Fame lent him no comfort as he sat in his study, watching the mob on the other side. Only a wall prevented them from amassing on his property. As he watched, he felt like a lord, a lord hated, and protected by the provision of god; for he is not like anyone else. He holds a power that no one else does… they will soon be aware.
A smile grew on his face as he reached down the drawer. The glow surrounded his hand and engulfed the object. But he knew what it was, and he knew that it would lead him to his destiny.
For as long as I can remember I had trouble staying quiet at night, I screamed, I swore, and I shouted. I also sleepwalked, often aimlessly before I realised what I was doing. Sometimes I even physically tried to ward off enemies, punch them and/or take cover.
Whenever that happened my heart was pounding, I was genuinely scared, and took several minutes before my mind was able to collect itself and realise how preposterous it would be that an assassin is out to kill me. For a while I considered that I had post traumatic stress disorder.
This went on for many years. However, I was calm and collected when I was awake. Perhaps I had anger issues that I suppressed?
In anycase that suddenly changed when I began writing and I believe I know why. People like us who always think, always dream, play out scenarios in our heads daily (some violent and some not so much); these thoughts gets stored in our subconsciousness and when we sleep they sprout out and grabs a hold of us!
I believe that that is why some people have restless nights. But when we begin to write those thoughts down, we receive an outlet. Think about it, when we write down our ideas on paper we can basically throw that idea out of our mind because it is stored somewhere other than in our head. Thus, our brains only has to format the mundane events that happens during everyday life, and presto! the nights are calm again.
Logitech has an interesting giveaway this week. The prices are okay, but the fun lie with writing a story in eight tweets or less.
Though I think eight tweets is a bit too generous, it is an good opportunity to write whatever comes to mind. This is my favourite process in writing, it is like exploring a new land; you will never know where your mind takes you.
Here is what I wrote for the contest;
Things never really goes as planned. Life is funny that way, yet you still appreciate the sincerity of it.
I don’t know what happens when we die, but as life is forthright, then so too in death; I shall have no worries.
“Poetic… ngh,” there goes another one. I’ll be there soon… “I’m so sorry”
… I think I will write a comedy next time.
All of us wonder what their place in the world is, what we need to become to be considered a member of society. I never had those thoughts, at least not until very late in my life. I lived a blissful life where I studied for interest, not towards a goal of becoming… somebody. I was already somebody, I was me. But then I realised that I had to become a version of me that was accepted by society.
I lived this blissful life until my last year in my master’s studies. And when the inevitable realisation came, that I had to prepare for my future, I panicked. What am I good at? what could I possibly do for a living while pursuing my passion? Do I even have a passion?
I went many sleepless night thinking about these questions , and at the time, I never really found an answer. What I should have realised back then was that my future was already decided in the off set. I enjoy solitude, I am weird, I come up with ideas, I day dream; yet becoming a writer never even crossed my mind, not as a serious profession at least.
It wasn’t until the very last semester, when me and my classmates were finishing up our thesis that it hit me. I love being creative, I love starting a projects, to have 100% creative freedom, and the satisfaction in finishing said project. And that was it really.
I should have probably consider my future a lot earlier, then I might have been a better writer by now. But then again, I wouldn’t have had this blissful past to reminisce on, I already had my fun, now is the time to get serious, and create.
What it comes down to, I think, is to always challenge yourself. Don’t be satisfied with the status quo and always try to learn new things, eventually you will find what you are good at.
I’ve read that once in awhile a writer comes across a piece of work that is so good that it completely devalues his/her own work to the degree that that they wonder why they are even trying.
I never thought this would happen to myself, and definitely not so shortly after I commended myself for a particular passage of my story that I was proud of; but alas, it happened.
When I find myself in self doubt, or in any other problem, I turn myself to the one true therapist, google. Here is what I found.
It is an article that explains that when you find your goals to be far away, or seem unattainable, the solution is to focus on the skills that you already have, to take everything step by step. There is no point in worrying about the steps that you cannot think of, that you cannot reach right now.
Basically, “you can only act with the resources that you already have.”
In these past few days, I have been in a rut, which may or may not be obvious from my previous post. I haven’t been able to write very well and I felt like I wrote nothing but garbage, it really was total garbage! In short I lost my muse.
But then I came up with an idea that really helped me and I want to share this so that it may help others as well.
While I was reading the lord of the rings, for the second time, I was in awe of how well Tolkien was able to write. I thought to myself, if I was able to write like him, my story would be incredible! Then it hit me, when I had trouble learning something in school, I copied the text, word for word, until I knew the answers by heart.
Perhaps if I copied a page from Tolkien I could learn how to write better too, basically ride the flow from one of the greats!
And guess what? it worked! not only was I able to get my flow back, I also received a ton of inspiration and wrote more than I planned on that day.
Hopefully, this will aid you when you get a writer’s block.
In the words of Ernest Hemingway, we truly are “(…) all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
The frustration runs deep in his mind, everything he touches turns into trash. “Just keep trying and everything will be alright”
I would imagine that most writers asks why they write. Yes, why do we write when you are not good at it? What compels you to write when you make garbage after garbage?
It is a marathon. Running is tough, it is exhausting, but when you hit the finish line and win, that all goes away. But during the race you cannot stop running. You have to keep going, and so must writers keep writing; so that we may one day pass the finish line, and win. Become good.
I read once that all characters that are written, have some small aspect of the writer in them.
