Existential

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.

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?

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 sometimes...you 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.

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.

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.

Little Ramble

I thought the last post has sat up here for long enough. In all fairness...it 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.

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.