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"My collaboration partner Jess and I had realised when we met that we both had an interest in horror, so initially, I wasn't planning on using the character sketch I had developed in class because horror wasn't what I had in mind when I wrote it." - Blog Post

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At this point I couldn't see how the draft I had written could be horror, I had written it with the intention of of being more along the lines of a romantic comedy

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Dear Reader, the narrative is a tricky thing. It has a tendency to want to split into tributaries and form a delta of a tale instead of one straight path. There are so many choices, so many people whose footsteps we could follow in. Perhaps we should follow that young women in her red duffle coat, ushering a young child down the street as fast as she can. Or perhaps the grandmother watching her from the car park as she eats her lunch in the front seat of her Vauxhall Viva. We could even look through the windows of the row of squat houses that frame the street, peering blank-faced out through the spidery mist. Here, come look at this one.

The living room is filled with flowers. It is a small room, the volume of petals bursting out of the seams of this tiny building. There is a rather large bouquet of lavender roses, addressed to a Dear Bryony, but the rest are placed in vases and on windowsills, a cohesive riot of colours. At the centre of the room is a peculiar object that seems to serve as both a table and a footstool, but might have once started life as a desk, and it bears two vases of gardenias and a half eaten ready meal. Macaroni and cheese. The footstool table is bordered by a sofa on one side, and a small TV blaring some sort of cooking show on the other. The flowers are still and perfect, the silent guardians of the house. A collection of white lilies glare out at us, warning us away. Whoever lives here is under their protection. Perhaps we should leave?

Wait.

A man walks into the room with a cardboard box under his arm. He's tall and of thin build, a vivid reminder that the human body is made of skin stretched tightly over brittle bones. His hair is dark brown, and he has stubble that is thick enough around his upper lip and chin to be classed as a neatly trimmed beard. His light eyes are like islands on his face, surrounded by the breaking waves of smile lines and the sand spits of his thick, unruly brows.  He's dressed in an ill-fitting black suit with a blue tie, both clearly fitted for a shorter man. Perhaps he shall be the protagonist for our narrative.

His mobile phone is in front of the TV. He picks it up and taps at the screen until it begins to ring. The person at the other end picks up, their voice too distant to hear. He speaks in platitudes designed to calm, a smile spreading across his face as the other speaker's volume rises to an excited screech. That's a feminine tone, don't you think? Perhaps a sister, or a mother, or a friend. Perhaps it is Bryony of the lavender roses?

He thanks the mysterious speaker and ends the call.

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"Her idea for what she wanted to draw was 3 movie posters, showing different characters or scenes in the text. However, I didn't think that would work with the text as I had it written, which had only one scene and only one character. Instead, I suggested what I had imagined while I was writing, a picture that was drawn as if it was looking into someone's living room and showed a snapshot of their life. Currently, the ball is in her court as she is drawing sketches for her artwork." - Blog Post

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Jess, my collaboration partner, is a third year student at NUA and is currently working on a film project as well as the collaboration project. I've also had to be out of university a lot due to a family situation, so we had some delays along the way, although nothing substantial.

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Jess put together a mood board of images that represented the vibe she felt when she read my story. I used this as inspiration when writing my second draft.

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Dear Reader, the narrative is a tricky thing. It has a tendency to want to split into tributaries and form a delta of a tale instead of one straight path. There are so many choices, so many people whose footsteps we could follow in. Perhaps we should follow that young woman looking around anxiously, ushering a child down the dark street as fast as she can. Or perhaps the grandmother watching her from the cemetery, hazy like a memory. We could even look through the windows of the row of squat houses that frame the street, peering blank-faced out through the spidery mist. They look like prison cells, bricked up to stop something getting out. Here, come look at this one.

The living room is filled with flowers. The mass of petals almost burst out of the seams of this tiny building. The lights are off, and shadows cloak many of the more distant displays, but the ones closest to us gleam in the moonlight. A large bouquet of lavender roses is addressed to a Dear Bryony, but the rest are placed in vases and on windowsills, pale and elegant. At the centre of the room is a peculiar object that seems to serve as both a table and a footstool, but might have once started life as a desk, and it bears two vases of gardenias and a plate of decomposing food. The stool is bordered by a sofa on one side, and a small TV blaring a news station on the other. The flowers are still and perfect, the silent guardians of the house. A collection of white lilies glares out at us, warning us away. Whoever lives here is under their protection. Perhaps we should leave?

Wait.

A man walks into the room with a cardboard box under his arm. He’s tall, and of thin build, a vivid reminder that the human body is made of skin stretched tightly over brittle bones. His hair is dark brown, and he has enough stubble that it is thick enough around his upper lip and chin to be classed as a neatly trimmed beard. His light eyes are like islands on his face, surrounded by the breaking waves of smile lines and the sand spits of his thick, unruly brows. His skin is pale enough to make his dark circles stand out, the most colourful aspect of his design. He’s dressed in an ill-fitting black suit with a navy tie, apparently made for a shorter man.

Perhaps he shall be the protagonist for our narrative?

The TV continues to blare, but he doesn’t seem to hear it as he picks up his phone and feverishly taps at the screen until it begins to ring. The person at the other end picks up, their voice too distant to hear. He speaks rapidly, burning through the traditional greetings of a conversation before the other has any time to reply. That’s a feminine tone, don’t you think? She sounds sweet, if a little confused. Perhaps a sister, or a mother, or a friend. Perhaps it is Bryony of the lavender roses?

Our protagonist hangs up the call without warning, a gleam in his eyes. Adjusting his tie, he picks up the roses, plucks something that glints faintly from behind the TV, and walks out of the room. The TV is still blaring news.

Half an hour the news is of the brutal murder of one Bryony Webber.

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At this point Jess and I had different ideas in terms of where we wanted to go in terms of the art. Jess still wanted to to a triptych art piece, and while I thought it was an interesting idea, I didn't think it would work with the idea we were working with, as it only featured one setting and focused around one character.

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Instead I suggested a landscape painting of the living room described in the story I had written.

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Jess asked me to come up with a title for the story so that she could add it to her basic sketches. I had two ideas "Blooming", and "That Strange, Ominous Calm", a quote from The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter.

"Even when he asked me to marry him, and I said: 'Yes,' still he did not lose that heavy, fleshy composure of his. I know it must seem a curious analogy, a man with a flower, but sometimes he seemed to me like a lily. Yes. A lily. Possessed of that strange, ominous calm of a sentient vegetable, like one of those cobra-headed, funereal lilies whose white sheaths are curled out of a flesh as thick and tensely yielding to the touch as vellum. When I said that I would marry him, not one muscle in his face stirred, but he let out a long, extinguished sigh. I thought: Oh! how he must want me! And it was as though the imponderable weight of his desire was a force I might not withstand, not by virtue of its violence but because of its very gravity." - The Bloody Chamber, Angela Carter

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I've really enjoyed working with Jess so far. We get on well, although I think the collaboration would have gone very differently if we had known each other beforehand and had chosen to do it of our own accord.

"While I have collaborated with other writers before, I've never collaborated with an artist, and never in such a structured way. I'm not sure I enjoy it, to me it feels as if we're pressured into working together and coming up with ideas instead of collaborating because we actually want to and are passionate about our idea, which is making it harder for me to think creatively. I also have discovered that I prefer collaborating with people who I have known prior to the collaboration because then I feel as if I can be more honest." - Blog Post