Author: TJ Edwards

Suggestions For Writing Fiction

I have spent many days reading and writing to arrive at this point in my life. Sadly, this point is that grey area where I am simply a writing enthusiast. By a profession standpoint I am not a professional writer, nor do I make myself out to be. I’m neither published or widely popular. But I have done lots of research into the craft of writing and how to be a better one in all aspects from the writing itself to the mentality itself. Since so many people really love top ten lists, I figured, why not give it a shot? But this list is a summary of all of the many tips and hints I have seen along with what has helped inspire me. Some published authors say if you believe your work is fantastic, then it most assuredly is not. I disagree to an extent. Confidence is key in any job, and if you want writing to be your profession, then it is indeed a job. In no particular order, here is my top ten list.

1) Read often, write more.
This should be your main practice. Do I necessarily mean read fiction? No. Expand past what you want to write. Read reviews, poems, essays and even newspaper articles for not only ideas but flow and rhythm. I have found that reading from authors who have as much passion as I do for writing has helped. Ray Bradbury has done wonders for me and I cannot stress reading his Zen in the Art of Writing enough.

2) Be confident and humble.
Be proud of the work you do, it is the love child of your labours and your creativity and you have every right to be. Now that you’ve inflated your ego, take criticisms well. It will sting at first but if you consider every criticism even with a grain of salt then you may find a new spark of creativity for your story. After all, while we write our sub conscious fills in gaps for us. We secretly know the information sometimes even before we know that we do. These assumptions are not evident to the reader and despite your implying of events, they may miss critical information that throws the story for them.

3) Write, Hack, Slash, Re-Write.
You’ve just written a twenty page short story? That’s fantastic. Now go through and cut any word that does not need to be there. You may think we want high word counts to create big books, but if two thousand words in a ten thousand word story were unnecessary, it would fall flat. Cut scenes that don’t move the story, change descriptions to actions or experiences and move words around to create smaller concise sentences.

4) Find a writing group.
This is important. I have only placed one short story up for critique on a web based writing group and while much of the feedback has been positive and cheerful, the ones that have been overly critical have actually stuck out in my mind. Just as my first ten out of ten rating made my heart skip a beat, the first three out of ten made my blood boil. I went straight in and changed many of the things they disagreed with and some of them I passed over as they were meaningless. The whole experience however has been extremely positive, getting feedback on what people not only dislike but enjoy about your writing is unparalleled. Also, make sure you have no friends there. The reason I say that is because as much as we believe our friends aren’t biased, they are. They see our passion for our story and they want to let us down easy. These people critiquing your story should have no ties to you so you can be assured of their honesty.

5) Write everyday.
Pick a number. Ten? Two Hundred and five? One thousand? Pick a goal and stick to it. It must be attainable and you must do it every single day. Don’t have much time? Pick a small number and ensure you make time (You can type two hundred words with one hand on your cell phone over the course of your meals and washroom breaks for the day), write anywhere and everywhere that you can. When you can’t write, think about it. Think about what you are going to write as soon as you get home or near something to write on. Also, if your muse is working overtime, let them. You may have to give them time off in lieu but if you go from writing a hundred words to two thousand for one day, just go for it.

6) Reread your writing aloud.
This can be both fun and annoying. Pick a method for how you will read certain punctuation and stick with it. I prefer to give finality to my voice as I approach a period. Pause at every comma. With an exclamation mark, consider yelling it with excitement. This will help keep your characters from sounding excited all the time, even if they are reminiscing about an awesome summer they had. This also helps with tone, flow and can also spark your creativity amid conversations between characters.

7) Do not do research unless the story is hinging on it.
Research is a fantastic tool. It can provide depth to stories and allow your world to fit into ours. Think of how the Matrix changed the way we considered the world? That being said, Wikipedia is the devil. It is a tool designed as a map leading you away from productivity and into knowledge. Every article has dozens of links which contain more information and better sources. Click on these at your own risk. Every time you research you begin distracting yourself from the main idea of your story and you run the risk of coming up with a newer shinier idea which will leave the other to collect dust. Unless it is absolutely necessary perhaps leave the research for the first edit. This way you may focus on the creative portion of your writing and at least make it through the first leg of the race.

8) Write down

    every

idea.
When I say every, I mean every. What was that? A piece of music just inspired you to see a beautiful garden? Write that down and the song it came in on. In all honesty, keep what is called a creativity or inspiration journal. My method is between a four by three inch notepad and post it notes. I convert them to digital notes on my desktop and then I can see them all the time. Having so many ideas around is also fantastic for your own creativity because perhaps the story you are writing gets caught up and you cannot get past that point for the life of you. Jump into another story idea and perhaps there you will find the solution for your issue.

9) Never limit yourself to one piece of writing at a time.
I cannot stress this enough. It feels great to finish one story, but to make progress on many is rewarding both creatively and mentally. Sometimes we writers are hit with a block that completely destroys our ability to continue. This can most times be avoided by a shift into a different gear or world. If you are constantly working a novel, then by all means set your word goal accordingly. But never forget about the other ideas in your head or other writing that you may feel compelled to write.

10) Follow your heart.
Many of the now considered greatest writers were at one point shunned by publishers and critics alike. If you enjoy a certain simile or metaphor, keep it. This is your writing. Every time we write something whether it be a short story, poem or essay; we pour our blood, sweat and tears into it. Our goosebumps are in these stories. That tingling sensation when something goes according to plan, we put that in there too. Your writing is your writing. As long as you follow the rules of language, then anything is possible.

That about rounds up my own personal top ten list for writing’s helpful hints. As I said in the beginning I have yet to be published aside from a poem, but this is a single stepping stone in my path to becoming a professional writer. I leave you with my poem that was published, its single inspiration was a small photo handed to me in year twelve english with the challenge to write exactly what I felt. I loved the challenge and wrote this in less than a minute to full marks. Sometimes I miss how easy high school was.

    Not Quite Nostalgic

A sea of hope, a beach of sand.
Some have never seen nor heard,
The whispering winds across the land.

Though I have seen many a time,
The lapping waves, in rhythmic beauty,
Rising and falling, almost in rhyme.

The tide across the sandy beach,
No worries or cares, just silent sounds.
No lesson to learn, nor to teach,
Not quite nostalgic, yet my heart still pounds.

Everlasting

Dr. Willem Hart. Psychiatrist.

The small stark white business card in my hand feels firm and I lose myself in the bland font gracing its surface. Psychiatrist. I’m not crazy. I think. But something tells me all the crazy people think that too. Frustrated, I toss the card to the small coffee table in front of me. It’s cheap, but it is both my dining table and office desk. The good news is it only adds to the dingy bachelor apartment I’m living in. The lights flicker when anyone flushes a toilet, the wind whistles through the walls and the paint has peeled back to reveal the bricks they had simply covered up. It’s not much; but it’s home.

