Where am I? Who are you?

Welcome to Eighth Angel Studios. We're going to write a novel.

This is a collaborative project- contributors (like you) provide characters who are woven into the story as it progresses. But your involvement doesn't end there- as the story progresses you can give feedback on your character, developing them further, influencing their decisions and guiding their actions. The more feedback you provide, the more development your character can receive.

If you want to join in, please follow this blog and comment on this post with a thirty-second description of your character- a name and enough to describe a first meeting. That'll get the ball rolling.

Anyway, enough rambling- on to the plot!

Thursday, 26 August 2010

[DIS] You're a character, you are!

Well, a few days in now and both the idea for the plot and the structure of this blog are starting to take shape. well, in my head at least!

I'm putting this post up as a centralised point to collect characters. If you have a character idea, please comment on this post with a brief description of them- a name and a brief description of appearance and personality, as much as you'd get on a first meeting. Once I've got a few characters then I can get started on the actual meat of the story.

Note that it's not just human characters I'm after- the Morning Star already has a sizeable population of alien refugees who are just as important to the story as us Terrans. If you fancy a challenge, write me an alien! Extra kudos for interesting alien races that are original and fun to write for. :-)

1 comment:

  1. To get the ball rolling, here's one from me:

    Jimi Furey's somewhere around five-nine if you count the spiked hair, and less over-tall than underbuilt for his height. Lean would be a polite way of putting it, gangly less so. He's got a little dark stubble on his comparatively pale, angular face, mostly because he hasn't gotten around to shaving recently rather than any style choice. Style's not his thing- he's wearing moleskin work trousers and a microfibre t-shirt with a ripstop shirt thrown over the top as a light jacket. There's a pair of shades- round-lensed ones that cost only a couple of quid- hooked into the neck of his shirt, more hopeful than practical.

    He's looking out the window more for want of something to do than looking for anything particular. He's been coasting through life recently, causing as few ripples as possible, staying under the radar. He knows he wants something more, but until he works out what he's not about to stick his head above the parapet.

    The phone rings, he answers in a lilting Kerry brogue. The accent was his father's, and though he's never lived more than a week the other side of the Irish Sea he's appropriated the speech as a memento. It's good to have mementos.

    He's speaking German. His father was a soldier - Irish Guards, who else? - and he grew up moving around where the deployments took them. Eighty-nine to Ninety-two was Berlin, and Jimi was young enough to pick up the language easily and old enough to remember it. He'd thought about going back there after Uni, but that hadn't finished well and he'd never got around to it despite itchy feet. There's never a convenient time to turn your life upside down.

    The phone goes dead. Jimi looks at it for a moment, confused. He realises the others around have stopped moving. Some, outside, are looking at the sky. A few of them are crying.

    There's never a convenient time.