The Boy in the Window

I have taken this story out of the running for the Bebo Author Short Story Competition. I will be submitting it shortly to another contest whose rules allow for posting on your personal blog.
I put a lot of effort into this story and I hope I pulled it off as well as I'd wanted to. If I had to pick one word to describe it, I think I would choose magical, but even that leaves so much more to be said. I'll leave this up for a few days to give people a chance to comment before I make my next post. Let me know what you think. I would love to write more about what went into this story, in case anyone wants to know more about what was on my mind when it was coming together.


*** This story has been removed as I look to find it a new home.***

Be Warned:

I started this post and then promptly deleted what I had written after about three paragraphs. It's been a rough week for writing. Ever feel like all the thoughts coming out of your head are soggy? Yeah, that's been the last few days for me. Mix that feeling with a desire to write and you've got yourself a fine pile of false starts.
To combat this boggled state of affairs, I have opted to continue my efforts on paper, to be later transcribed to text. The only downfall to this method is the illusion that you've written significantly more than you really have, or at least for me anyway. I have already breached the half-page milestone, but the little old man carving wood on a rocker in the back of my mind is clamoring on about how small an accomplishment that will be when it shows up on those new-fangled video screens.
"Machines will take over the world," he mutters.
I smile back at him and reply, "Not if they run on gasoline."

This brings me to the topic of my short story I have in progress. It's called "Chlorophyllium 9,"
Now, I wouldn't normally go into much detail about a work-in-progress, but since I've had such a hard time writing this past week, I figured I would break the block by writing about something I'm very excited about.
It used to be, when I first started writing, that I could sit down and write a story with no end goal in mind. What resulted was often a flowery, whimsical story that took you somewhere , but for no good reason. There is nothing wrong with this approach, I have merely found that, without direction or purpose my writing did not improve drastically and there wasn't a lot of room for growth. Not for me at that stage.
The most growth I've seen lately is when I focus my fiction by having an end goal in sight and trying to rise to the occasion. With that in mind, my goal for this story is to submit it for publication in a Science Fiction periodical I subscribed to this last winter. If I do a decent job getting it from my mind to paper without losing too much in translation, I feel like I've got a good shot at publication.
So what's the story about? Well, I went ahead and wrote out a good synopsis with this post. About halfway through, my mind started to wander but I persevered. I forced myself to build the back-story that I hadn't completely thought through. In the end I had a post that was much longer than I had originally anticipated. I also decided that to release that much of the story before it is written is asking for someone to come and snatch it up for their own. I know that none of my frequent commentators would do anything like that, but it is better to be safe than whatever else may come.
To make it up to you, though, I have decided that the Bebo Author Short Story Competition is no longer worth waiting for. The version of the story I submitted included some errors that slipped by me and I am not proud of the editing mistakes that I failed on. I have since had the story critiqued by the writing group I joined recently and I will be making the corrections I need to make and I will allow you all to read it. I have decided that once the corrections have been made and I have displayed it on my blog for a few days I will submit it elsewhere. I already have some place in mind.
I know that some of the judges for that contest hit my blog from time to time as fellow members of the Entrecard community, so I would like to say that I mean no disrespect by this plan of action. I know that you received far more entries than you expected and the result bogged down your schedules and killed the reason I entered in the competition in the first place. It was my intention to write a story that would showcase my writing ability in order to promote my blog. Since then I have grown slightly older and hopefully a bit wiser and I realize the error in my logic at that time.
I would like to finally be able to share my story with the people I wrote it for before submitting it somewhere in hope of obtaining recognition for my writing ability, and not necessarily for the promotion of my blog.
I will re-edit my story and post it here on my blog by the end of the weekend. I will also officially take myself out of the running for the Bebo Author Short Story Competition. I may not be able to share my new short story with you until after I hear back from the editors, but I will give you the synopsis at the very least. I promise, you will not be disappointed, that is, if you enjoy my competition entry you should love the one I'm working on.

