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...