Monday, 8 December 2014


I have to laugh.

But first, let's put that tape in and hit rewind. Two decades and a handful of years.

There was always room in the car. Though mashed together in the back more often than not, somehow there was always room. Of course, at that time I was little more than six or seven years of age, and my eldest sibling merely double that.

Four in the back, two in the front, everything I loved all in one place.

Sometimes I think those holidays were less about the destination and more about the journey. Scores of expeditions mark my soul with unrevealed iridescence, waiting for the searchlight of memory to highlight an escaping wonder, bound to betray its fellow jewels in the night.

And now, a little fragment tugs in my grasp. Memories of long drives to which the soundtracks had long since twisted into the shadows, evading my erratic recollections, my blindly searching lights.

But now I have to laugh, for Voyeur (what I had initially entitled this post) is the name of an album whose songs echoed in my mind all this time. A Kim Carnes album my father slapped onto the B side of a tape that would end up playing by the time it became late. By the time we had all started to drift off.

I don't think I ever heard that album from start to finish in one drive.

Now as I listen to those songs I laugh, for I'm not sure how my father thought that appropriate fare for our young ears. Perhaps he considered it just good music (which I'd have to agree with), or perhaps he believed we simply wouldn't understand it. In which case he was right - I'm not sure if I ever asked a digging question about the music, and I asked a lot of questions when I was young. I guess I just fit the lyrics into my young vocabulary, which I'll admit was pretty easy to do.

It does make me think, though. There was quite possibly another side to my father that I never saw, never experienced, would not have understood. Even as I grew, he grew and our lives both changed. I always sensed and occasionally even saw the subtle rogue inside my father, but the side he largely presented to his children was almost infallible. If anything I could accuse him of being less emotional at times, which is a shame, for now I see and realise and remember him in a million different ways.

And he was a cool cat.

Here's to you, dad.

Sunday, 23 November 2014


I am now as old as I've always felt, and yet I am sad for I will never be this young again.

My life has to mean more from this point on. No more wasted years.

Wednesday, 12 November 2014

On Dem Writin'Z0rs

I haven't been writing.

I don't really mind too much. I know it would be great to be writing but the trick, I've learned, is to not to stress too much about it when you're not doing it. That just turns the writing into work, and I've been there.

On the other hand, I really should be writing. Though I appear to be wrestling with all kinds of dilemmas right now.

My novel has finally moved into phase 3, where my characters should be flying like an arrow to defeat the enemy and return their companion. I think. There's a little thing with the source that I may have to deal with/fudge, but really it's so slipshod right now that everything will probably be dealt with in editing.

And that's part of the problem. I fired up my old story (working title: The Guardian) and was reading through it a little and was astounded at the sheer amount of life I had thrown into that story. It's bursting at the seams and jumping off the page, and I can't help comparing it to Elemental.

Which is pretty sad and flat, to be perfectly honest.

I don't know what I did, actually. I don't know how I could have changed so much that I don't project that life into my story. The Guardian had it almost by default, feeding off itself and pure energy to maintain that gold. Elemental on the other hand, seems to want to put its back up while I push and push and push. And it's not fun, really. It's slow and pitiful.

And now I'm wondering if I really should be writing it at all. Maybe my first, and beloved, should have come first.

It bleeds beauty. How can I be so blind in my life?

Monday, 3 November 2014

Addendum and Plastic!

Well, this has been a bit of a turbulent year. Guess I don't really like being the bad guy and leaving my friends in bad situations.

That last post got a little away from me. But just have to write the feeling down, you know?

Anyway, as a sort of compensation for my rampant emotionality, I'll share the infamous "plastics" scene from my beloved first story (the one that I dropped because it would take ages to finish).

Ffian turned and pulled her quilt up higher, smelling the sweet smell of dew on grass. She sneezed and sat up suddenly, casting about her. This wasn’t home or her Aunt’s house, she remembered, yawning widely. Sizha’s horse stood grazing to one side of the clearing, but Sizha was not in sight. Ffian relaxed and examined her surroundings; if the horse was here then Sizha was coming back.
She was in a clearing ringed by large trunked trees, creating a low canopy a dozen metres above. There was a trickling stream nearby, refracting the sunlight in dancing crystalline patterns and to one side of the low-burning fire, there was a hollowed out stump with a tarp over it.
Ffian stood and stretched, yawning again, then stumped over to the tree trunk and lifted the tarpaulin slightly. Dry firewood was stacked there with a small wrapped bundle lying on it. Ffian unwrapped the oily cloth and wasn’t very surprised to see a small hatchet, its head scratched and pitted, but the edge honed to a shine. She carefully rewrapped the hatchet and secured the tarpaulin, before looking around for something else to pique her curiosity.
A pressing need burned at her lower belly, and Ffian cast about looking for what she knew wasn’t there. Thankfully, her parents had been avid campers and almost every summer since she could remember they had enjoyed the great outdoors for weeks at a time. A thought crossed her mind as she sought a place to relieve herself, perhaps why they had loved the outdoors, the forests and nature so much was because they had come from a place like this. Perhaps this was the place they had come from. The thought gave her hope and she was smiling by the time she returned to the camp.
Sizha was re-wrapping her wet hair into its braid; her face had a look of intense concentration, the lips pulled up on one side as she wrapped a leather strip around it.
Ffian laughed at that face and Sizha looked up at her, her face going cross. “Here, I’ll help you.” Ffian offered, tying the leather strip while Sizha held the braid firmly in a fist. “There, all done.” Ffian said, her hands roving lightly over the twined hair. It was hard and soft, flexible like rope and yet quite strong. Ffian winced at the thought of it being pulled though.
Sizha’s eyes slid over Ffian’s clothes and her eyes turned thoughtful. “What’s this?” She asked, poking at the blazer’s buttons.
“It’s a button.” Ffian said, a little confused since she thought they had them here.
“I know it’s a button!” Sizha said, clapping Ffian’s blazer with her hand. “What is it made out of?” She emphasized, fingering the material.
“Oh, sorry.” Ffian apologised. “It’s plastic.” At Sizha’s blank look, Ffian elaborated. “You have wood and stone, then metal, and then you have plastic.” She screwed up her face trying to make a comparison. “You know how you have sand, and then it can be melted to make glass?”
“Yes.” Sizha nodded, tapping the button with a fingernail.
“Well, plastic is a bit like that – it’s not natural, you have to make it. But it can be hard or soft, depending on how they make it and what they use, so it’s replaced a lot of things in our society – because metal is precious and wood burns, we use plastic to make many things.” Ffian tried to make the explanation as simplistic as possible.
“So…” Sizha began, her face growing thoughtful, “Can you make swords out of it? Can you make houses?” She asked.
“No. Well, no we don’t usually make swords out of it, metal is still better for that. But we can make houses out of it, although we still mostly use bricks and wood.” Ffian said.
“So what use is it then?” Sizha asked, contemptuously. “Why is this better than a wooden button I could get anywhere?”
“There are many people on my world. There would be no trees left if we all used wood instead.” Ffian rebutted. “And if I took this button off and left it in a drawer and came back in ten years, it’d be exactly the same. It’s cheap, it’s easy to make and it lasts, without making us lose all our forests.” She stated a little defensively.
“So there are lots of trees on your world – on Titan?” Sizha asked.
Ffian’s face fell. “No…we…we use too many trees each year, and replace them with less. That’s why our world is changing; they call it climate change or global warming. At least, that’s what my teachers always say.” Ffian said, toeing the ground with her shoe.
“I see.” Sizha said, sympathetically patting Ffian’s hand. “So how do you make this…this plastic?” She asked.
“I don’t know.” Ffian answered, helplessly. “It’s made in factories with big machines and things…” She trailed off.
Sizha looked at Ffian curiously, but let it drop. “I understand. Anyway,” she said, standing “I was going to say we need to get you some different clothes if you don’t want to stick out here. We’re nearing Cerrekus and...”

