Monday, 25 March 2013

An Epic Interview Celebrating From Away

When I asked readers to send me questions for an interview to celebrate the end of my serial story 'From Away' in the G! Magazine, I was overwhelmed by the way everyone wanted to pick my brain! Luckily, I just adore people doing this and find it thoroughly entertaining to answer just about any question a mind can conjure up. That said, questions of all kinds poured in and I did my best to select the ones that covered the most popular topics and threw in a few that struck me as funny!

But let me just say this, when it comes to From Away general consensus is that I either know, am in love with or have a hidden connection to Erik Deror. My all encompassing response to this is a resounding..."Erik, if you're out thee, drop me an email! I think we may have a future together!"

I would really love to thank everyone who sent me questions, I appreciate your interest in my complicated mind and am so thankful to have such a brilliant, creative and supportive readership. You all mean the world to me and these past seven month of having 'From Away' in the G! Magazine has been terrific!
Without further ado, let the interview commence:

Roseanne via Facebook
Well, well there has been a question I've been burning to ask you...does Erik personify a love interest from your past...or a special someone your heart is drawn to?

M.K.R: Ah, Erik Deror; I can tell you one thing first off and it's that I've become very attached to him as a character. He however doesn't represent anyone from my past; if I had been lucky enough to meet someone as charming and disarming as Erik, I'd likely be married. Even so, however much as Erik has taken on a life of his own, is an allusion to someone who my affections are drawn towards.

Charity via Email
Inspiration is different from everyone, and it's fascinating to know why writers write what they write. What inspires you to write?

M.K.R.: If I had to boil it all down to one thing; the characters. An author spends more time with their characters than they will with any other physical human being. It's impossible not to since they're essentially a part of you. And when you're that connected with any one sense of being, they become a very real thing to you and from that stems an extremely strong need to tell their story. To express to people what the characters can't say for themselves. That responsibility in itself a massive force of inspiration.

Lydia via Facebook
Do you prefer writing with or without your socks on?

M.K.R.: Haha, I love your question! I gotta say though for this one...socks off! Maybe I'm trying to soak up creativity in the floor? Let out extra creativity into wherever I happen to be at the moment? I couldn't tell you for sure... But if the occasion arises when I'm in need of some fancy footwear to keep my toes happy; I find Toms my favourite things to write in and wear.

Celia via Facebok
Who is your muse? Where do you derive your inspiration?

M.K.R.: Muse is such a broad spectrum for me. I could apply it to any number of things, music, environment, books, fashion, lifestyle and all other matter of sensory experience. In the end it all boils down to humans; mankind, which has always fascinated me. All humans at some point become my muse in the things that they do or create. Of course some humans are more beautiful than other to me in their nature and temperament but I can become to comfortable with those specific people. It's those times that I find great revelation in learning to love other types of humans. So muse is a never-ending discovery for me. Although, I've noticed a suspicious trend in my interest regarding people whose names begin with a certain letter of the alphabet but I won't say which since it would be too revealing.

Kevin via Email
"What kind of music do you listen to when you write?"

M.K.R.: Well from the 5,000 song selection on my MP3 player, it's hard to pick just a few to mention. I tend to listen to movie scores a lot because they create ton of action and emotion without confusing what I'm writing by listening to lyrics. I will, however, listen to songs with lyrics if they come from a deeply artistic place. Most recently I've been listening to Hans Zimmer, Danny Elfman, Joe Hisaishi and Jack White's music.

Dillon via Facebook
As a reader AND writer do you feel the message you convey is more important than your audience's interpretation?

M.K.R.: It's a delicate balance really. When I'm crafting a novel, especially particular scenes, I often go back to what the reader's experience will be with the book. Author, character and reader relationships are specifically important for emotionally driven moments. The character's job is to deliver an experience, the reader to absorb and relate to it. As an author it becomes my responsibility to make it something both character and reader can share. Interpretation is key because no matter what it may be that I'm conveying, if I don't make it accessible to as many people as possible, it's lost is efficacy.

Kaye in Person
Is Erik Deror a real person that you know or is he a creation of your imagination?