Creative Writing Prompt:

Too Much Fun in the Sun

Today I ate a tuna fish sandwich. No, wait. That's not right. Today I took a shower. Yeah, that's the ticket. Always best to start with the truth, if you can throw in gratuitous nudity you get a bonus, right? Anyway, back to the story. I was hot and my skin felt like it was on fire under the warm water as I let the slightest bit of tension melt out of my sore muscles. I've got a sun burn.
I guess the heat of being out under the big burning yellow orb all weekend got to me. I felt a bit under the weather today. Once it cooled off though, and I'd gotten some much needed rest, we planted tomatoes in the garden and spread out some of the mulch Tara picked up from the City shredder. Can't beat free mulch!
Now that we have the path from the entry-way lined and covered with chopped up bits of wood, it's really starting to look like we've accomplished something with our time. Moving dirt to level out the flow of water is important, strength draining, muscle stiffening work, but in the end it still looks like a bunch of dirt. Then you get to make rows! The fun never stops!
All in all, it's days like today when you stand next to the one you love and look at everything you've accomplished together that you just know. Even though there may be an unimaginable amount of work ahead, as long as you work together, nothing is impossible.

By the way, I read in a book yesterday that you aren't supposed to water your lawn at night. Oops! My grass is far from that beautiful even colored green. We did sod for most of the front yard (2000 sq ft free with buying the house back in 2005) and the rest was hydro-seed the following year. Maybe with a new watering schedule and a good fall fertilizer spread we'll be on the right track next year! As long as we learn a little each year I will feel good about not having the perfect lawn. It's the journey, not the destination.

Creative Writing Prompt:

Fun in the Sun

We've gotten a lot more work done outside today. Finally finished with the tilling, I was very happy to drag the tiller across the lawn and into the shed. The yard has seen some dramatic changes this year and that shed is one of the major ones. It definitely makes a huge difference and I like seeing it back there, it goes well with our trees.
One thing you may find out is just how much I love trees. They are amazing. I've already got plans for a little writing nook and we picked up the tree that will be providing me some shade and a fresh pine scent as I write. I'm so excited about it. I've still got to pick up the swing that I want. There was one last year at Wal-Mart but we didn't get it in time and they ran out. When we get power ran to the shed I will be able to lounge out on my lawn swing and enjoy the cool evening air without worrying about my laptop battery going out on me. Who knows, maybe I'll get a rustic looking side table so I can set my drink down. Sun tea anyone?
The last little while has been kind of hard on me. We lived in Alaska for a little more than four years when I was in the military. I suddenly got a very strong urge to move back there about a week ago. The air up there smells so much cleaner and the trees would be so beautiful this time of year. We used to go on little camping trips and we would do some gold panning in the streams. We never found anything big but it was always exciting to find the little "flour gold" specks in the pan. We would sit by the water for a couple of hours and just listen to the gurgling and splashing while we sifted through the gravel. If I ever become a rich and famous author I'll most likely end up buying some acreage up there and we'll build a nice home with satellite internet or something. There are actually a lot of misconceptions about Alaska. Anchorage had a population of around 250,000 people when we lived there. Unfortunately it keeps growing. If we did move back I wouldn't live in Anchorage, that's for sure. There are some very nice towns outside of the city where you can buy more land. The architecture is actually pretty humorous in some places as well. You would be surprised how many of the houses in Anchorage look... boat-ish. You would have to see it to get the correct mental image.
Anyway, with all this work we've been doing, I have a deeper appreciation of what we have now. I would still like to move to Alaska and have my cabin on about 20 acres or so, but that won't be happening any time soon. And in the mean time, I can be happy with where I am.

I hope you guys are having a great weekend!

Creative Writing Prompt:

(A picture from Alaska)

Out in the Yard

Tonight I am posting from my backyard. I've been spending most of my free time these last few days working out here on the garden and trying to catch up so I don't miss the planting season. I'm not an expert gardener, I learn new things every year. My mistakes last year definitely taught me a lot and I have so much work to get done before we are all planted. So far we have sectioned off a portion of our garden area for asparagus and have gotten them planted. Our strawberries from last year are looking amazing, I'm very happy with their progress.
Today we were able to set up our frame for the grapes that will grow over the entrance. We even got it stained and I should be able to plant them tomorrow. Sixteen tomato plants still need a home so I've got to set up the rows for them so we can get them planted. So much work to do and it never seems like we have enough time, does it?
After the light in the sky had faded, we pulled up chairs around a fire and sat on the lawn eating our dinner. It was a very rewarding evening. I enjoyed sitting next to my wife and looking across the flames in the portable fire pit and seeing my kids staring into the other side of those same flames. It was so easy to pretend we were all sitting around a campfire in the mountains. Sure, the air didn't smell quite so clean but the aroma of the burning wood was enough to bring the mental image to life. Once I was done eating I grabbed my laptop so I could post from the flickering fire light.
I've been working on my short story, not as much as I would like but as I just mentioned, the garden has to get done before the time for that slips away. I plan on making some time to write tomorrow, I'm really excited about it. I decided to work with one of my existing ideas, but the suggestions you guys left in the comments helped me find a new approach to getting the story out effectively. It took away a major stumbling block so I just wanted to take a moment and thank you guys for posting your comments and getting me thinking. It's always nice to have that kind of support.

