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Worth overcoming writer's block to continue?



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Thu Feb 23, 2012 9:17 pm
Anoia says...



Or is this idea just a bit of a dead end, hence my lack of inspiration, or, rather, my inablility to put letters on the page.

The basic plot is that there is this young, 17-year old man called George Theodore Arthur Montgomery- his fiancee calls him Teddy, his friends call him George, and his superiors call him Montgomery.
In the year 1854, he graduates from Harrow Public School, and has his heart set on buying a commisson in Queen Victoria's army, which he does at once.
After just a short time with his regiment, however, the jolity of being a uniformed soldier, serving Her Majesty, disappears, when the 4th Light Dragoons (his regiment) have to serve in the Crimea; gruesome and bloody fighting in the freezing wasteland of Russia.
He sees his friends, companions, fall dead and have their noble faces trampled in the valley mud in the Charge of the Light Brigade, and sees Lord Cardigan, the alleged superior leader and commander, desert his own men. These, among other factors, spur on his sense of honour and duty, and good old Victoran moral outrage, and he charges head-along into a crowd of Russians. He is thrown from his horse, and severely damages his leg, so he cannot walk.
A man helps him up, and then they and one other end up fighting against a seemingly-ceaseless onslaught of bear-like Russian soldiers and Cossacks.
The upshot of all of this is that, in the long-run, he ends up in the hospital wing, with one companion dead and the other not exactly his best, but alive and incredibly grateful that Montgomery saved his life (long story!).
Montgomery is currently recouperating in the hospital wing, but he is soon to be offered the award of a Victoria Cross medal, for his outstanding bravery and superb conduct in the field, which he will refuse, as he does not believe his actions were heroic, to the incredulity of anyone who knows his story.

That's where I'm up to so far, but I don't know where to go next. Oh, and his friend (the one whose life he saved) may fall ill with cholera, a common battlefield ailment, although he will definitely recover, but I'm not sure about that one yet!

Any ideas, anyone? Your input would be much appreciated! Thanks! ^_^
"What we're trying to do is to write cricket bats, so that when we throw up an idea and give it a little knock, it might...travel."
  





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Sat Mar 03, 2012 10:33 pm
roostangarar says...



It sounds good, but one thing piqued me. He wouldn't 'graduate' so much as 'finish' school, as graduate is an American term and the British still held a lot of enmity against the Americans at that time.
Anyway, it's an interesting storyline. The one thing I'm worried about is that you say you have writer's block. This idea will require a lot of research to make it historically accurate (Unless you exercise your poetic license more than a compulsive liar) which I get the impression that you don't like. Don't worry, I don't either. It's definitely worth writing, so I say go for it!
I hae but ane gallant son, and if he were to follow me in my footsteps, how proud I shall be.

Time isn't a straight line. It's a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff
  





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Sun Mar 04, 2012 4:50 pm
Anoia says...



Hey :)
Thanks for your comments- and don't worry, I only said 'graduate' because I was typing quickly, I'm aware of the emnity between the two nations at the time, believe me!
Thanks also for your encouragement with the story- I think i'll do more research via first-hand accounts of the Crimean War, especially the Charge of the Light Brigade (love your quote, by the way!) That should also help with the inspiration.
You're absolutely right, I like my writing to be as historically accurate as is humanly possible. I have George MacDonald Fraser to thank for that! ;)
I'm glad you think it's worth writing, and I'll keep posting the new chapters as I write them :)
Thanks again! :D
"What we're trying to do is to write cricket bats, so that when we throw up an idea and give it a little knock, it might...travel."
  








Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
— Carl Sandburg