M.K.R.: Erik is a creation of a creation, made as a compliment to someone; he's a lot of different pieces put together really. Honestly, no matter how closely related any character is a real life person, I could never say that was who they are once they hit the page. Any character, Erik included possess very strong personalities that won't be held within the boundaries of just one person. So even though Erik was made partially with a human in mind, that particular person has become very diluted through the process of Erik taking over his role.

Lydia via Facebook
Do you wake up in the middle of the night with a burning urge to write? Does said burning urge exist and if so, can it be repressed?

M.K.R.: There is definitely a burning urge and mostly it comes in the form of conversations characters are having in my head. They can either be talking to each other, vying for my attention or really expressing something profound about a story. That said, it can hit me in the middle of the night. The reason it's in the middle of the night though would be because they haven't let me sleep to begin with.
I can't really repress the experience and honestly it's better not to. If I'm lying in bed I'll just take it all in and record it in the morning. If it's during the day nothing can stop me from writing. I typically have my trusty writing book with me but if not I'll use napkins, facial tissue, pretty much the nearest thing to me that I can write on. I've always got a pen with me.

John via Email
"So you're always wearing a hat or something on your head. What's your obsession with headgear?"

M.K.R.: I've been asked this a lot in person because I do wear hats or scarfs every day, no matter what...and it's safe to say that they've become a part of me. As for why i wear them, there's been theories but I'm partial to the idea that they keep all the ideas in my head where they belong. It makes sense to me!

From Brenda via Facebook
What kind of stories do you like to write?

M.K.R.: I've discovered that I like to write almost any kind of story, as long as it challenges me on some level and is sort of offbeat. Ironically those are always the stories that come to me, the ones that I can relate to on some level emotionally and that make me step out of my comfort zone a little more each time. I find that a fundamental quality of my work though, the more I'm challenged the better my stories become and so it's grown into a bit of a craving. I want my stories to be the best they can be for my readers and I know the most effective way I can do that is through defying any form of convention I might have. I've grown a lot as a person and a writer through that and so it's safe to say I'll keep using this method for as long as I write.

Wednesday, 20 March 2013

My Short Story Indulgence: Figment

Something incredible happens when an author gives them self total abandon. When you take the opportunity to write something that's very much akin to an extremely emotional piece of modern art. On that concept, I've written a fictional short story that takes a deeper look at the concept of fiction itself, of the power that it has and the way humans use it to escape from reality.

My short fiction story "Figment" puts that under a microscope. Exploring the potential of someone completely given to the lure of fiction and how they're treated in return for such a strong obsession.

Without borders, I've used an artistic style of language and illustrated for readers something that I feel is like a very decadent dessert. So enjoy this indulgence and let it inspire your mind to see what you're capable of when fences are down and you're completely free.


Author: M.K.R. Mossey

That day when the little girl tumbled down the rabbit hole; she was in stitches.
Crowing in merriment during her descent from humanity.
She didn't grapple as adults do, clawing desperately to hold onto the superficial surface.
She could do better.
She wanted to do better than any of them ever had.

The laws of life and death were the first to be thrown away and this utopia could be whatever she wanted.
Perfection was no longer subjective, it became as close to her as what her mind could create.
Unrecognisable to the naked eye, that little girl is me.
Was me.
Is still a part of me with my caustic behaviour burning up the threads that keep me anchored to reality.

It was amusing to hide in the interfernestration. Peeking between reality and fiction at my whim. Taking advantage of both while they mocked me in my ignorance.
Selfish little girl.
Foolish little brat.
Those are the things they said behind my back.
Wanting it all and letting go little by little the further I stepped.
Loping down the garden path with pleasantries on my lips.

Conjuring up chimeras at will, invisible companions that served me in my imaginary world. I was never alone, every second was peppered with a fascination towards what would happen next.
Every square in the chess board suddenly belonged to me and I was intoxicated with the sweet nectar of power and the sheer ambrosia of control.

The Queen; myself.

Given to the nature of my position and a sense of entitlement that grew increasingly detrimental with every spoken word. The crown on my head was cacoethes, so powerful a diving force that each judgement I made became increasingly ludicrous and fanciful. I assumed roles of Queen and Subject. Fulfilling the duties of Murderer and Martyr. So palpable in their essence were my creations, each one with tender words to pacify my fitful existence. But like the tyrant Queen, when I was finally bored with one of my subjects I would kill them. My hands dripping with golden rings created from the ichor of my imaginary casualties. The mourning of the victimised subject that followed was simple audacity, blaming them for having left me alone and claiming vengeance on the evil that let them perish in such unsavoury ways. The masks I would wear were all part of the masquerade, the game of tactics which stained my heart with inky words of every movement I made.