My eyes stare blankly at the tiny card amid the chaos of dishes and scribbled notes atop the table. I need to talk to someone, but this Dr. Hart? Definitely don’t want to be committed to the asylum again. Almost didn’t make it out of there. My hand betrays me as it snatches the card from the table and also retrieves my wallet. As it opens, my driver’s licence catches my eye. It’s a fake and it has to be.

I stand from my worn leather couch and make my way to the bathroom. Staring into the picture, the world around me vanishes from my thoughts. My mind autopilots me to where I simultaneously want and don’t want to be, in front of the mirror.

The licence shows a girl with beautiful long curly hair, brown in color, she’s smiling and her dark brown eyes shimmer with life. The freckles on her face seemingly dance with joy as she poses for the camera. Who is this girl I wonder? She looks ever so familiar.

My eyes drift from my hands to the mirror before me. The face that reflects back shows no joy. I smile and my teeth don’t shine like the girl in the picture, admittedly it hurts a little. The dark bags beneath my eyes show how worn I feel, luckily my batteries are coffee and adrenaline. The long wavy frizz from my youth has now been traded for the easier to maintain pixie cut. It’s short, it’s manageable and I save a ton of time getting ready in the morning.

Still… the girl in the photo stares up at me, longing to return to the world. But it’s too late for that. I close my eyes and consider why I need to talk to a shrink. The faces of the damned are virtually burned into the underside of my eyelids, so in no time at all I am reminded of why I should make the call.

I return to the couch before I sense any regrets and shuffle around the dishes on the coffee table until the phone finds me. It shimmers like a beacon as its stainless steel glistens in the dim lighting of my apartment.

The lights in the apartment flicker as someone flushes their toilet. I can’t hear it, but I assume it. After making the call, my stomach churns with unease. My eyes wander aimlessly over the piles of clothing, ammo clips, crucifixes until eventually landing on the window. The phone keeps ringing, my stomach all the while doing back flips. The cloudy night sky blocks out the moonlight and the visible buildings from the window are mostly cast in darkness. Finally, a voice breaks the monotony of shrill ringing.

“Excuse me, but do you have any idea what time it is?” The disgruntled and congested sounding voice on the other end sounds none too pleased.

My hesitation coaxes me to look at the clock, which reads roughly quarter past four. “I-I’m sorry. I’ll call back another time.” Regret passes over me and my stomach knots immediately.

“Wait- who is this?” Concern reverberates through the phone.

“My name is Alex, we met on the train.” My voice shook, why was I so nervous about this?

After some brief shuffling, the doctor continues. “Oh yes, I remember. Yes, we should meet. Meet me at the address on the card?”

“Of course. See you then.” Tossing the phone aside my stomach finally begins to relax. He was awfully eager to meet up, I wonder if he could sense something was wrong with me from our first encounter?

I rise from the couch and head over to a pile of clothes, plucking a few choice ones out and smelling them. Fresh. Not so fresh. I hate doing laundry. Finally I settle on a collared sweater with alternating large horizontal black and grey stripes on it, teamed with a pair of dark blue jeans. They’re not skin tight, but lose enough to move in. Never understood why some people wear pants that are skin tight. I slip into the one pair of shoes I have, black lace up dress shoes. I may or nay not have picked them out of the bargain bin, and they may or may not be men’s shoes. I lean near the window and feel the cold seeping in. It’s jacket weather, so I grab one from the coat rack beside the door. It happens to be my favourite, leather and next to no pockets. I grab my keys and wallet and start off when something stops me dead in my tracks.

Do I bring a gun, or not?

Glancing back to the coffee table, the grip of my pistol peeks out from under some papers. It begs me to take it along for the ride and I decide what the hell. I check to ensure it is loaded and put it in the homemade holster built into this jacket.

The trip downtown is a rough thirty minute ride, but my mind is elsewhere. I sit in a car similar to the one where the doctor handed me his card. It flips between my nervous fingers as my mind considers what I could have said or done to have provoked his giving me the card. I remember sitting there and relaxing, then suddenly he turned and said if I ever needed anyone to talk to he was a call away. The card changed from his hands to mine and he vanished into the crowd at the next stop. I glance around the graffiti filled cabin and my mind fixates on a number, etched into the seat across from me.

Triple six. The number of the beast.

If I had been a fan of metal, I’m sure a number of songs would come to mind. Unfortunately, my mind goes elsewhere. It goes to the hour before I got on the train and met the doctor.

***

A terribly fake wooden door stood before me, the number thirty six in inch tall golden numbers and a peep hole were the only things of interest upon it. Knocking upon the door with my left hand, I readied myself. My right hand slid impatiently over the holstered pistol’s grip inside my jacket. The door swung wide, revealing a tall grey faced man with deep dark pits for eyes and teeth sharpened to a point. He spoke first, “Yes-” and then my bullet turned him onto his back. Two others rose from behind his smouldering corpse, a short blue skinned man with horns and red eyes and a taller red skinned man with eyes of fire. My next bullet flipped the shorter man backwards over his chair and the one after that ripped through the drywall beside the red skinned one.

Before I could pull the trigger again, he was upon me and was faster than I could have prepared for. His hand instinctively grabbed the gun, which was both hot from being fired and doused in holy water. He recoiled and my knee gathered the space to his jaw. He toppled backwards in shock and I grabbed the pistol, locking the hammer back. We sat frozen in that moment, he knew this was his end.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Do it!” The man’s voice was raspy and cold with genuine hatred.

“Why were you here? You escape purgatory and come live in this dump?” Admittedly, the apartment was nicer than mine which by comparison was purgatory.

“We… we wanted freedom. Hell is getting awfully crowded.” His burning eyes seemed almost sad. “Plus, I was there for killing someone in self defence! Wasn’t fair in the slightest!”

Considering his words, I locked onto his gaze, and lost myself in the fire. Demons would say anything to survive, so I wasn’t believing this for a second. Although I was told this by an angel, who may not be the least biased person in the universe. “I’m sorry.” My voice turned cold as if I were someone else entirely. “You were the hit.” The hammer falls and his body collapses into a smouldering heap like the other two.

The walk to the train station was cold and wet, with the rain pouring horizontally instead of coming down. I stopped beneath the shelter and shook with a chill. The rain clung to me, soaking through to my very soul and I began to question why the gods would send a man to hell for defending himself. Was he supposed to just die? In the many years I’d worked among angels and demons, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. Angels had a very black and white sense of judgement whereas demons were the grey area in between. Suddenly my mind snaps out its deep thoughts and a man is handing me a card.

