Tinsel Town is turned upside down when the Spectre is on the loose. Clark Tyler returns to the Uchronic past in Is the ghost of Triumph Pictures haunting the studios biggest star? Clark Tyler returns to the Uchronic past in another exciting novella also featuring an exciting new hero, The Jade Monk. The set of Triumph Pictures latest epic is threatened when accidents and tension plagues the set of starlet Fay Reynolds' newest picture, The Mayan Mummy.
Action, thrills, and double crosses careen across the silver screen and it is up to Clark Tyler and his new friends, Kendo Foster and the mysterious Jade Monk, to solve the case and save the studio.
Thrill to action in the classic pulp hero style and adventure in the tinseltown in the s. Get A Copy. Paperback , 60 pages. Published January 5th by Uchronic Press first published December 11th More Details Other Editions 2. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.
The Studio Spectre
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Community Reviews. Showing Average rating 0. Rating details. All Languages. More filters. Sort order. Nina marked it as to-read Feb 19, Lisa Ann marked it as to-read Feb 19, Christina marked it as to-read Feb 19, Brett marked it as to-read Feb 19, Barry marked it as to-read Feb 19, Amber marked it as to-read Feb 19, Darlene Howard marked it as to-read Feb 19, Arwen S marked it as to-read Feb 20, Kim Coomey marked it as to-read Feb 20, Sue marked it as to-read Feb 20, Max marked it as to-read Feb 20, Cindy Gates marked it as to-read Feb 20, Violet marked it as to-read Feb 20, Emily marked it as to-read Feb 20, Cathy marked it as to-read Feb 21, One of my favorite answers is this: Somebody asked Willie Nelson how he thought up his tunes, and he said, 'The air is full of tunes, I just reach up and pick one.
To wait in silence. Listen for the tune, the vision, the story. Not grabbing, not pushing, just waiting, listening, being ready for it when it comes. This is an act of trust.
Uchronic Tales: The Studio Spectre
Trust in yourself, trust in the world. The artist says, 'The world will give me what I need and I will be able to use it rightly. Not almost right. To know how to make something out of the vision; that's what practice is for. Because being ready doesn't mean just sitting around, even if it looks like that's what most writers do; artists practice their art continually, and writing happens to involve a lot of sitting. Scales and finger exercises, pencil sketches, endless unfinished and rejected stories.
The artist who practices knows the difference between practice and performance, and the essential connection between them. The gift of those seemingly wasted hours and years is patience andf readiness; a good ear, a keen eye, a skilled hand, a rich vocabulary and grammar. The gift of practice to the artist is mastery, or a word I like better, 'craft. Clear of ineptitude, awkwardness, amateurishness; undistorted by convention, fashion, opinion.
It's what I like to do best in the world, and what I like to talk about when I talk about writing. I could happily go on and on about it. But I'm trying to talk about where the vision, the stuff you work on, the 'idea,' comes from, so:. A piece of rock is full of statues. The earth is full of visions. The world is full of stories.
Le Guin. The beautiful fairy tale paintings in this post are by the Belarusian artist Anton Lomaev. Petersburg, and has been illustrating children's books and designing book cover art since the s. Please visit Anton Lomaev's website to see more of his magical art. The passage by Ursula K. All rights to the text and art above reserved by the authors and artist. While the world of human affairs goes on its noisy, alarming way, I return again and again to the woods and hills behind my studio. To moss. To mud. To the dark, damp mulch of leaves carpeting the forest floor. To the strength of granite and the swift ways of water.
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To the prickly beauty of holly and gorse, and the slow, silent patience of seed and bulb. To the resurrection of bracken, grown so tall that the trails are half-hidden beneath it. I keep leaving my desk, Tilly close at my heels, crossing from the imaginary landscapes of writing or reading to a world I can touch, and smell, and taste: to the old stone wall at the edge of the treeline, and pathways trodden by wild ponies and sheep. To streams filled with rain, bogs thick with mud, brambles that snag my skirts and scratch my shins.
To discomfort. To pain. To surprise. To joy. To the things that are real. An occupational hazard for the solitary writer is to live in the realm of the mind alone or the shadowlands of the Internet , and not in the body, the senses, the wild rhythms of the local groundscape we each inhabit, whether rural or urban. For many of us in the fantasy field, the wild world is the very place that we seek to conjure and enter through stories and paintings -- and so we must not neglect our relationship with the elemental wild around us.
In our kind of work, "magic" is not a metaphor for gaining power, control, or authority, but for our numinous connection with natural world, and our nonhuman neighhbors. It is wild work.
It is soul work. And we need wild stories right now, more than ever.
In fairy tales, the human and animal worlds are equal and mutually dependent. The violence, suffering, and beauty are shared. Those drawn to fairy tales, perhaps, wish for a world that 'might live forever. Metaphor a favorite of mine is an act of shape-shifting, of remembering that each thing is hitched to the next in the great cyclical transformation of energy, from sun to seed to doe to cougar and back to worm; the line between ourselves and the wild world is thin indeed.
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Writing thick with metaphor is the means through which I can praise the wild mystery of this world, and also explore its unseen realms -- the realms inside the hearts of bears and granite stones and buckeye trees; the lands just the other side of the moon and the fog, the lives of men and women long ago or just around the corner. If I were buckeye tree, then writing would be the buckeyes that fruit at the ends of my limbs come late August. In other words, writing is the thing made in me from all the waters and winds and soils and stories that come through my five senses or six , and it feels very inevitable, like the buckeyes at the end of summer.
Such books literally shaped and changed my life. They informed the way I see the world today -- as a place much more mysterious and full of wild magics than we tend to believe, where everything is alive and everything speaks. So I write because writing is even better than reading in the sense that you really get to go to those places in your imagination, and give them to other people. The stories we tell ourselves and each other form the world in which we live. Our task, as David Abram sees is, "is that of taking up the written word, with all its potency, and patiently, carefully, writing language back into the land.