I also appreciate your comments about the work in progress I posted the other day. No one likes to hear criticism but I do realize that my writing isn't perfect and there's always new tricks for me to learn. I have to write more of the rest of the story before I will be ready to edit it down. So far that is but a snippet in a much larger picture.

Creative Writing Prompt:

Work in Progress

Excerpt from “Coma - The Cataclysm”

Draft
__________________________________________________________

Completely lost, Mark staggered down the winding forest path. His head still throbbed, sending sharp spikes of pain that shook his vision and threatened the slipping grasp of consciousness he struggled to maintain. As the trail wound downward the decline increased, pushing him on. Faster and faster he went, his tired legs screaming in agony. His mind was racing, where was he? What had happened? Soon the trees on either side of the trail turned to a green blur and he realized too late that he was, in fact, running down the steep decline and slowing down was no longer an option. That's when he saw it, the twisted, gnarled root protruding from the ground like a giant snake, waiting, ready to strike.
Somehow after the image processed in his mind the warning failed to reach his feet. Unable to stop Mark felt time slow to a crawl and watched in disbelief as the root loomed closer. Feeling the first burst of pain as his toes slammed into the base of the protruding offender he took flight, sailing slowly though the air. It was during that brief moment of suspension that he first looked at his surroundings. Each rock on the trail below crept past with stunning detail. Each leaf of each tree slowly danced on the cool mountain breeze. He took a breath and smelled the sweet, clean air of the forest, bringing back images of camping trips from his youth; echoes of a past he could barely remember. Just as he closed his eyes, trying to hold tight to the slipping memory, he felt it. Time lurched forward at double speed, regaining lost ground and thrusting him back into the present. His stomach turned as he opened his eyes to see what would break his fall. Squeezing his eyelids shut again he braced for the impact.
The expected piercing pain never came. Instead, his right shoulder buckled under the force of the tree, pain had been replaced with intense pressure that shot through his very core. He felt dizzy. Staring down at his knees he watched as blood soaked through the torn fragments of dirty linen. The pressure in his shoulder seemed to increase significantly, and then he heard it, the ominous pop that emanated from his flesh as he inched slowly closer to the trunk of the tree. The broken branch that had impaled him began to groan under the weight of his limp form and snapped. Slumping to the ground in a heap, Mark closed his eyes and fought the panic that threatened to take him.
Don't breathe he thought. The wind has been knocked out of you. Wait for your body to catch up. Steady. Steady... Okay, deep breath...
The crisp mountain air burned his lungs as he inhaled slowly and deeply, struggling to fight the urge to let go and gasp like a man drowning in a cold lake.
It's okay, easy now. His mind was racing, filling itself in on what had happened. The winding trail, he was going too fast and couldn't stop. The root, he'd tripped over the root. He saw it coming, he should have missed it but he didn't. The pain in his right foot pinged to life and he adjusted to look at his worn tennis shoe. The once white canvas was coated with dust and blood; the dark red-brown stain seemed to grow outward towards the seams at a slow but steady pace.
"It won't be pretty," he said to himself, smiling half-heartedly.
His eyes focused again on his knees, scraped and dirty with small shavings of skin barely clinging to the wounds in vain.
Pushing up on his left elbow Mark attempted to right himself but his right arm wouldn't budge. Again he attempted to grasp the trunk of the tree to brace himself and again his arm remained at his side.
"That's not right." he told the tree, concentrating intently on the contours of the bark.
It was a large, sturdy pine with tiny globules of sap which had dripped and hardened on the flaky bark exterior. As his vision narrowed in and focused he realized that the trunk was bleeding as well. His eyes followed the gleaming red trails upwards until he found the apparent source. The dead limb had long shed its bark and the smooth, weathered grayness peaked out from the crimson torrent that had washed over its surface. Six inches from the trunk the red and gray turned to a clean white where the limb had snapped with jagged disregard.
Mark felt his face run cold as he stared at the splintered wooden spear. The first wave of nausea hit like a flood. Again his mind raced into action, feebly striving to protect him from the gruesome reality of his situation. Tearing his eyes from the limb he forced himself to look down at his shirt and the hot, sticky blood that covered it.
"It's not right... It's not right," he murmured, totally transfixed by the gleaming wetness.
Unable to bear the dawn of realization he closed his eyes in disbelief. His fingers however, moved slowly through the unknown with morbid curiosity to the source of the blood. The touch of the splintered branch protruding just above the collarbone caused his stomach to lurch. Sickened, He opened his eyes and struggled to stand once again. Beads of cold sweat formulated on his brow, his vision began to fade as he struck out frantically with his left hand, ravaging the leaves in a desperate attempt to get away. Latching onto a nearby stump, he pulled himself away from the tree and onto his knees. The world seemed to spin uncontrollably and the nausea overtook the last bit of control he'd managed to hold on to.
With a sudden jerk his hot, smelly vomit covered the forest floor. His eyes began to water as his vision danced in and out of focus. Chancing another glance at the wound caused his stomach to jolt back into action, sending a fresh stream of vomit onto the very stump he'd used to pull himself up.
"You're in shock. Slow down." he gasped. A small string of saliva hung from his bottom lip and he wiped his mouth doggedly with his sleeve.
"It's just a flesh wound," he chuckled, looking back spitefully at the old pine. "One of these days someone will chop you down!" He yelled.
"And as for you..." he struggled to stand, now fueled by his growing anger and delirium.
By pure concentration of will his right arm flopped weakly and his fingers clenched into a loose fist as he grit his teeth against the new wave of pain. He bent down and picked up a rough, jagged stone from the side of the trail and stumbled drunkenly back up the path to the root.
Once, twice, three times the rock rose and fell, scraping away at the hard wooden skin and exposing the soft white interior. Faster and faster the rock came crushing down and Mark roared with his maddening battle cry until the mountains rang with his fit of rage. Blood from the wound in his shoulder splattered down on the tender white wood which soon turned to a dull pink mush under the pulverizing onslaught.
Mark felt his strength waning and soon the rock grew heavy in his hands. Dropping the small boulder he stared quietly at the destruction that lay before him. The root was no more and again the world began to spin as the blood drained from his head. Blurry brown dots invaded his vision and the world went black. The sounds of the woods around him died out as a million invisible ants marched through his head with the faint pulse of his heart. His awareness came crashing in as he crumbled silently to the ground, finally allowing the darkness to take him.
Ten yards away in the underbrush twin sets of eyes peered at the limp form on the trail. One set of eyes giggled followed by a sharp shush from the other. Leaves rustled and twigs snapped as the twins emerged from their hiding spot.
The young twins were about twelve years of age, a boy and a girl. Their tousled brown hair was unkempt from their day of playing in the woods. The girl pulled a dead leaf from her hair and tossed it aside. Her brother's menacing grin bothered her.
"Let's go look!" He giggled again.
"Joshua!" she hissed as he broke cover and crept closer to the still form of the man laying face down on the trail. Rolling her eyes she quietly followed.
Joshua had already begun poking the stranger with a stick by the time she'd caught up.
"I don't see what's so funny about poking a dead man with a stick." She glared.
"He's not dead," the boy giggled. "He's still breathing, see?"
The girl jumped back in fright. "Joshua stop!" she whispered. "He's going to get you, he's gone mad!"
"He ain't going to get me." The boy smiled before leaning a little closer to his sister. "He's fainted!"