***

That must have been it. I was deep in thought about the demon’s final words. Questions kept rising and before I could get another answer, more questions popped up. My trust was waning in the angels, not that demons were gaining it. Suddenly the night sky is above me and I’m standing before a small office building. The card in my hand looks almost identical to the slightly weathered white sign with the doctor’s details on it. When did I get off the train? I shrug to myself and walk up to the door.

Before I have the chance to knock, the doctor greets me. His smile is warm beneath his stubbled chin and cheeks. “Come in Alex.” The black mess of hair atop his head is streaked with grey and barely moves in the early morning breeze. I feel myself hesitate but his calm blue eyes look inviting, albeit tired. I make my way past him as he closes and locks the door. It makes me uneasy, but at the same time I can’t overreact. I’m sure it’s nothing. He rushes past me as I stare at the beautiful images on the walls. One is an archway formed by trees in black and white, while another is a misty lake at sunrise. They are both strangely calming.

“Come Alex, this way please.” He motions into a room and I glance in with caution. The room is a calming light beige color and there is a very stereotypical lounge type couch in the room. A single cozy looking chair sits beside it, with a small table in between. “Well, shall we?” I advance towards the couch and sit on the edge, then slowly turn and lay back. Relaxation creeps up on me and I lose myself until I realize the doctor is sitting at my side.

“Are we comfortable?” He asks the question with such genuine concern I feel compelled to respond. “Yes, of course.”

He clears his throat and adjusts slightly in his chair. “You might be wondering why I gave you my card. Allow me to explain. In all my years as a psychologist, I have never seen anyone deeper in thought than you. I searched your face for some telling sign you needed to talk, but you seemed both torn and lost. Now that we’re past that, is there anywhere you’d like to start?”

His question bursts the dam holding back all the questions of my own. They all flood forth until finally, a single starting point becomes evident.

“I’m a demon hunter employed by the angels in exchange for postponing my death.”

Strangely his demeanour does not change. I suppose this isn’t the strangest thing he’s ever heard.

But this time, it’s true.

The Waiting Game

Within the dimly lit confines of a small office/storage area, I sit begging the last person who was assigned a review of my story to complete it. It has been three days now since I made the decision to try publishing my short story. It sounds great, and I am beyond excited at this point. Why wouldn’t I be? I’ll just make a dollar eBook, and see if I can get noticed while I work on my novel. The goal was twenty individual reviews and critiques of my story before I begin the process of cleaning up the formatting for an eBook. This entire experience will be invaluable for when I eventually complete my novel. However, one thing is holding me back. It’s not me, nor anything overly technical… but it is out of my control.

This one jerk, most likely sitting in their mom’s basement, is apparently too busy to give my story a look. In a sense, it almost feels as if fate itself is telling me something: I’m not ready. I feel ready though, I mean the short story has come a long way. I’ve managed an average rating of just over eight out of ten, which for my first foray into the public domain, feels incredible! But as my beard grows thick while I wait, my patience grows thin. Who is this mystery person who is keeping me waiting? I’ll bet when they do eventually get around to it, they’ll toss out a generic score of six and give me all one line responses and no constructive criticism. It will make my day.

Then, I will destroy them.

For now though, I wait patiently. Like the hen on her eggs, I will wait until the time is right. I made this deal with the universe, the least I can do is abide by it. Damn universe… grumble, grumble… In the meantime I’ve been writing thousands of words! Last night the only thing that made me stop was exhaustion! Which doesn’t exactly sound good, but my muse had grabbed me by the hand and lead me into the seedy underbelly of Cope Dia City. I found a character I had briefly written about in another story, in the middle of a new one. So now he needs to raise $100K before the man he dealt with decides to take his house and life from him. Guess that’s what happens when an assassin needs a loan.

The novel has been going well too. I’ve pretty much got four stories on the go at the moment, plus I try and write in one blog or another at least once a week. The only problem is one of my on going story ideas is rising up with more scenes popping into my head on a regular basis. If you’re a writer, you know what I mean. If you’re not… well, thanks for coming by and supporting me first of all! Secondly, a scene flash could be anything from a piece of dialogue which drives a whole scene or a simple pose that ignites a creative fire. The latest idea has grown from a simple idea, into a raging inferno.

It may consume me.

I may let it.

The idea centered around the Lord of the Heavens deciding it was time for his resurrection. Every time the Lord returns to the world as a spirit, the world showcases the issues through whatever way is most effective. This isn’t the first time, in fact the Lord has fallen to the world quite a few times. The time line is a bit hazy now, but as of right now I am dealing with different factions and how their leaders interact. Each leader is only trying to make everything better for everyone involved. The world is plunging into chaos as people are roaming, killing, conquering and pillaging. The Lord does not understand why his creations have fallen so far from their intended existence, and decides to return. Unlike his last appearance as Jesus, The Lord appears in the body of a twelve year old girl. The world thrusts The Lord into the eyes of a child and forces her to endure many hardships by resurrecting her alone and orphaned.

The other factions begin their planning. Gabriel is left in charge of the Kingdom of Heaven once again, and he feels strongly that it is now or never. If the Dragons, Celestials and Infernals were all granted immortality, why shouldn’t the humans? After all, The Lord granted immortality to his protectors among men, The Templar. He decides to visit Lucifer at the gates of Hell, and they discuss their plan to find The Lord while he is in his weakened state, and kill him.

The Templar Immortals catch word of a star appearing in the sky for only one night, and they begin their hunt for The Lord. They were granted immortality for their efforts in spreading his words throughout history and for staying true to themselves. They would be the first to find the girl, and Mary takes her into protection until she learns what she needs to for her return to the heavens. Mary’s interactions with Gabriel are most unpleasant as Gabriel considers them weak and feeble, despite The Lord’s favor upon them.

The Infernals are a neutral force, mostly in favor of their own lord Satariel and his brothers. They are the embodiment of Chaos and are brought into an alliance with the celestials to help hunt The Lord. After their eternal imprisonment, they make a pact with Gabriel for their freedom to walk the world but Gabriel and Lucifer force Satariel to agree never to march on the Kingdom of Heaven. They bind the agreement with their souls and the hunt begins.

The dragons are the most ancient of beings. The Lord was a dragon originally, and shaped the world in memory of his own birth from an egg. He populated it with dragons of all sorts, and upon the realisation of his duties as a creator, he left Bahamut and his family, Tiamat, Yahweh and Vrtra, to rule the world. The dragons became violent and began fighting over petty things such as land, scenery and eventually food. As dragons began killing each other, The Lord returned to them and realised they were lonely and unchallenged. Thus, he created humans.