Tearstained Dreams

It seems like things are going my way.

With a little temporary work to spur my efforts in december and focus my mind on the completion of my novel in november, it would seem I have nowhere to go but up. I'm even being fairly social recently, attending a few events here and there and talking to new people. I'm daring to hope that I can actually complete this novel, and start on my true profession. What I've been waiting for all this time, I'm sure. Yeah, right.

I was completely unprepared for how I feel right now.

I'm not really a depressive person. I can be harsh, cynical, and have despised myself in the past. But that's been long in the past. And I can't really lay this feeling at any kind of door but my own.

But this deep sadness fills my soul like nothing else. It's the sound of a broken heart in the dark. It's the sound of the heart of this betrayer shattering over and over again.

I can't believe I won't be there for her. I can't believe I won't be able to give her everything.

This was a life decision, and I still hope to the heavens it was the right one. It wasn't working, I couldn't cope and we weren't right for each other. I'm sure of it.

But that doesn't mean I don't love her. Or rather, didn't.

I'm a broken person, I think. For my entire life I've believed in a particular type of love, and I still do, I believe in that connection, that belonging, that desire. That electric thrill. Indeed, I do sometimes feel that thrill with certain people and all they need to do is step into the room. Sometimes I realise I haven't even seen them yet. Almost like there was a potential, somehow woven into destiny, that I don't even understand but against all odds can feel.

But...I think I might be the wrong person. If there's someone pulling strings up there, well you're wrong! I don't want to be the one breaking hearts. I'm not made to do harm, it's not something I love. And doing it to those in my heart is like ripping my soul to pieces.

If I have to, I will defy you, and live life alone. Because I won't settle for anything less, at all, but I won't go on hurting the people I care about.

This one was enough.

Friday, 31 October 2014

The Wide

It wasn't always a first step. Sometimes it was a second, or a third or several more. But eventually the stairs disappeared altogether and left me levitating in the air. The vast world would fall away, and in the deep silence that followed a vision would fill my mind.

The gates.

As a slipped down the barren fields turned to sand, across scrubby plains and out of exotic forests, I began to see the spires. Jutting up from the pinnacle of desolation, these alien and curved horns didn't so much crackle as hum. The hair lifted off my arms and every sense I owned tingled, like freefall but on solid ground.

My steps no longer became my own, but rather my will simply propelling my body. The sand slid and shifted underfoot, but my eyes were on the heavens. The spires above.

This time I would make it. This time I would see.

My heart beat faster, the landscape shifting into instability as I clambered and ran across the sands, desperate to capture my one-way ticket. The hum was louder now, the air thick with energy. I gasped in static as much as air and choked on the electricity in my breath, feeling my limbs grow heavy.

So close.

A shiver ran through me. Spiralling from my head and right down through my core. It invigorated me, tricking my extremities into another pulse of action. Nerve endings jerked into motion and I stumbled atop the dune.

My eyes closed and I breathed in chaotic fields of friction. No breath left, no energy of my own.

A life spent dreaming. A dream unfulfilled.

A breeze whipped across my face, filling my lungs and lifting my tear-stained eyes.

To wonder.

Chaos and life surrounded me! The portal now far behind, I watched as another mechanical platform whizzed past me, it's rider one of dozens in the air. I ducked as something hot sprayed against my face and a concussive blast knocked me from my feet. And then I was being pulled up to join the madness in the air. I grabbed on tight, finding my feet and wrapping my hand across another's wrist.

And somehow, I knew. I knew. The soft and strong grip that held my own so tightly should never be let go.

I wouldn't let it go.

Thursday, 30 October 2014

Post Snippet; "Just" Words

I'll just throw this up here for posterity. Yes, I do just save my posts sometimes, as they're often better than my actual writing :p

Let me lay out to you, just why words can be impressive.

Words make up your life. They're noted from the first utterance you make, and marked as the last you say. They give you identity and place you in this world, among ancestors that lived and breathed millennia before and descendants that may continue your line long into the future. Words give your life meaning everywhere that you go - they define your freedoms and your rights, and touch everything from that, through your work, study and relationships, down to the food that you consume.

With words alone you can save a life, mend a heart, fill one with hope. With words you can stir fear and awe, and you can shatter it just the same. You can inspire one being to greater heights, a country or, more simply, the world. You can create chaos and confusion, create destruction and hatred, cause torture and death, with the same.

And you don't have to lift a finger.

Words can inspire and lift, warn and educate, throughout all of time. Words can cause death and misery or hope and love for as long as records exist.

Words have shaped the world in its entirety and continue to shape it today. One book, one paragraph, one line or even a word can change your life forever, and change the course of human history.

Words teach us how to live and how to die and everything in between.

Words, I find,

...speak for themselves.

Wednesday, 22 October 2014

Little Ramble

I thought the last post has sat up here for long enough. In all was a bit whiny :p

Anyway, since Nanowrimo is coming up I guess I ought to talk about my story a little. Writers should write whenever they can, I do agree, but for me Nano really has helped me creep much closer to my dreams and I'm grateful for this insane event. Ultimately it's something that turns a traditionally solo pursuit into something shared, and that's a rare and incredible feat.