Creative Writing Prompt:

Party Like it's 1984?

Instead of reading Fablehaven, as I had planned for the weekend, I ended up starting and finishing the book Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell. I had seen the movie about five years ago and always meant to read the book. When my wife brought it home from the library for me, I just couldn't resist.
It was a good novel, definitely one that makes you think. The movie wasn't too far off in most places, but I do believe I liked the book better. It's funny to see how words and phrases go in and out of popularity.
I don't know anyone that actively uses the word 'presently' in their writing. Perhaps Ken at Writing Stuff will bring back a revival of sorts. I remember seeing it a lot more in Lord of the Flies. I couldn't finish that book, it was far too distracting. 'Presently he sat on the log and stared at the breaking waves.' (Of course, that was just a made up example, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was there verbatim.) I can see why the word went out of style. It's all a bit redundant, isn't it? I mean, if the story is moving along and the kid is sitting on the log, why say presently? Is the author afraid we might think that he is sitting on the log in the future or that perhaps the story lurched back to the past somehow? I am baffled by that word.
I did start Fablehaven last night. It is a confusing sort as well. The story so far is inexplicably for younger minds, which is fine. But I am a bit taken aback by certain verbage which seems a tad out of place for the feeling of the story. It's almost as if Brandon Mull is writing a young adult novel, but feels bad about it. And just to ward off any skeptics, he tells us that the wrought-iron fence is topped with fleurs-de-lis. I'm sure it's some kind of viney plant with a little white flowers. At least that's the sort of thing that springs to mind. I take note of it and remind myself to look it up later, then continue reading, totally forgetting my intention until I'm blogging about it the next day. And there are deaths at the beginning of the book that are the result of asphyxiation. That's fantastic. Of course I know what that means now, but if I were reading this book at around 10 or 11 (when I was reading books about this speed) I may have thought that meant they got stuck to their chairs... permanently. I kid, I kid. So far it's been fun and lighthearted, but hey, I gotta get post length somehow, right?