Eventually humans began to evolve and survive alongside the dragons, and a new harmony was achieved. The humans however, were expanding at an alarming rate, and began to cut into the other food sources. Finally, dragons descended upon them as prey and humans began to hunt them in return. As The Lord returned to the earth, he came in the form of an angel to aid the men against their fearsome foes. As The Lord realised the humans were small and fragile compared to the larger and wiser dragons, he created the celestials to aid in the battles against them. Together humans and celestials drove the dragons from earth and they descended into an eternal slumber on a planet away from the reach of humans.

Until now.

The dragons in their ancient wisdom realise the malicious intent of the celestials descending upon earth. Bahamut with his all seeing eyes, rallies the dragons to return to their home for the first time in many millennia. As angels and demons hunt The Lord who is protected by the Templars and dragons descend upon the world from the stars, will The Lord learn the next lesson in time to save himself and his most treasured creations?

Who knows?

It’s late/early and I should sleep/collapse. Let me know what you think of that idea!

Final Note: I still await the next review…

Hack And Slash: Editor's Edition

In my last post, which was too long ago, I wrote of how Ray Bradbury inspired me to begin writing 1000 words every day. I took his advice, wrote with zest and gusto, and before I knew it I had a short story that is roughly 60 pages on the iPad in eBook format. Well played Mister Bradbury, well played. But before I ran out in front of the reality bus that is the world, I decided to gather some critiques both biased and unbiased. Thus far it has been both exciting and disappointing.

The story I wrote was nothing of ground breaking, in fact, it roughly bordered on cliche. The tale I told was a story of one girl’s plan for revenge. Her father had been taken from her family when she was eight, and for ten years she trained. Now, on her eighteenth birthday, she leaves her home in the Southlands to find the swordsman who killed her father and claimed the title of greatest swordsman in the entire realm. The plot had been done, but it was the characters that I hoped would allow it to shine apart from the rest. I was working on honing my craft rather than story depth and intricacies. I believe I allow enough foreshadowing to be interesting and my dialog is hopefully not dollar store drivel. But those are my opinions!

I then decided to post my story on a website for critique as I couldn’t find a writing group nearby. I would rather a “first session free” kind of deal as if I didn’t find it helpful, I wouldn’t want to pay for ten sessions upfront. Despite my objections, I found a decent website that allowed posting, editing and critiquing. It was free too! I decided this would be the beginning of my editing journey. I had gone over my story a number of times and felt ready to unleash the internet hoards upon my very heartstrings.

I submitted it and waited.

I waited some more.

Finally an email prompted me that a review had come through! Fantastic!

Overall rating: 6/10. *Insert the sound of my heart shattering here*

I took a deep breath and stared at the screen. A six? Really? I decided not to believe the reviewer. However as my eyes drifted across his review and the inline comments, I realised I was being petty. I took his criticism and made the changes accordingly. Thanking him for his time, I also informed him that I had made the edits and hoped to hear from him again. It stung, having something you wrote judged harshly. Although at least it was above five!

My anticipation for another review had me nearly frothing at the mouth. I then discovered a button for a kind of “forced critique”. The system works so that they assign you four reviews, and then they owe you three. I needed something to do anyway and they guaranteed the reviews within twelve hours, so I figured, why not? I read, edited and critiqued a story that was well written and the plot was decent. Hey, this wasn’t so bad I thought.

Then, it drifted downhill.

The next story I read lacked impact… or grammar… and sometimes spelling. I felt terrible rating the story a three as it was hard to follow with so many errors. I gave as much information as I could without trying to sound as though I thought she was terrible. I mean after all, if she was a ten year old writing that story, I’d be impressed! But it still needed a lot of work. I reviewed and edited two other stories and then checked my email.

My reviews had arrived.

As I eagerly checked each one, I felt as though I had made huge strides from that first review! It felt great to know that I had already improved upon my work, my confidence was soaring, A nine! A ten! Wow! I was getting some great reviews and productive feedback! One review left, let’s see…

Overall Rating: 3/10.

My heart skipped a beat.

Umm, I had made progress. Or so I thought. As I read through her comments, I could feel the very soul being drained from my being. I felt I had a grasp on writing, or at least the english language… why was she so harsh? Did I critique her? Her daughter maybe? I stared dumbfounded at the screen. Ouch.

I finally snapped out of my daze and decided to write back to her. She stopped reading my story halfway through and it felt like a slap in the face. Imagine your puppy running up to a stranger, just wanting love, attention and maybe even to play, and that stranger lighting your dog on fire. I picture that is close to how I felt. We writers put our hearts on the line every time we write something and ask someone to take a look at it. It’s as if we are trusting them a piece of ourselves.

She was kind and later apologised for her review. She admitted she was tired and under time constraints, and said she’d get back to it eventually. I felt vindicated, but at the same time I still took some of her harsh criticisms and turned them into edits as well. I mean, she wasn’t entirely wrong. The dog should have been on a leash, but still no reason to set him on fire.

Since then I’ve been aiming for a goal of 20 individual critiques, since the three I’ve had many fantastic reviews and criticisms. Strangely enough people were asking for more detail into the setting, which from when I started writing I always had the problem of giving too much. I suppose I have gone too far in the opposite direction now, but that is alright. I’ve been considering publishing my short story through Lulu and into the iBooks store to get more feedback on how I’m doing. The critiques on there would be more general than from fellow writers, but it has been overall a great experience for once I eventually begin penning the one novel to rule them all.

Anyway if anyone out there has read the story, fantastic! I’d love any and all feedback (grammar correction, spelling, plot holes, things you loved, hated, etc…) the email is at the top right!

If you haven’t, click here to give it a go! (Please note, the layout is a bit brutal now as their text editor on the website is crude and simple. It will look much better once I put the correct formatting in!)

Thank You Mr. Bradbury.

For any budding writer, there comes a point when you simply stop and ask yourself:

“Can I go on writing?”

For me this question comes every time I attempt the illusive novel I’ve been working so diligently on. I can create a thousand stories and histories for a world, but to create a single novel feels like trying to climb a mountain while towing a mack truck. With the right tools, maybe.

Nevertheless, I had actually stopped working on it for a few days and began to feel my muse creeping up on me. Well I decided to devote to the other side of writing, reading.

With the new household iPad in tow, I gathered a number of the books I own in PDF form and some I didn’t. One of the books that caught my eye was actually a book by Stephen King. On Writing seemed like exactly what I wanted, one writer’s journey into success.

I could not have been more wrong.