So, this year I'm actually going to finish Elemental. Not try, finish. It's a bold undertaking and cuts deep into issues I have with my self, but this is something I utterly want to do, so I should commit to it.

I started this story a few years ago, after my first Nanowrimo story proved to have an epic plot that needed several tomes to unravel. Eschewing that, along with issues with having to rewrite parts of the plot, not to mention an incredible time gap soon after the start, I started "The Mages Tower".

It didn't remain that way for long. Although I've only won Nano legitimately once, The Mages Tower was spawned through a Camp, I think, and after getting a significant count it struck me that a real title was needed and in a flash of inspiration "Elemental" was born. I know it's not unique, but it could not fit the story better.

Elemental is unique among my ideas, though, that it wasn't dreamed up but rather was created intentionally. I wanted to make something that would be shorter and finishable, and thus Elemental pulled on many parts to cobble a story together. The setting was first, a main character with a spyglass on the other, who was riding hard for the tower. Ultimately that scene was cut in favour of a dream sequence and a more placid grounding, but I felt that fit a little more. It grounded the character better and also meant they weren't shooting off instantly to uncertain dangers and destinations.

In retrospect, that probably wasn't the best of decisions.

I won't lie. This being an "uninspired" idea originally means I've had a lot of problems, and I've had to struggle with a plot that lacks energy, danger and momentum. It also doesn't come very easily to me, and shoved my imagination in a lockstep vise that kept me unable to think up new paths. But latterly it does seem like the end point may actually be in sight, and if that's true, it was all worth it.

For now, though, I struggle with two scenes - a boring town scene that needs reinvigorating and my mid-point climactic scene that needs rewriting. However, if those fail to resolve before the month is out I shall simply shelve them. First and foremost I have to finish my story.

And achieve my dreams.

Wednesday, 15 October 2014

Personal Comment + Post Snippet; On Lack of Ideas

Before I record this little reply I made to a thread on the nano forums, I just wanted to say a little aside.

Sometimes I make posts, and sometimes I make very heartfelt posts where I've laid my spirit down on the page for someone to touch, understand, feel and draw strength from. I know I write in a very logical way and my passion doesn't always soar through or illustrate truly how I am in person, but sometimes it really puzzles me the lack of response such posts garner.

No, I'm not whining, but I'm a writer. I write down dreams and ideals and I'm not embarrassed to say that hope shines through me, because I feel it should. But it's precisely because I think I'm a good communicator that I have to wonder. Do the messages I send fall on indifferent ears? Do people remain unmoved by what I say or do they just not care to comment?

To be honest, both of those options really leave me in the dark. I know I seem square, and at times I am, but I am most often fun-loving and in some ways it bothers me that I seem unapproachable if the latter is true. The former is more worrying, and yet not, since being idealistic in this day and age already garners a horde of resistance, and I've long understood that.

A friend has told me that I sometimes say it all, and there's no need for comment. I would like to believe that, and yet, I wouldn't. I can't really learn unless I get to talk about these ideas - even though they may be fairly firm, I still enjoy a good debate if there's disagreement. And if not, I still like to hear people's viewpoints.

I can understand people not commenting on this blog. That's truly fine since it's a semi-personal log/record of many things, and if people read here that in itself is more than I expect (though comments are welcome). But if it's in a thread where someone poses a question and there are answers to that question...yeah, I can't really understand that.

Once again, it's not really a response to me I'm seeking (though I do enjoy that), but rather what evades me is the reason why my more heartfelt posts are met with no comment as often, if not more, than my more casual comments.

I guess it's just on my mind a lot.


People write a lot of stories. They write about life experiences, dangers, sadness, laughter, love, hate and everything in between. I'm not going to pretend that there's a limited scope for them.

Having said that, I feel like you should find that place inside where with just the lightest touch, you can unleash your essence in an explosive storm. That thing that makes you feel you are holding on to the energy of creation, and you can feel it crackling between your fingers, bursting within your body and soul.

If you can't find it, find that time when you are at your happiest, but not just happy but alive. That moment when you feel free of everything that confines you, as if you could conquer the world if only you could communicate that feeling. Where you're high as a kite with rocket thrusters and you can't sit still because you just want to scream at the sky from raw joy.

Some people think that writing is just writing. Is just communication. They're right, and yet it's so much more. It's the ability to take someone as high as you could possibly fly, and then throw them higher, just so they can see how your dream looks, how awe-inspiring life is when you behold that view. It's about taking someone so low that their souls shiver and weep, as sadness bleeds from them, and they realise that yes, it's okay to be in the depths of hell because you've been there too, and that the sun was still shining at the end of that tunnel of darkness. It's about bringing people into your world and, as you teach them all the things you know, help them with all the things you've passed, showing them a part of yourself it would take them a lifetime to understand otherwise.

What's the relevance of this post? It's just this, find that message that defines your soul and being, that thing that with all your heart you want to say. That feeling that you can't quite communicate unless you write a fallen angel, a defiant warrior, a lost soul, a ship's captain, a fool falling in love, a suffering student, a wrecked dream, lost hope, the beauty of the night, the hardship of life, or just a future filled with dreams. Find what you want to say, know yourself enough to understand what's closest to your heart, and then it doesn't matter if you're writing a moose god flying through space or a broken man trying to find the feet he no longer has, the story will hold it's arm out to you.

Just reach out and take it.

Friday, 3 October 2014

Might Imagine

The door swung on its hinges and then stuck. Teryn sighed as he put his foot against it and shoved it closed, giving it a kick for good measure. One day he would tweak the hinges. One day he would do a lot of things.

The hall was dry and musty as he made his way to the elevator. Not old, just full of the old man's belongings as his family slowly moved his stuff out. Teryn peered through the open door, hoping to catch a glimpse of red hair, and then instantly loathed himself for doing so. The old man was dead, and all he thought of was seeing his grandaughter one more time. He turned his eyes away and turned the corner, almost crashing into her as he did so.

"Whoops!" Jeanie said, comically tilting sideways.
"Sorry." Teryn muttered, looking down slightly. "I wasn't looking..."
"No worries." Jeanie said, shaking her head.

Teryn shrugged slightly and continued passed, then stopped a moment and turned slowly. She was still there, sorting through a handful of letters and making faces at them. "Jean." Teryn began, his mind counting over the days. In two weeks they had passed each other numerable times, and he had helped out on several occasions.

