“The Story of a Book That Doesn’t Even Exist Yet… Kind Of”

“The Story of a Book That Doesn’t Exist… Kind Of”

Just playing around with ideas using Gemini AI designer, 

How can a story exist, other than in your mind, if it hasn't yet been written or in my case, exists entirely in my head? Yes, it's a bit of a screwed-up paradoxical question.   

I have an initial idea. Sure, it's been done before, but hey, what story hasn't been told these days? I mean, that is why there are so many reruns of old shows, and new films are just reinventions of previous ones. It's obvious we are all out of ideas. 

My story is going to be a fictional tale. Now wait for it, there is a lot to describe. It's going to be Dark, yet humorous.  The main protagonist is a Geordie, so he will speak as such, which might make the book difficult to read for some. There will be darkness, loss, growth, good versus evil, and many funny anecdotes and amusing stories, which I have somewhat in the back of my mind.     

Another AI-created idea

I am finding that as I write,  I am up to chapter 9 so far, with just over 20,000 words, that my creative juices flow as I am thinking and typing. As I mentioned earlier, I have no clear, solid story. I just get fleeting thoughts that pop into my head, mainly when I am struggling to sleep on a night.

And one more

It's weird, I wrote two different pieces for the book over the last couple of nights, thinking "Hey, you know what my main character, (who my dad, The Ern, says ", Aye, I can see he's based on you," ) decided he would write poetry and songs in the mental state he is currently in, which is a bit of turmoil, alongside melancholy, stress and sadness."

It's strange trying to imagine what someone is going through, even when it's a pretend character in a book, then trying to write how you think they may feel and. think.

Hopefully, I can make the story interesting and get another book on the shelves. At this point, it's not even about "Ooh, I wonder how many I can sell," it's more just about me enjoying the process and seeing where this takes me. I cannot imagine becoming a world-renowned author; this is more a bit of fun, keeps me occupied and helps me relax.

Obviously, if I ever finish it and receive some good feedback,  that would be a bonus.

Anyhoo, I don't want to give too much away. At the moment, you will just have to wait. I don't want anyone nicking my ideas LoL

I will leave you with a poem and a song that I intend to add to my book, so please note that the copyright belongs to Glenn Johnstone. They may not make complete sense, as obviously, you don't know the whole backstory of the characters involved. "Oh, and poetry doesn't have to rhyme."

Horology’s Parallel

From father to son, time passed on,
a friendly face, and a special place
within your hand, within your heart;
each memory held within a protective case,
that will one day cease—
as silence falls.

Each mark and scratch make you unique, perfect, imperfections.
As you carry on with the time you keep.
Until that day you’re wound no more, and your movement slows, and you stop.

Discovered truth — and now it all makes sense:
Why your cogs and wheels struggle with the time you keep.

That old voice you once knew begins to fade,
its whispers growing silent,
drifting beyond the shadows—far, far away.

Your movements are slowing —
your hands, fitful, like a heart struggling to beat.
You feel old and weary;
you just want to find sleep.

Memories of happier times slip away —
moments slowly lost, day by day;
you struggle to keep,
as the lid that once protected you is forever shut.

Where once you shone — polished, all shiny and bright —
now you are dulled, living beneath a dark cloud;
there is no light.

A thick fog of despair shrouds your view;
and those who care about you understand —
it’s too late: someone has decided this is your fate.

Your mind — those numbers — feel as if they’re slipping away,
tumbling and falling, unable to hold on.
You’re filled with confusion and sadness;
even time becomes disarrayed.

Where once there was rhythm in each gentle sound,
now you move slowly —
a denial of the inevitable —
knowing the end comes, and you are lost and bound.

You ask: Is there no one to help?
Can you not be wound and opened, fixed or repaired?

You just need someone to breathe new life into you,
and remind you of the life you once knew.

The song is in the style of an old Pitt village community, well, how I see it, or like a sea shanty rhythm, but obviously sad.    

A Geordie’s Heart (It’ll Never Die)

Well, a’ve been told that me time is up,
A divvn't have lang, an’ a’ve gotta gan.
A’m not quite ready, but what can a dee?
It’s nee good argyin’ wi’ yer destiny.

Me heed’s been sore noo for a while,
N’ an’knare, it’s not from the broon.
It’s not feelin’ like it’s even me awn,
A canna mek sense o’ what’s gannin’ on —

[Chorus]
An’ a won’t be standin’ on the banks o’ the Tyne,
’Cos the boatman’s waitin’ te tek us ower the Styx.
A’ll pay me way, an’ a’ll give ’im me coin,
Then he’ll push off, an’ we’ll sail away.

N’ a’m feelin’ lost… an’ a’m all a’lan.
Nee lass to kiss, nee hand to hold.
A thought a had all the time in the world,
But noo a’ve fond out me life’s unfurled.