I read in about seventy five pages, then skimmed roughly thirty more. What I realized? Stephen King was a terrible writer. The one thing I gathered from his book however, was he was an excellent editor. Not a bad note to take from a book, but I had wasted some time reading it. I could have spent it coloring or writing my own work.

After I rinsed the words from my eyes I decided to give Ray Bradbury’s book, Zen in the Art of Writing, a go. I mean after reading Stephen King’s memoirs, nothing except Twilight or Fifty Shades of Grey could be worse. I sat down and started reading. Then I kept reading. Then I had to do dishes… yet I continued to read. Then I sadly had to go to work.

I had only managed to read a third of the book, but I realized that Bradbury’s love for writing matched my own. Even at his age his imagination ran wild, frolicking in the meadows of his mind, arm in arm with his muse. Reading his word play and seeing his passion come to life in these humble pages, it completely rejuvenated me! I spent my evening thinking of ideas I would immediately put into play as soon as I could.

But first…

I continued reading, completely entranced by this man’s words. I realized many things while reading his book.

One, I’m no where near publication ready.
Two, write more short stories… and then write more.
Three, write one thousand words a day.
Four, ignore the temptations of wealth.
Five, read more.
Six, do not search for the ultimately unique idea, that is nearly impossible.
Seven, embrace all the senses when writing.
Eight, everyone should read this book.

I continued through to the end and felt more satisfied in the conclusion than in any fiction I’ve read recently. The man stood and delivered from his soapbox, a message that should never be lost. I’m still absorbing what he crammed into those tiny pages, but he gave me exactly what I needed.

Inspiration.

You see, I’ve been overwhelmed with the creation of an entire world. I think I may not believe in God now because one being simply could not create so much without getting distracted by their own creations. One man has two children and suddenly there are hundreds of stories of them separated from each other, together and then in pairs. Then, they arrive at an inn with a blind barkeep who has large scars across his face.

What’s his story?

Well he was attacked by a werewolf and now after taking a sideshow cure, he must remain indoors as he only transforms if he is bathed in the light of the sun.

But what of this sideshow?

Calcorious Malinex, the leader of the circus, began the show when he happened upon a free elephant and a bearded lady. Thinking his luck too good to be true, he continued on until one night he was viciously attacked by a wolf. After slightly curing himself, he now infects others so that he may then sell them the vaccine which may cause death, dismemberment or some random transformation alteration.

What about this glorious cure for werewolves?

Well, when Calcorious began experimenting he found that he had somewhat cured himself, gaining control over most of his transformations. That is until any lunar or solar eclipse, when he uncontrollably transforms and releases the pent up aggression. Other symptoms include daylight transforming, hairless transforming, were-human (always wolf, except human on full moons), control over transforming (except on full moons), weekly transforming and finally weather transforming.

So, I find myself going crazy trying to focus on the story I am trying to write. A long time ago I told a friend of mine that if we wanted to make a game, we couldn’t start out with something huge. We should start small, so we could work as a team and hone our individual skills before embarking on an epic quest to create the one game to rule them all.

It’s ironic that despite being the one who gave the advice, I never followed it either.

I’ve been trying desperately to write the “one novel to rule them all”, and in doing so, began to despise the one hobby I truly love: Writing. As I read of Bradbury and his almost obsessive compulsive writing habits, I realized that his short story writing habits would help me greatly.

So, that brings us to this week.

I finally decided upon an ending I wanted to write and after that, the rest began to fall into place. I imagined the ending I had being the very top brick in a pyramid and from there I began to almost build backward and forward. The story quickly ran away, with me trying to hold on for dear life.

In five days I easily wrote over 8500 words, only really stopping to work, clean, live and edit. This made me consider many things. In five days, I had written one tenth of the first Harry Potter book worth of words. Also, I didn’t stumble over my own creations. I only added what back story was necessary and kept only the main characters with interesting names. I also cut down my word count by changing the main character’s mentor to Jason instead of The Mentor or Her Mentor.

Anyway, without further ado, here is my latest short story. I’m not a praying man, but please, if you read it feel free to leave me any feedback either through the website, my email or even facebook. Any sort of feedback both positive or negative would be extremely appreciated as my plea on facebook fell on deaf ears!

The aptly named “Circle of Vengeance” is a story about an eight year old girl who’s father leaves with a mystery man, only never to return. Ten years of training later she is ready to confront her father’s killer, the self proclaimed greatest swordsman in the realms, and sets out on the journey to his mountain top castle.

It may sound like the typical story of revenge, but please, read it and get back to me! Thanks so much and I hope you’ve enjoyed today’s post!

One final note, this story exists thanks to Mr. Bradbury helping me get past my own hurdles. Thanks Mr. Bradbury. I wish I could have met you when I had the chance!

Writing Across Platforms: iOS to OS X and Back Again

Alright ladies and gentlemen, I am writing this at an ungodly hour and I am hoping to the gods that my brain holds up just thirty minutes longer. Of course, that will make it four in the morning, but nevertheless. Tonight I come to the masses like a prophet, yielding undying knowledge upon the lesser men and women. Well at this point in time, I’m most likely the crazy one. However! In my never ending search for the “Ultimate Writing Dream” I have finally crafted it. Not the app I tried desperately to make, however a completely (for now) free solution to which I pass on to you.

Do you own a Windows PC? Or Phone? Or Tablet? Or all of the above?!

May you also own an iMac? Or iPhone? Or iPad?! Perhaps you also own all of those?!

As for me, I am living in a household which I am sure makes the local power grid flicker when we turn on our setup. My girlfriend and I both own iPhones (3G and my 3GS), we have an iPad 3 and I am writing this on an iMac. Before this I was a Windows man and my laptop now sits in the shadows, the ever so dull hum of its hard drive methodically pleading for attention…

This brings me to my point… I am a writer! And I wanted to be able to work on the same story from every device I own! I am also a nerd! Thus, I will make it so!

My original idea was a USB stick, which failed at iPad and iPhone. The Wiki, however, is still on there.

Idea number two was the App Store! After getting my iPhone I became a free app well… promiscuous gentleman. I would download anything and everything… no matter how dirty or ridiculous it was. Especially if it was free! After searching across both the OS X and the iOS stores, I found a few which used iCloud and Dropbox. Most of these solutions costed money, which Apple has ruined me… I mean made me thrifty. Anyway, I didn’t want to risk even a dollar if the app wasn’t what I wanted and didn’t work across all of my platforms. Enter XCode.

XCode is Apple’s development system and after tinkering around for a bit had an app that would allow you to simply write in it. Three years of a Computer Science degree and I couldn’t come up with more, I suppose if I had actually taken the time to learn Objective C, I may have gotten further. I have other ideas for apps, so I’ll save the frustration of coding for another day.