By the way, I was way off. Fleurs-de-lis are little spade looking thingamabobs and such. Look it up. :)

Creative Writing Prompt:

Coffeeshop Confessional

This was, by far, not my best Confessional. I had a hard time breaking away from my inner thoughts to really notice anything, or anyone, of interest around me. It would have been easy to abandon the project altogether and to leave it forever undone as a failed attempt that history would never remember. It would have been easy, almost painfully so. I struggled on.
There are things, I have reminded myself as of late, that must remain unspoken in this blog. This, of course, echoes sentiments that have surfaced over the past few days. This blog cannot be a journal for me. I know this. The hard part about the restraint I must show is that many of the readers of this blog, even the faceless lurkers who never post comments, have become as familiar as trusted friends. Yet there are times when certain morsels of information can wreak massive havoc on future plans or otherwise normal circumstances.
It is an odd sensation to realize that a certain level of censorship must be maintained. I never thought I would have much to hide when I started out on this blog project, other than the identities of my children and other such personal details.
I used this Confessional to remind myself that there is a purpose to holding back with certain thoughts and details. Who knows what untold meaning it could hold for the person who may stumble across it.

A Burning Desire to Create

It just so happens that every once in a while I find myself amidst the delusion of having a somewhat normal life, but it's days such as today that I am forced to realize that I will never be one with the masses. I could never be content spending a life in a cubicle or chained to a desk without knowing that I made an impact. I can only describe this wonderlust as a burning desire to create something. My life feels somewhat out of place. I sometimes feel like an artist who was mistakenly born as a construction worker. The son of a plumber, I am neither artist nor pipe fixer extraordinaire. I am a jack of all trades, with passable performances at everything I choose to do, yet I am a master of nothing.
I love to listen to music with the volume turned up high to drown out the melancholy and mundane thoughts that swirl around in my head. I sometimes chase them off with alcohol when they become too much and the static is all I can hear or feel. This is a level of honesty that some may not be comfortable with. I am comfortable with that. Is it a weakness? Not now, not yet. I don't drink regularly enough, I don't even keep the pantry well stocked with booze. Sometimes it's months upon months before a bottle shows up. I don't drink beer. I think it tastes the way sweaty feet smell. Though, if you were to offer me one, I would drink socially with you and we would have a good time.
It's days such as today that find me longing for a group of artistic friends who share my desire to make short movies, who don't find the idea of walking down the street filming an impromptu musical ridiculous, who would enjoy creating music and putting together music videos that actually say something without saying anything at all.
I long to write, but I am afraid. I find all the minute errors and failings of the stories I read and I think to myself, "I can do better than this!" In all actuality, be it truth or fiction, I actually do think I could... if only I would. But I don't. Why do I hold myself to such high standards that I don't allow anything at all to come out? My last two victories were mind-boggling. They were such grand successes because... because they were. They didn't evaporate into the ether. In that alone, they were tremendous stepping stones on a path to realizing my dreams.
I'm foolish, I know. I have lived my life thus far with the idea in my head that I was different, that somehow I was bound for greatness. I have always felt that somewhere out there was a grand purpose for my life. Does everyone else feel the same way? Is it childish to think that I could have any more impact than anyone else?
Throughout history there have been men and women who were great, not for their moral fortitude or for their contributions to humanity, but merely because they aspired and their actions reflected their aspirations. Many of our stories depict the unwilling hero, the man or woman or girl or boy who have been thrust into an adventure that has taken hold and refuses to let them go. They can press on or they can forfeit, and who wants to read about people who forfeit? But our lives seldom throw such situations at us. When they do the adventures are never quite so grand. In fact, we may forfeit without ever knowing the true impact of our decisions.