"Yes?" Jeanie asked, looking up.

"How long do you think it will take?" He asked.

Jean tilted her head from side to side. "A few more days, maybe." She smiled. "Don't worry, I'll be out of your hair soon."

"Oh it's no bother." Teryn said. He frowned and put his hand to the wall to steady himself. Did the floor shake? Nerves. He shook his head. "Do you might imagine we might go out for dinner sometime?" How many times did he say 'might'? And dinner? He meant coffee!

Jean blinked a few times as though trying to process the request, her hand clutching a bundle and half extended to a pile of letters. She frowned and then placed the bundle on top of the pile, turning back to him.

For some reason her eyes held his, and he blushed momentarily.

"Was that evil?" She asked finally, her lips drawn into a teasing smile.

"If you only knew." Teryn replied, letting go the breath he had been holding.

"Now?" Jeanie asked, her smile turned just a tad nervous.

Teryn opened his mouth and closed it again. "Just...just give me half an hour to run and do this thing."

"Half an hour? Really?" Jeanie blew at her hair. "I can't do anything in a half hour. At least give me some time to clean up."

Teryn raised an eyebrow and in the suavest tone he could muster, delivered the line of a master. "It gets better than this?"

Jeanie blushed and bit at her lower lip. "You didn't just do that."

"Apparently, I did." Teryn chuckled in embarrassment.

Jeanie covered her mouth with a hand and pointed at the door with the other. "Shoo!" She said, making flipping motions.

Teryn bowed his head ever so slightly, turned smoothly, and tried not to prance as he swept out of the door and into the elevator area. Deciding he was too giddy, he elected to take the stairs instead, and three stories passed like the wind as his feet barely touched the ground. He patted his messenger bag as he entered the foyer. Mind to task.

Mind to task.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Post Snippet; Logic Traps

Apparently, this is how I would trap an angel...

My first thought was a logic trap, that is a confine where supernatural creatures are bound because the logic of the laws of nature has been reinforced around that area, such that they cannot leave. It may be postulated that angels as supernatural creatures of god may take only very limited actions when observed or when within a zone defined as inviolate - that is not subject to intervention because humankind holds sway there. If such a zone surrounded the creature unexpectedly, they could be shut down and caged.

The reason such a prison works is because god is mostly seen to be "hands off" which preserves our free will. If an angel is seen to be interfering or interferes in a high-risk zone, that would shatter the covenant and violate that prime law. Which, if shared, would erase the tenets we live by in society and invalidate much of what we do.

Whether people believe in god or not is not the issue, it's whether or not they have a choice. If something can scientifically be proved or shown en-masse, it could no longer be denied - at least for the most part. At that point, there's no difference between regular life and the end of days, where god reveals itself and everything is conjoined.

If I were an angel, I really wouldn't want to explain that mistake.

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Writing, Plot and Execution

I am finding this novel to be mildly frustrating.

Though only midway through my voyage of discovery, I can't quite help thinking a key idea of writing is represented in this tome. Although the writing is masterful and the story well set, I find myself, at times, noting an inconsistent narrative and tone.

The book starts from a strong suit, but over time the messages become diluted. Where other books have denoted subtle power struggles within the majestic halls of grand citadels, plays full of intrigue and subterfuge kept tense and tightly manipulated by the players, this book trades seriousness and levity at the highpoint so far, the midpoint of the book.

Spoiled though I may be, there is no steel trap logic, no desperate scrabble to remain in play, and alive. And that saddens me.

I must admit, not normally would I be this critical of a story, but I feel this is a special case. I was tantalised by the gems that forthwith remain undelivered, and instead I must content myself to stare through the glass at riches beyond imagining. It's not that which wholly spurs my hand to comment, though, rather that to me, the stakes were raised beyond imagining when the author decided to move to rape.

Let me be clear, I am neither a prude (despite how some might know me) nor naive to the evils of this world. I am lucky enough to have not experienced many, if indeed any, first hand, and for that I am thankful most every day. However, I feel while this subject is a very common idea in many novels, it is necessary that the author generate an appropriate atmosphere for this horror to be conveyed.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, so I want to make it clear that the act hasn't actually happened or been described in the book (at least not as of yet). However, what revolted me was not the mention but rather the casual association of a year long torture perpetrated on a powerful political figure, seemingly with the consent of her spouse, with the idea that a heroine of the story would also undergo a similar attack.

I just don't get it.

Rape is a terrifying thing. Being under threat of such, whether within the confines of a barely tenable marriage or elsewise, is frightening and serious enough on its own. It needs no relation to the idea that a character underwent such monstrous invasion for over a year in order to lend a sense of dread to the idea.

I feel this is somewhat symptomatic of our society. Constantly directing our gaze downwards, we outdo each other for horror and vile acts, seeming to delight in the exploration of the terrible. What's bad? Getting killed. What's worse than that...hmmm...torture before the inevitable. What's worse than torture? Rape. What's worse than rape? Rape over a long period by multiple assailants.

When does enough become enough? I already know how damn well low the human race can stoop, and these ideas have their time and place in literature, I don't deny that. But this one-upmanship of the vilest kind must stop. We are fascinated and drawn to the foul end of the spectrum, but it really needs no more examining, for in our pursuits we are turning away from the sun.

And I don't really like that. We're better than that.


Returning to the opening of this post, I wish to highlight that in my opinion, this book well demonstrates the reality of writing. So many poor souls come bedraggled, hat in hand, to the first page, doubting and tearful and fearing their worth and skill.

I say unto ye; behold that which makes a tale true and hardy doth not squarely fall upon words alone. The head, heart, and soul of its creator is the essence of the novel, and though its pages doth rain words as so many an English morn, let them be stained crimson as your lifesblood, and leave their indelible ink upon the soul of thy appreciative reader.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Taking A Wider View

It's been an age and a day since I've read quality. It's only been marginally less than that that I've read at all, and that really has been to my detriment.

So it was with some surprise, I opened a newly acquired (courtesy of the humble bundle) copy of "The Curse of Chalion" by Lois McMaster Bujold and realised with an internal gasp that I was reading the work of a master. It really has been too long.

There is something about a book, similar to a film but so much more engaging, where it grabs you and pulls you into its world, capturing and enrapturing you in a simple sentence or two, that I just adore. It's incredible. And as I read that first paragraph, half way through I realised what I had been missing for quite a while.