Now, for you patient people out there, I came to a solution I used awhile ago and simply never checked up on.

Google.

The team over there have been busy innovating the world and I haven’t been paying much attention. I mean, I use Chrome and sync all of my bookmarks and open tabs across my five devices, why pay attention?! Now Google was working on some kind of drive thing… Whatever. Also this is not a fancy method, you will get a free editor with a selection of choices, but the smartphone site is minimalist.

Now, pay close attention to the wonderful process here. If you want to write some stories or anything across all of your devices, I hope this helps!

Step One:
First off, sign up for a Gmail account. This is your passport between all of your devices.

Step Two:
Download Google Drive for your main computer, at this point you can also download it to your tablets or smartphones (for me, they have a Google Drive App in the iOS app store).

Step Three:
Once they’ve all downloaded and installed head to your main computer, ensure all documents you create are also editable offline. That’s grand for your desktop. For the mobile ones, only select the file you want to take on the go for editing offline. This just keeps everything from checking for updates all the time and focus on the one you’re working on.

Step Four:
Realize that Google Drives only allows you to edit things offline on your smartphone. What I mean by this is you should always have a Google Docs window open for use. I have Chrome on all of my devices, so I leave one Chrome tab open on each device for this. Otherwise on iOS you can make use of the Google Drive app’s “Open in Safari” button, but you still need to be able to load the document editor before losing your wireless connection.

Step Five:
Watch on your desktop as what you write on your mobile transfers over to the Google Drive version! It updates in real time (with lag) But you can edit your documents wonderfully like this! Enjoy! Also to note that if you want to be able to edit completely without preloading the Google Docs page, they do have a Docs App on the iOS app store but I won’t link it because it appears to be getting some bad reviews.

Some notes on this method:
Number One – Offline means you can edit this without an internet connection.
Number Two – Offline on anything mobile will require an internet connection to load the Google Docs Editor, Unless you have preloaded it.
Number Three – It organizes by time edited. If you edit on your iPhone while in airplane mode, then make edits after that on your iPad, they will be arranged properly once everything is synced.
Number Four – On your iPhone, DO NOT use the desktop site for Google Docs. You might be tempted to for word count, but just don’t.
Number Five – You can use the iPad for the desktop version of Google Docs. If you are using the on screen keypad the words will go straight under it. Use a bluetooth one if you like the desktop site.
Number Six – Buy a cheap roll up capable bluetooth keyboard, they are rechargeable and portable. Also if you spill coffee on it, it will survive.
Number Seven – You’ll notice on your mobiles the font changes from each person editing. Don’t fret, on the desktop it all looks the same.
Number Eight – Use Chrome + Google Drive Web App to be able to use their document editor offline. (That should be higher, just going in the order of my notes).
Number Nine – Chrome for iOS will report it cannot handle some of the features for the desktop site of Google Docs, it is right on for iPhone but the iPad only has the keyboard issue.
Number Ten – When you get published because this worked for you, be sure to toss me out a thanks as well as Google!

Okay, so now it is unconscious o’ clock and I have a full day of writing to do tomorrow! If you have any questions, please feel free to email me or comment here. If you’d be so kind, please pass this along if you read it! I’m hoping to help as many writers as I possibly can and the more feedback I get the better I can fine tune this article as well as my own writing! Thanks for reading and now…

Zzz…

Daydreaming At Night

The night is silent except for my heart, its beat drowning out my every breath. I wonder why I continue to try my hand at writing. Why? Do I believe I have the necessary skills to be a successful writer? Or do I have a story to tell? Perhaps I am not the greatest of writers, perhaps not even a decent one. Yet stories, of those, I have many. Some people grew up with imaginary friends, some imagined they were on a great adventure while exploring the woods. Me? I’d survive well in solitary confinement. I close my eyes for but a moment and I can picture anything.

I feel the slight moisture in the morning air as I stare out across the ocean. The sand slithers between my toes with the tide and my perspective changes ever so slightly. The waves bring much white wash ashore, it pays me no attention. I raise my hands to the sea, beckoning for greatness. My breath grows short and my muscles tense. The waters reject my wishes as I force my will upon them. My efforts are not in vain. A thin tower rises forth from the turbulent waters, followed by a staircase of sand. It stretches toward the sky and my body relaxes. I begin the long ascent but the stairs seemingly dissolve beneath my feet. The door to the tower is the only hope, and I burst toward it with every ounce of adrenaline the body can muster. The door handle slides through my fingertips as staircase and tower collapse back toward their watery resting place. I fall with them, the breeze whistling through my ears as I plummet toward the ocean. I close my eyes as water engulfs me.

The water is hot on the skin and steam twists and contorts like the spirits of the damned. I brace myself and the tiles are colder than I could possibly have imagined. My hand recoils in shock and I turn from the heat. Through the glass, I see half a man. He is naked and featureless, but from the waist up I can tell he is staring at me. I daringly wipe the condensation from the glass in front of me and the man returns my gaze. I recognize him, but his face seems different than I remember. As we stare at each other, I realize the mirror is beginning to steam up and I end the flow of warmth with a spin of the knobs. I step into the cold and stare at myself. Is this who I am? Where am I? The cold embraces me, and the heat of my skin rebels. Steam rises forth and it looks as though I am smouldering in the night’s bitter chill.

I take a deep breath and exhale. The jet of steam shoots forth and rises into the sky, dissipating before it gets too far. I turn to my companions who are huddled around the camp fire for some venison stew. I would join them, but something stirs in the night and in the freshly fallen snow. I can feel it watching me as I shift my gaze through the moonlit forest. I step forward and listen for any sign of movement. Nothing. I draw my sword and swallow my fear. I see it and it sees me, the damned White Wolf of Everwinter. I stare into its icy blue eyes and it stares back into mine. For a moment we admire the foe we face, but I have a task. Winter has brought famine to our lands, the animals are dying almost as fast as the people and we came to hunt the cause of the Everwinter. The wolf reads my intentions as if I made the declaration myself. I stand prepared as hundreds of pounds of wolf descend upon me from its rocky perch.

I fall to the ground and the flowers cushion the impact. I hear their tiny stems crunching beneath my weight. I stare out upon the universe and ponder our very existence. It is vain to think that in the infinite number of planets beyond our skies, we are the only ones who exist. Through light and time, I see another, laying in a field staring into the sky. She doesn’t realize it, but her and I are exactly the same. We will never meet. I close my eyes and envision the dimension of time and I see not only our planet, but others that have passed through this point in space at one point or another. Barren planets, advanced civilizations, scavengers of the universe, meteors, suns, a shuttle, a moon, a storm and that is merely a few things worth mentioning.