Whether that may be the case or not, my characters certainly has some aspect of, or at least my idea of myself, in them. But I have also found that as the story progress, those personalities change, they grow, and so they grow away from my idea of myself.
Hemingway once said that; “when writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature.”
I don’t know, I’d like to believe that the people that I create grows on their own, as I create a scenario or a world for them to live in, they make their own choices based on the options that I give them. It is not I who choose who they become in the end, but I choose how their story begin.
“What is man? but a miserable pile of secrets?”
Truer words could not have come from anyone but Dracula himself.
Secrets is what binds us together,
And sometimes drives us apart.
We all have them,
And sometimes, we let them out because they burn through our being,
Rather than binds it.
Nobody knows this better than Dracula as desire is what drives him.
Whether it is for power or for lust,
It is the very being of a vampire.
This is equally true for man, for the same desires drives him into secrecy.
That which makes us miserable.
I just want to say thank you so much for the followers that I have, and to everyone that have either liked or simply viewed one of my post. They all count, and provide some validity to what I do.
The original purpose of this blog was to showcase the progress that I have made with my book, but as it turns out, it is not easy to post something that you feel you can do better, especially on something that you really care about and have spend a lot of time making.
And despite my reservations, I want to post the prologue of my story so that you may get an idea of what the book will be about. I appreciate any comments that you may have, whether it is about the story, or just my general writing style.
The wind chills through her cotton cloths as she traverse the road on the hill. The stone plates that was laid out hundreds of years ago has crumbled and parts of the road has disappeared. As the path becomes more narrow, parts of the plate breaks under her weight and her body leans over the edge. She reaches desperately for something to hold when a man grabs her by the wrist and pulls her back into the fold. Terrified, and breathing intensely, she looks at her saviour. She smiles, thankful for his intervention, but her smile soon disappears when she sees the emptiness of his eyes, eyes of a man that has travled too far and seen too much. Feelings that she is all too familiar with.
As they continue to ascend, loud noise start to erupt that echoes through the hill. She breaks from the crowed and looks nervously to the front of the caravan a few hundred meters above. A crack of smile forms along her face as she sees people weaving. They have reach the top safely. It will take many hours before she will arrive, and many days before the rest is, she thinks as she watches the snake like line created by hundreds of thousands of refugees.
Ominously, the horizon is covered in a strong orange light, with a thick blackness from the smoke the fire creates. The destruction is unimaginable and it’s getting closer. Images of her town, her whole world burning away floods her mind as a tear falls from her eye.
Even in the cold northern climate she can still feel a faint warmth in the air from the westward wind. Her lips tremble. Realising that she is torturing herself she swallows her emotions deep inside and looks away; letting them out now would break her and this is neither the time nor the place to show weakness, she thinks as her people watch her when they pass by.
The tall grass touches her bare ankles and she cannot resist to stroke the soft green weed as this will be the last patch of green that they, and anyone else will ever see again. She shivers at the though of what would have become of them, hadn’t her brother stepped up as he did.
At the top of the hill the leaders of the different clans gather, discussing the next course of action. Only a decade ago she would not have imagined her people united as they are now. But disaster has a way of putting things into perspective and erode old grievances.
At the cliff below she watches as shattered families prepare their meals and rest for the journey ahead. She raises an eyebrow seeing a blue eyed woman together with a man of red eyed descent, a union that was blasphemous not that long ago. Even though the old society is all but broken, she doesn’t fail to notice such contradiction.
To her left she hears a small child asking his father. “How much longer will we be walking?”
“As long as we need to son.”
“But where are we going?”
The father pauses for a few seconds and then says. “Do you remember back home when we were going to grandmother’s, but we were delayed because of the wind?”
“…and then the ship had mechanical problems and we had to land in a different city but the day turned out well anyway?”
The child nods.
“Well this is kind of like that, something unexpected happened and now we have to make the best of things.”
Another man grunts a few meters away from the family and says. “Except there is no turning back.” Taken by the intensity of the man’s yellow eyes, she cannot but stare as it reminds her of the fiery destruction happening in the background. Realising that she finds beauty in something so awful she looks away.
She sighs heavily and looks towards her brother who is sitting alone at the top of the hill. Even the clan leaders avoids him. The feats he accomplished seemed god like, and fear rests in things people don’t understand. Shameful to admit it, she can feel it as well.
They say it is a gift only one in a million of their people are granted, though her brother sees it as anything but a gift. The clan leaders looks at her and nods in her brother’s direction. She swallows her fears and walks towards him, knowing that he alone holds the burden of their entire existence. Such responsibility would drive lesser men into madness. He glances at her as she approaches. “You don’t have to come up here,” he says, clenching his hands around his knees, as if in pain.
She doesn’t say anything and kneels down next to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. He grunts loudly as she touches him and his eyes starts to glow red, almost burning. She takes a tight grip around his body, holding his arms together with all her might. She knows his pain is internal because she feels the same way, but somehow his anger, sadness and anxiety is manifested. His body is tense but he doesn’t try to break free. Slowly he relaxes. As she feels tears fall on her head she releases her embrace and looks at him as the glow slowly fades. She’d like to believe that what she does helps, but she also knows that her brother is strong.
She puts her hands on his face and presses her forehead against his. “We will get through this, brother. Together we will survive, and create a new future for our people.” He nods and stares into the distance with newly found determination. On the far side of the hill a purple glow illuminates the horizon, a presage for the toxic world that awaits them. She whispers to herself. “…Avos help us.”