The village of Bolley
For months now, I have been thinking of a way to start writing a book. I have read about methods of how to start writing. I tried a couple, but I found them not fit for my purpose, for me. Those methods work, but each person’s brain is wired differently, therefore, there can be as many methods as there are people. So I decided to just start writing, it can’t be that difficult – little did I know.
My next step would be to create the world, the universe from which I want to tell you stories. I wanted it to be innovative and memorable (don’t we all!?), but more than that, I wanted to be able to come up with my own rules to create twisted plots and a couple of tears. I revisited a couple of memories from my childhood, and I was able to transport myself back to when I avidly started reading books, between 10 & 11 years old. I put on those shoes of an 11-year-old boy and looked around, trying to invent what was already found. So I realized that I don’t need that, the solution is trying to complete the reality we as a society with hundreds of story live in, subtract the boredom and add a bit of imagination.
Below is the first draft of the universe I started to work on, the epicenter where the story begins, Bolley village. It is probably going to change, and I am happy with that, so expect some updates on this post here and there.
It was a sunny day in Bolley. The streets of Bolley were really narrow and the houses that form them had an odd wobbly shape. Because Bolley has a donut-like shape and most people worked in the High District – the city Bolley surrounded – villagers had no choice but to start building houses on top of houses. From first sight, a foreign could think Bolley was an aggregate of poorly built houses pilled on top of more houses; and the spaces between them would form the most confusing, puzzled streets ever seen. But Bolley was a city full of life, vibrant with its vivid coloured houses. All the streets of Bolley had a personality of their own, from happy streets full or merchants and small shops, to other streets not so friendly and where the black market would reign. Bolley was like a complex human mind: full of happiness, good memories, but with secrets and regrets – it was like living with a friend with multiple personalities.
In one of the streets of Bolley there was a white house surrounded with an uneven fence that went from the size of a small child to as high as a gigantic Nordic man. The fence would surround part or the house leading to a small patio decorated with vase plants and protective trinkets of all kind. In the centre was a stone table and some chairs, all different – it was the Bolley brand. Next to the wall was a triangle shaped door.