I struggle, here, with a product that I feel is decent but not more than entry level into a world without borders. It's not powerful or intense, not fearsome or electrifying, not even funny and cool. At most, my writing could be said to have characters that have some depth and feeling to them. Though even that is a self assessment based on a few people's short opinions.

This book, on the other hand, is like coming face to face with a master. I'll use that word again because it is suitable. I had to look the author up online and I am pleasantly comforted that this is not a book deemed regular or moderate, for if that was the case I would indeed have to re-evaluate my goals. Still, I realise that for a long time I have been looking at what I could do better than others, or how my writing is better than the lowest common denominator.

When what I really should be doing is comparing myself to the best.

My writing isn't elaborate or descriptive, it's simple and accessible and quite colloquial. It reflects my skill with the language quite thoroughly and the gaps in that knowledge are painfully clear. It's not complex writing and I know it, and that's not likely to change. It just doesn't suit me. Passion and emotion yes, intricacies...not so much. My major skill is the ability combine knowledge, take different fields and create connections, but I'm not someone who can remember a lot of data and work inside the box.

It figures that I would write fantasy.

Most of the problems I have now though, I see are probably down to my focus on poor or mediocre writing. Yes, it's good for my confidence to see something that's poorly written. But is it good for my writing? Not in a month of sundays.

I'm at the stage where I feel my writing is mediocre. And that's great because that mediocre could get published. It's at a decent standard. But as I look to this book now, without reading past the first few pages or knowing if, as a whole, it is great or lackluster, I see the gap in skill.

And I know what I should be aiming for.

I know I really need to start reading again now, because I need to learn. I need those words and styles and that rich cloak of atmosphere to sink into my mind and soul, and add its unique beauty to the swirling mix. Once again, I need to devour and grow, become more than I am, so I can write, and think, better. And as I read, I will once again open myself to a world of possibilities.

For, master, the student is ready.

Sunday, 31 August 2014

Fractures & Fish

I'm telling you now, I'm not sure what the fish are for. Warning given.

I hang out on the nanowrimo forums a lot, which, if anyone other than myself is reading this, you probably already know. Occasionally, I see threads on race and sexuality and so forth and it makes me thoughtful. Now I'll admit I've become a little bit of a dinosaur in my attitudes, and I don't really understand a lot of the new branches of sexuality. The reality for me is that after a time, someone is wearing just another shade of red. And that's fine, if that's the shade they like, that's all good.

With race, on the other hand, I often see a slightly different tack. While with sexuality people's attitudes seem to be a bit more along the lines of "consider including this", which they maybe have to take because there are lots of people like me who probably shouldn't write about something they can't quite understand, with race, people seem to me to be a little more forceful.

And I'm not sure I agree with that.

I feel like the instant you start to say to someone that they should be writing something in some way, you're missing the point. The idea isn't to compel or shame people into writing a specific way, it's to simply put more tools on the table, add ingredients to the mix, have more options at the store.

I must admit, I often write white characters in my stories and I'm all right with that. I'm generally pretty bad at describing my characters overall, and their descriptions tend to be more along the lines of "once mentioned, never revisited" when it comes to things like skin colour. It just doesn't come up very often, and I think that's fine, too.

People seem to have slightly forceful attitudes to writing race, and really, I just don't see it. Writing race shouldn't be a war, it's nothing like the real battles people face out there in the world. That's a different field altogether and I don't think the two should be confused. I'd rather think it's more about adding colours to the palette of people's dreams.

Race shouldn't be a demand, it should be a gentle interjection with...well, more colours to paint that sky with.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

Introversion & Extraversion

It's strange sometimes the things that pop into your head. The parallels that you make. The ideas that manifest while you're minding your own business.

I was doing the latter when I was struck by a thought that was both ridiculous to entertain but also intriguing. Having the opportunity for much solitude recently, I wondered if the diminishing household was perhaps contributing to my lack of success writing.

It was not my thought that if more persons were present I would magically find myself writing, but more along the idea that I generate energy the more full the atmosphere. Growing up in a household teeming with people, I was always used to there being noise and movement around me. Now that same place runs under half complement if not less, and I think that somewhat disturbs me. It's too quiet, too isolating and I don't really enjoy that very much.

It makes me wonder quite thoroughly; is the energy of my writing intrinsically wrapped up in my social circumstances? Am I experiencing a sustained low-tide because of a lack of that critical energy? Do people with more introverted natures find themselves more empowered to write during solitude?

It's a fringe question at best. I know better than most that my writing is down to me, and if I want to make it happen I have to make it happen. But it does intrigue me. It makes me wonder if I might become more prolific if successful, simply because of the social engagements it may bring. It helps me think that maybe, just maybe, this slow paced writing isn't solely down to my issues or not wanting it enough, but rather that I alone am generating the energy to write and thus it's taking much more.

Such a strange calling, writing is. An activity where you have to separate yourself from others in order to get it done, but where you need the interaction, the exposure to situations and people, the change of environment and thought, to do it effectively.

I wish I could get a handle on it.

Tuesday, 26 August 2014

Correction; Excerpt

That last post was a bit dire, and I just wanted to point out I'm not really that down. Thought I might post one of my favourite scenes from Elemental that probably won't get into the final cut. At least not how it is. For reference, they're almost in the shadow of a burning tower.

