Lancashire and Worldbuilding by Mark Jones those tiny grains. Blowing across the sand is the salty aroma of the Irish Sea. Somewhere — under its waters — are basking sharks, jellyfish, starfish, and octopuses. Above it are wind turbines, as well as gas and oil drilling platforms. Annually, the contents of this attractive watery economy are worth six billion pounds. Each year, its views bring in a variety of tourists. In the summer months, even the Leatherback turtles like to spend their holidays swimming through it.
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n the summer of twenty-seventeen, plate glass frames a view of the Irish Sea. The early morning light gives its waters a tint of aquamarine mixed with emeralds. I’m looking at the view from a table in the South Shore branch of McDonald’s in Blackpool. The table is clean, except for an empty cup. It may have had a chocolate milkshake in it once. I take a sip of coffee, look at my watch and wonder where the time has gone. I’ve spent the last few minutes thinking about a children’s book. It’s one I wrote fifteen years before, and a story that no publisher wanted. I’ve considered rewriting it, but it seems like a waste of time. The story is weak, and the characters are not convincing. I consider buying another coffee, and I think about how time can fly. To myself, that especially applies to my writing. For many years I’ve struggled to place something. There have been some wins along the way, a job as an editor and a published poem or two. However, it feels like a protracted losing streak. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth the bother. It then occurs to me that fifteen years isn’t a long time. When you walk along the beach at Blackpool, it’s quite incredible to think some of the golden sand there could be eighty million years old. It’s been created as a result of rocks, and the shells of marine organisms, eroding. If you pick up a small amount, you can see the tiny multi colours of quartz, chromium, and mica. On a lucky day, you might see white, green, or pink in 58
As the seasons slowly change so does the clientele of Blackpool. Every September, tourists flock to see the illuminations now powered by one million lamps. In the early nineteenthirties, Blackpool’s landscape was drenched in multi-coloured neon lights. Across the black vista, whitehot light glowed from glass tubes filled with xenon gas. Green — the colour of renewal — was created using green coated tubes filled with argon. Pink neon light was made possible by mixing argon and xenon. My visit to Blackpool is just one spot I intend to pass through during the summer of twenty-seventeen. At a career crossroads, I decide to spend a few days on my own. The purpose is to consider my next move and get back on the rails. My thinking is to embark on a railway tour of Lancashire. Most of the places I intend to see are old family favourites. There is one location that I am particularly fond of. On a humid Saturday morning, I board a small two-carriage train from Lancaster station to Morecambe. The journey takes around ten minutes. The interior of the train is polished and old fashioned. It almost seems to transport me back in time to a bygone era. The simple cloth seats and unaesthetic windows remove me from the modern world. As the train rocks from side to side, I’m comforted by the lack of digital boards. It seems there is a soothing pathos in being withdrawn from the twenty-first century, even if it is temporary. Morecambe, on the northwest coast of England, has an incredible
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collection of Art Deco buildings. The most alluring, and striking, is the Midland Hotel. Morecambe Bay also has a fabulous view of the Lakeland Fells. As a spectacle, the bay is both ethereal and rich. Even on a misty day, the scenery can cast a hypnotic spell. I have always felt, even as a teenager, that this charming seaside town has yet to see its golden age. Two years after visiting Morecambe, I finally decided to rewrite my children’s book. After reading through it, I realised its world-building needed improvement. The characters also needed to be refined and renamed. As with most stories, the first two opening chapters set the tone for the work. In chapter two of the book, I tried to think of a location that could be a metaphor for a dragon called Lester Thyme. As one of the heroes of the story, Lester has never had the break he deserved. He’s worked a series of dead-end jobs for very little money. The bank account he has is drying up, and there’s no pension scheme coming to save him. On a whim, Lester decides to visit an old childhood holiday spot. Hoping to regain his youth, he gazes out at Morecambe Bay. Looking into the waters, he watches a narrow current of water that moves directly away from the shore, slicing through the breaking waves. To Lester, the powerful riptides symbolise time running out. Just like Morecambe, Lester Thyme has untapped potential. However, he is almost at the end of his losing streak. All it takes for his luck to change is one person who can see the dormant talents within him. Only then does his life become one of excitement and intrigue. As I progressed with reshaping my characters, I began to consider the world my story would take place in. I created a hard-boiled setting called Neon City. Its rain-drenched streets, just like mirrors, reflect the colourful lights around them. Those streets are seductive. But despite being framed by a white, green, and soft pink, they are also dangerous. There is a little bit of both Blackpool and Morecambe
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