I open my eyes, blind to the world. The gods have a sense of humour and give a blind man the gift of foresight. To see the future but not be able to recognize the signs is more of a foreboding curse. I see a young girl, with auburn hair and fair skin, and she alone holds the ability to destroy the future or preserve it. “What do you think?” I ask wryly. I listen closely for any reaction. The voice I hear is young and melodic, as if an angel were speaking to me. “I don’t know, I think fortune telling is for the weak minded.” She stands and I feel her lips on my hand as she kisses it. The hairs raise on the back of my neck as she bids me farewell. I stand to protest her departure, but she is gone. Only the scent of her perfume hangs in the air.

In a blink I am back, staring at the journey today has taken me through. Every person in these thoughts are real; They have lives, families, histories and futures. I do not write because I want to, I write because I must. I write so they can live and their stories can be told. I write because despite the infinite number of worlds where a version of me may exist, I want to be the one to tell the story. I want to be the one who grants the girl the ability to overcome overwhelming odds to preserve the future. Who else will tell the story of my extraterrestrial doppelgänger? How else will the Everwinter end? Will I follow myself into the looking glass, or am I already there? Will Atlantis rise for its forgotten prince? Will I finish a story?

Something tells me that I grow closer to that everyday.

The Art of Not Writing

A dark room lights up as the screen of a laptop wakens from its slumber. A pair of hands dangle loosely above the keyboard and in the silence, a deep breath of despair falls on phantom ears. The silence is then shattered by the methodical clicking of the keys, until the blue screen changes to an image of a man and woman. They appear happy, yet this is the sole joy brought from this infernal machine.

It is time to write.

In the dim light a man slides the chair from under the desk, and it makes not a sound. He sits, slightly hunched, and hangs his head in shame.

He’s been here before.

It’s two in the morning and the screen beckons to him. He stares hopelessly into the white abyss of the text editor. Like a sculptor with a large slab of marble, he ponders where to strike next. His hands dangle back to the keyboard.

Facebook.

After a few moments of shameless friend stalking, the man leans back and scratches his head. He wonders how that happened, but dismisses it for it is already done. He closes the window and returns to his blank slate, his giant slab of marble, his…

Email.

The man shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He can check his email on his phone. He can check it anywhere. Why here? He runs his fingers through the remnants of what was once a full head of hair. The desolate wasteland upon his highest peak is near barren, but beneath the roots grows something. An image. An idea. The window closes and the man returns to his blank slate, his giant slab of marble, his ball of clay, his…

Wikipedia.

Time has indeed flown, but hardly any fun has been had. The man glances at the clock, keeper of his productivity, or lack thereof. A window closes. A slate rises, marble beckons, clay rolls, a drop of water pierces the tranquillity of a sink of dishes…

Focus.

Dishes beckon, marble shines, clay moulds, fingers crack, a blank slate awaits like a guard standing at attention…

Shiny.

Distractions abound. The man twists in his chair as if he were in agonizing pain. The chair groans under his movement, the cheap wood and metal grating together creating a symphony of silence piercing shrieks. He pauses, only for a moment, to listen for the rustling of his girlfriend. She continues sleeping, undisturbed by the banshee like shriek of his four legged torture device. His hands extend the foot and a half and lets his fingers dangle above the keyboard.

Life.

The first taps echo slowly in the darkness. Then more. Followed by a rhythmic tapping. The space bar no longer taps, nor clicks, but thumps. A heart beat. The lifeblood of creation, the godlike power of making something from nothing, consumes the man. His heart beats in unison. Is this the one?

Complication.

The tapping slows, as does the heartbeat. The rhythm fades and the man stares into the screen. The screen meets his gaze tauntingly, staring into the dry-yet-oily face of creation. As the staring match continues, the man realizes there can only be one victor. There are some marks upon the slate, some chips from the marble, some dents in the clay, some fingers upon the…

iPhone.

The chair groans as the man leans back in frustration to stare through the ceiling and into the sky. His arms dangle slightly to the sides of the chair and he stares longingly into nothingness. His fingertips dance along the carpet’s surface and he closes his eyes.

He’s been here before.

In the dim light the man hangs his head in shame. He stands and stretches, then slowly slides the chair back beneath the desk without a sound.

It’s time to sleep.

The windows close until only the image of a man and woman remains. They appear happy, yet this is the sole joy from yet another failed attempt at productivity. A finger descends across the image and plunges into the heart of the infernal machine. The light flickers dimly and and in the silence, a breath of despair falls on phantom ears. A dimly lit room plunges suddenly into darkness.

Memoirs of an Assassin: Silentborn

Why did you decide to become an assassin?

This is the single most asked question of my entire life. Who am I? I will get to that. Eventually. I wish to start this journal off by saying no one ever makes the decision to become an assassin. Sometimes the choices are made for you. Other times you are born into it. Then there are the rare cases; You are just born.

I do not know what I did in a past life, nor do I wish to know. However I, as a rare few, can remember everything as far back as the womb. Some of the memories are jumbled, as at the time I had very little understanding of the world outside, but I did not come into the world as most. Warriors of old wished for their sons to be brought into the world kicking and screaming, the way their glories dictate they will leave this world. Any brute can pick up and swing a sword or axe. It is the children who come calmly into this world who people need to fear most. The ability to let go of the familiar, the lack of fear in the face of the unknown and the calm temperament are simply a pathway to bloodshed. Remember this as you birth your children, peaceful is deadly.

I remember the day I was pulled from my mother. From the piercing brightness of the torches in the room to the woman using a towel to wipe me off. At first their reactions are grim, I suppose they thought me stillborn. Then the woman lowers herself to my mouth and then presses an ear to my chest. She hears either breathing or a heartbeat, to which everyone rejoices. My father stands behind her, almost completely ensconced in the shadows from the pillars in the room. As the woman rushes to tend to my mother, my father leans over to get a better look at me. He is clearly disappointed. I am no warrior.

Was that why I became an assassin? Absolutely not. I am saying I was innocent at birth. I certainly had some traits that would be helpful, however it is the events that follow which shape who I would become.

You see my father had been a protector of the Emperor for several years. I learned this before I hit the age of five. I also began sword fighting and horse riding and things were mostly going well. My father was away a lot and I assumed it was due to his service to the Emperor. I figured out this was not the case as he and my mother frequently fought about his latest payment.

He was now a common thief, banished from the kingdom by the Emperor himself. He had hit the Emperor in a drunken rage and he was spared his life for all of his years of service. My father decided the kingdom still owed him payments and it would be his job to take them.