Keruni looked at Seric. “What I want to know is how you know so much about this.”
“Because...” Seric hesitated, then the words seem to pour out of him. “I was there when he was killed.”
Keruni's eyebrows shot up. “What were you doing there?” She asked in surprise.
Seric scratched at his cheek with one finger, then blushed. “Trying to steal a fragment of philosopher's stone for someone.”
Keruni reddened slightly, then touched his arm. “I never did thank you.” She frowned. “Actually that's not accurate, you never told me! And then you wrote yourself out of my life.” She punched his arm lightly.
“There was never any point.” Seric said quietly. “I failed. You didn't need to see me to know.”
Keruni shook her head. “You know I wouldn't have blamed you. It was a lonely time, I could have used a friend.”
“You never lacked friends.” Seric said reproachfully. “Besides, you knew where I was.”
“And so we went around and around, like gladiators in the sand. You felt guilty all this time and I never knew why you left.” Keruni's voice was incredulous, then it softened. “Maybe it's time to change that.” She murmured. “Your hair has come undone again, do you have that ring I gave you for it?” She asked gently, running her fingers through his tangled and singed locks.
“Is this really the time, Ker? This isn't exactly the most pleasant of places, at least not any more.” Seric fingered the beaten silver ring anxiously.
“All the better, I feel like it could use some new memories, and the best time to start is when the wounds are fresh.” Keruni gazed into his eyes, her own seeming as clear and stark as the night. “If you don't want me to do this, don't give it to me.” She said simply.
For a moment Keruni thought he wouldn't, as his hand twitched toward his pocket and his eyes lowered. “I'm more broken than you know.” Seric told her hesitantly.
“But not so different, I think.” Keruni's face took on a luminous cast as she smiled.
Slowly Seric's hand came up and he placed the ring against her awaiting palm. “I just wanted you to know, there are things I haven't told you.”
“Tell me when they become important.” Keruni whispered, as she lifted her arms up to his hair and, with infinite tenderness, pulled the dark strands into a ponytail. “Tell me anything you want.” She breathed as her lips met his in a deep kiss that somehow seemed hungry. Seric's mind spun as a lifetime of restrained emotion flowed out of him at once and his arms encircled Keruni as much to hold her close as to hold him up, as he fervently returned the kiss.
It felt as though the kiss lasted forever, but eventually it was over and with a little sigh Keruni let him go. “I could get used to that.” She told him with a mischievous smile.
“I hope I never do.” Seric said shakily.
Keruni clapped him on the chest. “You're not supposed to be charming right now, Sair, you're supposed to be breathless and grateful.”
“Oh I am.” He murmured, a glint coming into his eyes. “But you're not nearly as breathless as I want you.” Seric tightened his arms around her possessively as he leant in to kiss her passionately. This time, the world didn't spin, it exploded.
“You're good at this.” Keruni told him with a smile as they caught their breath. “You must have had lots of practice.”
Seric shook his head. “Not really, for some reason I was never that interested.” He looked away embarrassedly then mumbled something.
“I didn't quite hear that.” Keruni said, tilting her head.
“I said, I never wanted to kiss anyone else.” Seric huffed, going red-faced.
“I did!” Keruni laughed as she ran a finger up his chest, then she sighed. “But not any more.”

Reflections in a Murky Pool

Today's been harder than it has a right to be. I haven't done anything constructive and the evening in particular has been a pretty low tide. I know I should have just gone to bed, but I don't feel like it.

It's probably not a great idea but I think about her a lot. Trying to figure out if I'll ever find someone as good, and whether I really love her. I thought so, but when she needed me to I couldn't step up, which would seem to indicate otherwise. I think maybe I really do need to fix myself before I get involved with anyone else, and while I was trying to do that...

I guess it didn't go so well.

Now I don't have very much at all. I said goodbye to the person who filled these last few years with happiness and I still have little to nothing achieved with my life. No job, no book, no friends nearby.

Sometimes I get the feeling that I'm living outside of life. And I feel like maybe if a miracle occurs maybe one day I'll have everything I want. Maybe I'll be in a position to help my friends, pay off my debts, and really...I don't know. Live again, maybe. Have fun and do things with actual people.

I'm getting on now. I really can't ignore that I'm no longer in my twenties, and with these recent events I'm starting to run out of steam. It's not that I have things to complain about, it's just that...enough is enough. I want to get busy livin'.

In a way it's a shame that power's in my hands, since it seems like all I know how to do is squander it.


Well, there is some good news. I did manage to get the opening scene/prologue for Elemental sorted, in my head at least. Some of that's down on paper, but I'm just glad I finally got inspired by that part of the story. The most important part now is to try to maintain the actual 'feel' of the scene, because when I thought it, I felt the layout of that land too, and the feeling opened up a whole new avenue of thought.

Is that a strange way to describe it? What I mean is it gave me the feeling of a different book within what I had written, which is more or less what I was looking for. I might need to re-read a few David Gemmell books to recapture the mindset though.

Friday, 22 August 2014

How I Saw The Fall

I do not understand the universe.

This makes me glad because I have a tendency to think I have it all figured out. And while, hey, I might know a few things, that idea that I've got a handle on it all somewhat disgusts me. Especially for someone in my position. I haven't walked the length and breadth of this world, so why would I have all the answers? Surely there are so many more ideas and viewpoints and startling discoveries out there, simply in the way we think, that I can't afford to close those doors just yet. Even if I am older, I can't afford myself that luxury if I want to keep growing.

I'll have to get a thicker, more stubborn, doorstop.

What I really wanted to talk about though was writing. Or creating. Or simply trying to speak out in the world.

One of the things that proves to be a major stumbling block for most of us (myself included), is that we miss the middle. We're inspired and encouraged by people that we deem great and admirable, and we start something hoping that one day, we too, can be just like those people.

We're often told that it's the journey that matters, not the destination, but a subtle truth is that it's easiest to reflect on the journey once you're at your destination. After all, you can see where you've been.

And really, we want to become our own version of great as soon as possible. Oh we might not want praise or fame or money, or we might simply tell ourselves that, but the truth is we know that all those things bring with them what we want. An audience.

The thing is, most people get dissuaded from their pursuit somewhere between starting off and getting there. We don't bother starting if we can't get to that critical mass, and you never really look at something that you've done and think it was useless. Even if the work was worthless in the end, the building of the work was useful. Even if you hate it, the fact that you created did something that you somehow know was good. There was a subtle shifting inside. You contributed. You achieved.

The real problem is with the middle.

The middle is this vast, sparse wasteland where we struggle to travel between our voices reaching no one, and reaching everyone. People give up in droves at this point. They give up because they haven't found their message, or they haven't found their medium, or they don't believe in themselves, or they don't think it's worth the time, or they don't think the message is important, or they don't think anyone will listen, or for numerous other reasons.

They give up because of the isolation.

They give up because it's hard.

Writing, creating, or simply talking isn't hard. I am a firm believer in this. People say that they are, but I'm not afraid to say I disagree. When I write I channel energy and life through my mind and body and soul, and my hands print that down as words. Words that, if I'm doing it well, will be understood without complication by the reader.

No, what I think is really difficult is the middle. And this, coincidentally, is why I know I don't understand the universe and why I'm happy not to, at least not yet.

Because the middle has meaning. The middle is powerful. The middle is more important than the beginning or the end.

It's such a strange idea when we live in a world that is measured by accomplishments. We know that when we achieve people tick off a box in their heads and listen a little more attentively. Or heck, just listen.

And then we get to speak.

