available on all good online book stores including Amazon Kindle.)
“I have never been here before,” I said, pausing briefly to listen to the echoing of my voice. “Well, I don’t think I have. I have no memory of a life before.”
“I am Vibhishana, the Protector of Lanka,” the being responded, now talking with perfect articulation in a language I could understand. “Welcome back.”
“Sri Lanka?” I asked.
Amisha used to sit me down with a map and ask if any countries looked familiar. Or if I felt a connection in my heart to any. To her disappointment, none looked familiar to me, nor incited any special feelings, but the practice did improve my geography.
The being shook his head, and a smile formed on his pussycat lips. “What you call Sri Lanka is a sacred place of beauty, but it is not Lanka. This is Lanka, although very different to how Lanka once was. But it is still surrounded by the Trikuta Mountains,” he said, pointing a paw to the surrounding mountains out the windows. “Still an inland island. A fortress of secrecy.” He paused. “And still, only through Lanka, can one find Shambhala. However, the door to Shambhala is not found within the temple walls, but found within.”
“Within Lanka?” I asked.
Vibhishana leaned forward and placed a stubby index finger on my forehead. “Within,” he said.
After an initial static shock that emanated from his finger, my vision blurred and filled with vibrant colours, some outside the spectrum of human perception. My eyes adjusted and the colours faded.
The temple was as it was before – but Vibhishana was no longer to be seen.
Suddenly, an apparition of a monk clasping a chicken to his chest floated past. His image was smoky, semi-transparent and bathed in a warm light.
As quickly as the figure had appeared, it disappeared.
Then another two appeared. Women dressed in bright saris, one red and one blue, with gold trimmings and vivid patterns. They danced, and as they did, their long brown hair swished and sparkles flew from their saris and glistening eyes.
As they passed, my vision blurred again, and I marvelled once more at the kaleidoscope before me. But as the colours faded this time, the chamber appeared completely different.
It looked brand new and was filled with people dancing, drumming, laughing and singing. There seemed to be representatives from every culture in the world on the shimmering floor. There also seemed to be creatures that were humanoid, but not quite human, and cows and goats intermingling.
In the middle of the hall was an ancient-looking, sandy obelisk. Coming from the top of the obelisk were ropes with fluttering flags attached to them.
I approached the obelisk and noticed people praying around it. When I put my hand on the structure, symbols on it lit up and glowed with an ethereal light.
My eyes drifted upwards. Where the ceiling should have been was a white light emitting heat and a thin veil of smoke.
My eyes scanned the room again. Occasionally, as my eyes zoned out, I caught glimpses of the crumbling temple I’d left behind. I must admit this made me wonder whether I really had left the temple, or was merely having a hallucination of some kind.
“They are celebrating your return,” came a voice beside me. It was Vibhishana.
“None of them have noticed me,” I muttered, turning to him.
“They cannot see you yet,” he answered simply.
“Then why are they celebrating my return?”
“Because they trust in the process of life, and they do not need to see you for them to celebrate you being here. They understand when you feel the essence of something, and celebrate it, it will come.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
I peered at Vibhishana’s curling cat lips.
“Who am I?” I asked. “That is why I am here, isn’t it? I am here to find out who I am.”
“This question evades most on your plane of existence. You are not the only one who has forgotten who you truly are. Perhaps only the newborns that cannot yet talk know the truth of their being.”
“Do you know who I am?” I pressed. “Because if you do, can you just tell me? None of this is really making any sense at all, and I’d prefer it did.”
“Here, it is the search, not the answer, that we cherish. For even the most revered mandate is not fixed, but constantly explored.” He paused to gaze into my eyes.
His large round eyes were rather hypnotic. When I looked into them, I became lost in an endless ocean of nothingness. A feeling very hard to describe, but akin perhaps to a vivid daydream you cannot remember once it has finished.
“Amisha told me I could read the Akashic Records, and that would enlighten me to who I am,” I said, still in a half-daze. “Of course, you could just tell me and save me the trouble.”
“Amisha knew who you were, but she did not tell you because she knew the value in the search.”
“I take it I can still read the Akashic Records then?”
“Come,” said Vibhishana.
He led me out of the hall and into the night air, under a sky speckled with stars. We walked among towering ash trees with little star-like lights in their branches. The trees grew by a sparkling lake that reflected the starry sky, and the mountains were inky and jagged in the distance.
We then trekked up a grassy hill towards a hut.
Upon reaching the doorway, Vibhishana gestured for me to enter. “Inside you shall find Sangoma. He is always happy to meet those at the crossroads of dimensions.”
I ducked my head inside and sat at a pine chair opposite Sangoma.
Sangoma had dark wrinkly skin, with long, intricately beaded hair raining down from under a faded bowler hat. His suit and gold alligator-headed cane gave the impression of a distinguished gentleman, but his unkempt bushy black and silver beard, bare feet and assortment of jingling bracelets and anklets told a different story.
A scrawny dog came from outside and lay by his feet.
“Namaste,” I said to him, and bowed my head. “I am called Damon. And you must be Sangoma?”
“I am not interested in labels,” sniped the elderly man, as he emptied a sack of shells onto the floor and inspected where they fell.
“You are in search of the Akashic Records,” he said, glancing up at me.
“I am in search of the truth; if the Akashic Records is the label you give it, then yes, that is what I am after,” I said, grinning.
“Your quest is a noble one,” he said, expressionless, save for the blinking of his eyes.
“I’d like to know who I am,” I said. “It has been about 12 months now, and I am no closer to learning who I am, or rather, was.”
“Who do you want to know?” Sangoma asked. “The dream character or the one who is dreaming?”
“Neither,” I grumbled. “I think something has been lost in translation. I want to know who I am in real, physical life.”
Sangoma stood up and hobbled over to a bookcase at the back of the hut. His finger traced along the spines of the heavy, leather-bound books on the shelf. He stopped at one with a maroon cover and pulled it out.
As he placed it on my lap, I read the title embossed in gold on the cover:
The Last King of Shambhala, Akashic Records.
I paused.
“Is this the story of my life?”
“This is the first book I give everyone who comes here wanting to know who they are,” he replied. “This book belongs to the final King of Shambhala, but the story within the leather cover changes depending on the reader.”
I flicked through the pages. “The pages are blank,” I said, scratching my cheek. “How can I learn who I am when the pages are blank?”
Sangoma’s face crinkled into the beginnings of a smile. “Trust that the words will come, just before you need to read them.”
With this, he stood up, twirled his alligator-topped cane, and left the hut.
I focused on the first page and tried forcing words. Nothing happened.
After a few minutes of effort, I took a deep breath, relaxed my eyes and gazed back down. I spoke aloud. “Who am I?”
As I spoke, the words began to appear...
The Last King of Shambhala
Chapter One to follow. (The above is a preview of my new book 'The Last King of Shambhala', available on all good online book stores including Amazon Kindle.)
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