So divvn't wait, ’cos a’m not comin’ yem,
A’m gone for good — a’ve served me time.
Mebbe it’s for the best, as me life’s been rough,
A tried me best — a hope it was enough.

An’ a’m thinkin’ te mesel’, was it all just a test?
When a lived me life, an’ a tried me best.
A’ve lost me love — it’s been stole away,
Nee mair chances, nee mair days.

[Final Verse]
So all a’ll ask yer te think on me,
As ye raise yer glass an’ sing oot loud.
For this bonny lad’s not gone te hell,
’Cos a Geordie’s heart — it’ll never die.

(Whispered Outro)
So a’ll be off on the River Styx…
Te meet the devil an’ avoid his tricks…
An’ noo, a’ve gotta gan, like

I have posted a few images, so perhaps they will give you a little room for thought.

Ok toodle pip for now...

A dream you convince yourself is going to happen...

It must be at least 10 years. I'm not able to hobble upstairs to check my dream boards, as I'm currently sitting on the couch writing this, while my good foot is soaking in a hot bowl of water with apple cider vinegar. 

I know, it just looks like a shed, right?

  

   My toes on my left foot are absolutely killing me, they are on fire, and my Achilles, which I thought was ok, I have discovered is playing up, like if I stand at the kitchen counter making a cuppa.

  So here I am, falling apart.

  I've just had a call from the IBD nurses and given my dates for the first three vedolizumab infusions, all dependent on not having any infections, to be discovered either in my foot when I visit my doctors or when I provide yet another pop sample. If shit were money, I'd be worth a whole fucking steaming pile of it. I've taken that many tests.

  Why the fuck couldn't I just go and get a less embarrassing illness, but no, it had to all revolve around my guts and access through my asshole.

  Good job, I no longer give a fuck. In fact, I am reading a book by a gentleman named Mark Manson, titled "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck." I highly recommend it, and I am only a few chapters in; it's so funny, and the author's take on things is bang on.

 So what have I been up to? I am seven chapters into a book I have decided to write, just over 17,000 words, and I am enjoying both the writing process and the creative side, as well as discovering how I think. I've actually read sections of my book aloud and thought to. I said, "Hey, this is canny good." Obviously, no,'ne' good has been the only critique of my own work, so I sent a rough draft over to me, courtesy of David. I'm sure he will give me an honest opinion, and I'll either start again or virtually rip up all my hard work and just say "Fuck it."

  Now then, I got sidetracked there, as I started with "It must be 10 years at least."

I can see it in my dreams

   What I was going to say is that for over ten years, I have been dreaming of somehow coming into money and buying my dream house up in Scotland.

    It would have enough land to start up my various business ideas, and basically, I would live happily ever after.

  On a night just as I am in that state of mind where you are between consciousness and that other subconsciousness, I can imagine, as if it were real, that I am walking through this house. I know it by heart. I imagine walking up to the door and opening it, making a drink or even a dram of whisky, sitting and relaxing, lying on a couch with my hand on the floor, listening to the house, with a peculiar sensation as if it speaks to me.  

Absolutely beautiful

      I checked to see if a particular house was still for sale, yet again today, I don't most days in truth. The house in question has been up for sale on three separate occasions. Something wrong...Or it’s waiting for me. Hopefully the Universe comes across my wee blog and decides I am not a bad fella, and gives me a helping hand. My business idea's actually involve giving back, just so you know I am not all greedy and possession oriented.

Hopefully, the Universe reads my blog, "Hey, just putting it out there."

   

  I'm going to have to sell a lot more Lost2bFound books. I've just checked, and I've only sold sixty-one. Come on, people, for fucks sake, it's only a couple of quid as an e-book, and a paperback is a tenner.

Lost2bFound "come on people grab a copy."

 

 I only make, on average, 70 p per book, so I have to sell, oh, I don't know, about a million. Only 999,949 to go, yeah, I'm staying positive.

    Bringing up an image of the house on my phone and pinning, I decided to write this, whatever you would like to call it, a poem, a musing or maybe nonsense or crap.

Glass House

As I look at the scene, it reminds me of a dream, where a red—roofed house, that's made of glass, lies beneath blue skies filled with clouds that gently drift and pass.

And upon cold days, weary bones can be warmed while siat before an inviting open fire, lifting spirits higher and higher.

A choice is presented—to listen to the beautiful surrounding nature or—put on a track and get lost in future journeys—each song a new adventure.

Surrounded by a land made up of green, grass—with wild flowers in nearby meadows—trees and hedges protecting the borders, right to their edges.

And upon those borders—lies a wee cabin overlooking a Lochan—whose views are so beautiful—you can find yourself lost in dreams again.

Dreams that are so special— and rest deep in the souls of us—bringing content smiles and warmth—preventing negative mental thoughts that can form like rust in us. 

    Well, that's about it,  time to dry my foot off and go and do something less boring instead.