My father became a folk hero. The man who hit the Godly Emperor and lived. The man who steals from the gods and gives to the peasants. The man who was hardly a father or a husband. Sorry, that last one is not a folk tale. Just the truth.

As his thefts became wide spread knowledge, eventually the Emperor decided to stop the man he allowed to live. This would be a decision that would affect any who would cross him in the future. My father was unsuspecting and pulled off his latest theft and returned home to his loving wife and me, his ever hopeful son. The tracks lead a group of armed warriors to our doorstep.

Some people say moments like these change people. The door bursts into splinters as warriors rush in, disarming my father and knocking him to the ground. Moments like these might change ordinary people. Other warriors drag my mother kicking and screaming into her bedroom. But for me, I’m not ordinary. My father’s blade rests at my feet. Ordinary may have run away. I look down to the sword. Ordinary may have lost control of their bodily functions. I grab the hilt and enter the bedroom. Ordinary doesn’t blend into the shadows so easily. One warrior falls victim to a stab wound at the base of his spine. The shadows don’t shield just anyone. The next warrior doesn’t get a chance to react as his body falls lifeless across my mother. I’m sure if someone were to read this. I leave her scrambling with the lifeless body and make my way to the front door. They would say “How couldn’t this have changed you?” I watch as two warriors force my father to his knees, while one executes him. I say, how could it have changed me? I calmly despatch the warriors in a flurry of swipes and jabs. Especially when it felt completely natural.

I stand, slightly confused over the bodies of three well trained warriors. Three protectors of the Emperor, and my father. He had it coming, however I always had imagined it being away from us. I turn back to our home and can still vividly remember the look on my mother’s face. She was slightly battered and bruised, some of the blood hers and some of it not. Her eyes were not staring at the husband she lost, but they were filled with fear at the child she had brought into this world. Her lips quivered as if trying to utter some words, but only silence filled the air.

I was five years old.

Writer's Block? More Like Writer's Indolence.

Some days you’re on top of the world but every once in awhile you end up taking a look in the mirror and asking yourself the same questions many others have asked before you. What am I doing with myself? Recently I took a break from writing in my two blogs in hopes I would be able to focus more on my own writing. What followed was a complete lack of focus and the result is I haven’t written anything in over two weeks. I am always thinking about my writing, always adding more to the varied characters and lore of the world I am building, but the problem I am finding is a complete fear of finishing the task. I’ve been there once before, and nothing came of it. What’s that? You’ve never heard of my first creative endeavour? Well, it couldn’t hurt.

Much like many budding and aspiring writers, I have been writing for a very long time. I’ve accomplished many a decent short story and once upon a wonderful time I had actually written a story I wanted to submit for publication. I haven’t told many people of the content or even of the event itself, but it consumed me. I went from being a child who loved the outdoors to one who sat inside writing, drawing and gaming. The story was aimed at tweens (as that was the age I was at while writing) and was about a boy who was bullied into many situations until he eventually had no friends. The boy is then recruited by a secret society who are called Immortals. The twist was that everyone in the world could live forever if unhindered, but it was the Immortals’ job to maintain a low population count. This meant they had to function outside of society and ensure people died “randomly”.

The whole concept of living forever intrigued me, what things would people see? What could they learn? Also at the time, I had turned on my so called friends and stopped stealing for them. I very much wanted to leave my life behind and start new, as a different person. I knew I had changed dramatically, yet those around me wouldn’t change. In fact they still haven’t. The idea for the story was personal to me as I wanted to be the character I had created. One day he was alone and the next, welcomed into a secret society. I hoped if I couldn’t be him, at least I would get rich off this story.

Enter the editor. Imagine writing just over three hundred pages and submitting it before heading off for year seven. I worked as hard as I could to earn extra money to send the story in. The problem was, well… I was young. My writing was only as good as I had been taught up to this point and I can imagine the editor on the receiving end. I chose a small, virtually unknown publisher as my target. I figured my chances would be better there. Well, surprisingly me and the editor actually wrote back and forth a few times as the novel went back and forth. One of the major issues with it was I had written it all by hand and in ink. It was a tragedy to see it come back with so many replacements and edits. I added descriptions, took some out, changed so much; Eventually it wasn’t mine any more. Finally, I was getting somewhere when fate took a turn for the worse.

I came home one day to find that the hallway leading to my room was actually a shallow river. I can remember the breath being stolen from me as I marched down the hall and peered under my bed. I suppose I should explain a few things here. First thing’s first, my room was six feet wide by roughly eight feet long. With a closet taking up roughly a foot and a half worth of corner space, my room was a tight fit with a bed, a television and a wardrobe. The storage space I had also included beneath my bed, which is where I haphazardly stored my writing. Another thing worth mentioning is that my room shared a wall with the washroom and on that wall in my room was the entrance to the hot water heater. Now we’re back to me kneeling beneath the bed, in roughly an inch of water. I see it, and I realize that at that moment, that story will never be published.

I pull it out and try to find a single page in the mass of soggy paper. The ink I used with trust has betrayed me and run through to the many pages below them. A blue, soggy cube of despair. That is the final memory I have of the first story I ever tried to get published. I didn’t cry for it, no. But I got rid of the evidence and other things beneath my bed before letting my parents know the hot water tank had flooded my room. It was fixed promptly enough and I later asked for a typewriter for my birthday. For anyone out there who hasn’t written on a typewriter, I envy you. For anyone who has written things worthwhile on a typewriter… you have my utmost respect. It wouldn’t be long after that when I would ask for my first computer.

Ever since then I’ve had a mild fear of submitting for publication. In year twelve I managed to get a poem published that was written from a photo I was given. I attempted to start a business, which I panicked and pulled away from. I stressed myself out so much for university I developed some form of insomnia and ended up dropping out of Computer Science. I have yet to finish a story from beginning to end despite writing consistently from a young age. In a sense I feel as though I am beginning to fear success more than failure. Many a person has told me this is entirely a lack of confidence. I would actually disagree with them, I am quite confident.

I was making extremely good progress with my story planning and the concept was coming together nicely. Also, my idea to transform any new ideas into concepts and ideas for the current story was both rewarding and enriching. So what went wrong? I stopped writing one night as I was getting tired. Sounds like a simple enough thing, but when I woke up, the mood was gone. I could have kept writing, but I really wasn’t feeling it. Even today, I chose to write this blog post over writing a thousand more words toward my story. Also, working nights has turned me sloth-like in many ways. I feel myself imagining new story ideas but not even bothering to write them down. I frequently figure out new scenes for the story I am working on but have no idea how to incorporate them into the story as a whole. The scene literally sets itself as the score ramps up with the intense action. The war for hope begins and…

I simply long for sleep. That is all.