Because when we started, we would speak and no one would really take our words to heart. Or maybe it would reach a few but not many, and that doesn't really change the world. When someone half the globe away picks up your creation and praises it, or even picks it apart, the important thing you know is that it's reaching people. The underlying message you wanted to send, or thing you wanted to say, somehow imbedded in your work.

Because that's how you were inspired to begin with.

They say you don't get something for nothing, and that anything worth doing takes effort. But therein lies something I want to put a spotlight on:

The middle is damn hard.

So what are its secrets?

I don't know the answer. I do know with some things, simply standing is the most important thing. But I don't know if the middle is any different. I've been in the middle of that wasteland many times, in many facets of my life, and I've laid down and died. I could even feel it happening. I could feel myself shrinking, becoming less, giving up and falling apart. I could tell myself everything in the world and it wouldn't matter, because secretly I would know. In my heart of hearts I had another chance and I gave up.

There's been too much of that in my life, from my most recent love life to my distant past and all the hurdles I failed to leap through academically. From my self and all I know I've shut away and kept hidden, the box tightening and growing smaller as time goes by.

I've been stuck in the middle so often I pass my own sign posts. So often that now it occurs to me to really have a look around. To try to understand not why the journey is important, but why the middle is the most worthwhile. To understand the rewards I should notice as I take each step, climb up brick by brick, dodging pitfalls and dodgy hand holds as I go.

Perhaps it is merely that - when you climb, you look towards the sky, and you can see the ground far below. It is at that point you are actually the most inspired and alive because you know where you are going and where you've been. Once you get to your destination you only know where you've been, when you start you only know where you're going.

When you're in the middle you have everything to gain and everything to lose.

I really think there's a secret hidden within that, a metaphor for life staring me in the face. What makes it the most important thing, hard enough to take the most time and test the hardiest of souls? The point where a few people listen but not enough, never enough. Where you are inspiring, but only to a few. Where you are entertaining or enlightening, but only to a few.

Where you matter, but only to a few.

It's 4:50am and I still can't get it.

I have so much to learn. So much more to grow. Perhaps one day I can really appreciate the struggle over the goal, but until that day I'll keep one thing in my heart.

I will climb.

Thursday, 21 August 2014

Breach'd; The Unexplored Tales

She had almost walked by, almost but not quite. There was something about the way he sat on that low stone wall that made her pause, as if he had captured a moment, and held it within his vision.

Abruptly, he held up a finger. It was almost as if he could sense her presence but couldn't risk taking his eyes off the moment for fear of losing it.

She sat down on the wall, next to this strange person that had managed to stop time and peered intently along the narrow street where his gaze lingered. Perhaps she too could enter this mysterious world.

He still held up his finger, but slowly it curled back towards the rest and his hand lowered. She could feel his tension, though. A palpable excitement that exuded off of him and raised the hairs along her neck in anticipation. It felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff and slowly, so slowly, the rock was giving way beneath her.

A minute or perhaps ten passed, she really couldn't tell. It was the middle of the day and they sat outside a pub, but nothing moved that she could see, and her hearing had narrowed to a fine pinpoint, almost like a tendril, that strained across the path in front of her.

A leaf wafted across the road in the distance and she watched its path with lazy indulgence. Perhaps there was nothing after all, she thought, blinking away the haze.

Just then, she heard it. A soft, though sharp, intake of breath from beside her, and she turned to see his hands clutching his knees so hard the knuckles had whitened. She lifted her gaze back along the street, her eyes seeming to catch on the crevices and cracks between the paving stones and wanting to settle, not continue.

She was breathless and sweating by the time she had caught up to the end. The exertion of fighting against the force had all but bested her, but she was stubborn and hardheaded and no ephemeral barrier would stand in her way. The leaf flowed across the path again.

And then it stopped.

Her eyes went wide, and unbidden she found her hand being clutched tightly by someone. It was warm and comforting - a lifeline in a turbulent world, a hurricane, a tornado, a tidal wave, and she grasped it just as hard as it held her.

For the world had just been shattered.

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Interlude; dim days and dulled thoughts

There are some very, very strange things going through my mind. Half-thoughts and whispers scattering across my consciousness to disrupt and confuse my soul. My mind teases and twists at me, drops of salty tears sending ripples across the fractured surface.

Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better to point out; "I'm doing this because I love you", but then I feel that might have been almost all the time. Still it might have helped her understand just how far away from all that was familiar had I been.

Saturday, 9 August 2014

Post Snippet; Forests and other wonders...

Depression is pretty much the score for school, I feel. It's probably one of the more natural things in today's world, simply because of all the pressures, changes, and the fact that people aren't often nice to one another at that age, and you just have to let it go. The world lets it go because it's somehow normal. It's really not.

Being depressed is like being in a desert. It's not a physical challenge so much as a mental one, and that makes it all the more difficult. You get told about actual people being in real deserts and reminded about how many good things you have in the world. After all, what do people have to be depressed about when they have a home, family, heat, computers...

I mean, nothing really, except for the idea that you may have no worth in the world and that your life doesn't matter.

That the world doesn't need you.

Which actually is a remarkable idea in and of itself. If you take a look around, so many people act as if everything is fine and yet if you look at the world...what's fine about it? The world actually needs you more than ever. It needs people who care, so much so that society will try to crush that out of you while you're still young. It needs people who want to make a difference so much because there are so many people out there who won't invest in hope, simply because they can't bear to see another dream die.

If you look around, there are more people who would rather argue against a good idea, rather than back it. Because inside their heart of hearts, they live inside the real desolation that yes, the world will never change, and yes, they are okay with that. Nothing will ever get better and that's okay.

That's why, in the desert of depression, you can actually feel happy. The sun is beating down on you like a hammer, and yet, it's still shining. Where there's sun, there's hope - because there's you. And you already know what you can do to change things. You know where to find water, and there are already some seeds in your pocket. It might take a while, it might take your whole life and then some, but if by the time you leave you're knee deep in trees, well, that's really something.

Depression is sometimes a chemical imbalance. Sometimes it's environmental factors and psychological issues ganging up on you. Sometimes it's just stress. But I feel that at least once in a life,
depression is realising you're standing in a desert and realising somewhere inside yourself that you can either accept it, or you can accept what will be the most difficult thing you've ever done and start planting.

Because you'd rather live in a forest.

Monday, 21 July 2014

Flawless; from The Unexplored Tales

I am a blade of grass, I am the fountain of youth, I am the stars in the sky and the dirt beneath your feet and everything imaginable in between. I am death and darkness, I am life and love, I am sorrow and the things you dread to dream.