The King; my world.

Bonded to my every move by the consequence of an accidental union. I laid upon my King a mantel of affection which made him bend and conform to every absurd wish I could conceive. I was wilful child, spoiled by her beloved and indulged in every possible form. Every brick in the path, each building in my view, filling the spaces in empty fields and re-drawing every line my vision fell upon. He would colour them in unrealistic shades and trace over the physical with delightful renditions of fictitious muses. Everything was a gift, wrapped up in surrealism for my collection of fabricated memories where I could be whatever I wanted while hidden in the shadow of my King's robes. A sire
to my phantasmagorical children as they came forth from the fabric of oblivion.

The Bishop; my conscience.

Nagging, pulling, pleading, begging through pathetic excuses that filled my mouth with acrid words which I refused to swallow. Bitter medicine that was easily spat out and traded for sharp insults used as a blade to combat logic, dripping with the venom that had filled every pore in my body until it reeked with that intoxicating virulence. I silenced the Bishop so easily in my times of rest, disregarding his sage advice as a nothing more than incessant rubbish. But in moments of discontent when I had been forsaken by my own creation I would retreat to him for absolution. I would nag, pull, plead and beg for an invocation that would cleanse my guilt ridden soul. Each time my repentance would lead to unrepentant folly and the vicious cycle was permitted to continue...

The Knight; my love.

Enticing me with his innocence and ethereal beauty. He was purer than the King and fairer than the reality I had left behind. Our affair was so potent a poison that I became addicted. Each thought laced with the saccharine sweat of our effort to meet against the odds of my mortal existence and my Love's tenuous connection to the realm of physicality. Sight unseen, there was still no retreat from his ubiquitary presence, every voice downed out by his mute demand for my attention as a Queen brought to her knees by illusory power. Keeping himself constantly beyond my grasp, I was inches away from insanity but ultimately obsessed with something I could never have. A game so dangerous it turned my blood to adrenaline and left me begging for more behind the wailing tears, praying for an end to the unceasing cruelty.

The Rook; my guardian.

The gossamer veil that I had drawn to protect myself. To keep my world from others and from the taint of their judgements. The champion that I used to shield myself from the aggressors of sensibility. My self assassinations were few but in the days when my nameless world was threatened, the Rook would hold my hands, lacing our fingers together so that my tantrum wouldn't give into cataclysmic urges. The sweet air that belonged to The Rook was transferred to my lungs, a drug that not only protected the world but me along with it. Each time the corners of creation came free for mortal view, the Rook drew them back behind the curtain of my abode only leaving unsuspecting humans to wonder in it's wake.

The Pawns; my playthings.

People around me forced to be unwilling participants, unwitting enablers in a world where they never knew they existed. Each one dressed in garbs that suited my perception and daily capriciousness. In the front line of my army, I would concatenate each figure and assign them a role in my theatrics. Kind, wicked, pious, vicious, virtuous, apathetic, empathetic, sympathetic but never dominant. Fulfilling the final role required by my voracious appetite for variety and constant stimulation. I used them in their place, no matter their significance they would become a member of the troupe under the fathomless reign of my sceptre. My toys were so numerous that I knew not what to do with all of them but as each position fell in line I could see them clearly for who they were, exactly who I wanted them to be.

The day I descended I had been in stitches, but the stitches came undone when I couldn't climb back out.

The apocalypse approached and my instincts scattered away from the crumbling foundation of all that I had created. But my betrayal and abandon were vain exercises as the mire consumed me, throttling from my throat a caterwaul that would shake the core of my entire being.

Stripped of my title, I suffered a clandestine death, the dust of my destroyed realm stinging my eyes and pulling forward repentant tears that bore the stench of my sins. I created alone and perished without anyone to aid me, the people on the outside only able to see a contented smile.

...and as everything slowly slipped away into the arid silence of realisation, I was left with nothing more than the waning petrichor of nihil.