And yet, I am not a nightmare, not for you. For to you I have never been.

Sunday, 20 July 2014

Post Snippet

You have to remember, what makes a real hero isn't that they're strong, it's that they're not strong but they try anyway. It's that they face odds that are overwhelming and don't give up or walk away. It's that they do the right things because they're there. And even if they're likely to die in the process, they step forward.

Because in the moment where you give your life, you give up every thing. You give up love, children, happiness, hope, dreams...even fun, mischief and laughter. You give up the earth and the sky and everything in between. And you only get one thing, one thing to comfort you in that last moment of enjoying all this world has to offer.

You get to know you did the right thing.

It's not much, but it's worth giving up the whole world for.

Post Snippet; editing

Reading is a journey. It takes you from A to B and along the way you learn things and change the way you think, even if it's just a little. Writing is like laying a path for that reader to follow. It doesn't really matter if the stones aren't shiny or if they don't fit so well, or if there are cracks in the mortar. Don't worry, the reader will skip, hop and jump if they need to. Readers are really quite intrepid beings.

If you don't finish laying that path, however, they will never realise that it's there. Indeed, it won't be, and the scenes and delights and adventures they would have along that road will never come to pass. The worst thing, though, is that the they will never know the wonders at the journey's end. They will never witness the splendour of that dream, never behold the otherworldly sights, never understand the meaning of that place.

In the end, it doesn't matter if the path is dirty when it's freshly laid. It doesn't matter if the stones are wonky or the tar bubbles in the sun. What matters is that it's straight, and that it's there. Because that path leads to a dream, and as long as the path exists, the dream exists at the end of it.

You can always sweep up the next time you come through. And you'll whistle that time, because you know you're not trying to set right a ruin, not trying to build again, but rather you'll be cleansing something beautiful so that the colours shine through.

And when you're done, you can hang a sign on the gate, so those brave souls know it's there.

Monday, 14 July 2014

Ephemeral Magic

I'm watching the film Loch Ness, a personal schmaltzy favourite of mine. I'm sure it's badly put together and not as long as my mind seems to make it, but whenever I remember this film, all I think of is heartwarming drama and more importantly, the mystical Loch.

I've been to Inverness and stayed near the Loch, and I can honestly say that some of the early scenes of that film, looking out over that dark expanse of water are true to form. It really does feel magical, and much of the highlands are this way. Somewhere you can imagine the lines between the worlds blending, where a leyline feels less a whimsy and more something you can feel from the land.

In many places in the world where you can somewhat escape the hustle and bustle and loud noises and loud lights of civilisation, where you go back to a few lightbulbs and stout stone or wooden walls - or sometimes even packed clay, you can see it. It's not that science is wrong, it's just that the world is bigger than us. It's not that magic is real, but just that there are more things out there that we can't explain.

And when I see these places I feel the wonder. The wonder of someone opening their eyes and seeing something they could never explain. Something they never wanted to explain, just share.

And it's that wonder I feel I should try to capture. I write fantasy, but I don't want to be caught up in the modern conventions at the expense of that. I want to take to those old places like those cherished writers of my youth, those whispering mountains, those subtle dells, those ancient ruins.

Perhaps I do write other worlds, perhaps there is a lot of light, and chatter, and a little violence to go along with the grand gestures. But if I can, only once, give someone that sense of wonder, that feeling of standing on top of a mountain and looking down at a sweeping scene that makes you feel like you could just fly away.

Well, that would be just grand.

Friday, 11 July 2014

People don't need to feel like someone needs them in this world, they need to feel that the world needs them.

Of course it helps if someone needs them too.

Monday, 7 July 2014

What's a rainy day, really?

I'm supposed to be writing. Hills and mountains. My characters go up, down and sideways, wondering where they're headed, just as I do.

Somewhere, I know, there's a crystal cave waiting. With immense long formations of the most wondrous stones known to man and eld, and within that cave a grove of the most ordinary and boring trees imaginable, except for one thing.

Enemies and interlopers abound, skittering hither and thither as they scramble for a shared goal that has absolutely nothing to do with my wanderers. This being done to replace the insane scene that was concocted full of meteor showers and world changing phoenix ash, a scene that did not mesh at all but somehow flowed at times. And sweet heresy I do not know how to replace it.

The amount of tweaking this story requires is way past silly, and that with it being only half complete, but I hope it's worth it. It may not be marketable or interesting, but somehow there's something within it that pulls at me. It hints of a diamond in the rough, not shining at me like a star, but something that if I can just shuffle the leaves enough, it will come peeking through.

This story isn't inspired, but it is somewhat loved, and really...what more need there be?

I should get to writing...

Fragment; Old

The pool stirred in dark reflections, rippling like leaves in a gentle breeze. The object that broke the surface was approximately fifteen feet in length and oblong with rounded edges. It floated across the pool, buoyed seemingly of its own will and pushed by the slight current.

The object seemed to press against the greened banks of the river, trying to scrabble out of the pool and Timothy approached it carefully. It seemed to be unaware of his movement, seeming preoccupied with pulling itself onto the banks and into the night air. Shadows gave it a weird cast as it butted its head again, then as Timothy came close, it seemed to rear and spin!

Timothy ducked behind a tree and watched the beast closely, holding his breath and hoping it hadn't seen him. Carefully, it nosed back into the current and floated scant feet from Timothy's hiding place, bobbing in the water like a log.

But Timothy knew better...

Thursday, 26 June 2014

Q: Is my story original?

Although all stories are as old as time, the difference that makes them all worthwhile is that fresh eyes write and read them. We fool ourselves into thinking that every story was always told and we can't truly add anything, but the world is constantly changing, and us with it. We are not the same as we were 500 years ago or a millennium. Don't be fooled into thinking we're the same today. Fourty years ago computers took up whole rooms to do a few calculations, now you can find the distance to the moon from a device the size of the palm of your hand. That's an incredible difference.

And I happen to believe that we have more to do than just innovate technology, we have space for new ideas and revolutions in the way we are thinking as a whole. A renaissance of the mind is needed in today's world, so we can go further, deeper, closer to where we should be.

All the stories may have been told before, but we, we are new. We can be more, if we choose to be.


Blood was in the ground. Stale and old, but somehow still pulsing with power to her touch. It teased her, taunted her, fluttering across her senses like a dream.

This was the end.