Creative Writing Prompt:
None today. If you must, use the rhapsodic flailing of pent up creativity that emerged this afternoon as a doodle just above my right knee. I get the impression that no one actually uses these prompts anyway, but because they add something visual and interesting to the posts, they remain.

Fablehaven

I picked up a book the other day called Fablehaven. I intended to get it for my daughter to read, but since she hasn't yet finished the last book I got for her, I figured I would read it first. Before I got my hands on it, though, my wife read it. She seemed rather impressed with the story so I'm looking forward to the read.
I do have an aspiration of writing a Young Adult novel in the future. I'm actually thinking about writing the first draft during November's National Novel Writing Month event.
I did enjoy the Harry Potter series, well save for the last book... as a matter of fact, love me or hate me for it, I thought the 7th was a load of crap. Forgive my honesty. Even more than that, though, I loved reading books as a kid. I remember so many grand adventures, but I'm sure I've forgotten even more. Reading was always an amazing escape. There is no wonder then that I grew up to aspire to be a writer. To take people on adventures and make them forget, if even for a moment, the troubles of their everyday lives... what a destiny.
The post is short tonight but rest assured the topic is not done. I will post a review of the book when I finish reading. I hope to find myself enveloped in a good read this weekend, granted I can wretch time away from the garden and finishing the drain pipes on the West side of my yard. I have neighbors who are quite generous with their sprinkler water, which turns that side of my lawn into quite the foul-smelling swampland. If I'm not careful, I could find some grand adventure in my own backyard, and as fun as that sounds... I prefer my adventures to exist at arm's length.

Creative Writing Prompt:

Jena's Writing Exercise Submission

Jena from Gewgaw Writings Submitted this Writing Exercise:

When I saw the picture, I immediately thought of the phrase "so near yet so far" - just a small gap between two buildings could be conquered by a single "bridge" - a very simple "solution" to a seemingly unsolvable problem. (no need to go down and use the main entrance of the other building to gain entry - but just erect a connecting bridge, and the problem is solved). I likened this to a beloved who is physically apart from you and could not be "touched" but the "closeness" could still exist by bridging the gap with constant communication, verbal or written.

So Near, Yet So Far

You whisper, I love you,

It slips into space..

The broad expanse of blue,

is gone in a blaze.

You're oceans away,

but we're just a gap apart.

so near yet so far..

I could touch you in my heart.

Let's reach out and hold fast,

until good fate would favor us.

For our love would forever last,

till the time - that die - we must.

© Jena Isle, 2008

Your blog is very encouraging for aspiring writers like me, and most especially to creative writers.

More power to you and happy blogging.

Jena Isle

God Bless.


*If you would like to submit something you've written that was inspired by any of the writing prompts I have included throughout HuntingtheMuse.com, please check out this post.

Ken Armstrong's Guest Post!

It brings me great pleasure to introduce Ken Armstrong from Writing Stuff as the first guest blogger for HuntingtheMuse.com! Take a moment to read his post here and then go check out his blog! If you would like to contribute to HuntingtheMuse, please check out this post.

If You Love Something Set It Free, If It Comes Back Then It Probably Wasn’t Much Good…



I happened upon Brady’s excellent Blog quite by accident. In truth, it was my failing eyesight that led me here. You see, I thought I was visiting a site called ‘Humping The Muse’ and, well, that’s probably a story best left for another day.

Brady and I were discussing (electronically) the business of ‘letting your writing go’ after you have done with writing it. He reckoned I might have something to say about that, having let a number of plays go out into the world at this stage.

What I think is this:

Writing something can be looked upon as a series of consummations. The act of getting the writing onto the paper, or into the computer or up onto the wall – that, in itself, is a consummation.

For me at least though, there is a far greater consummation to follow. It is that moment when the writing is placed before somebody else. That, as the Ham-Man said is another ‘consummation devoutly to be wished’. That is the Real Deal.

This might be less true for poetry. Poetry is such a personal business that the process of getting it written may well be a completely satisfying end in itself, much as it must be with a personal diary.

But for the kind of stuff which I tend to do – plays and stories and such – my personal opinion is that my work is not truly complete until it is seen, until it has been read. My story is not really a story until somebody has heard it.

So where as all this high-fallutin’ theorising leading? Simply here; if you want to finally consummate your writing, you are, sooner or later going to have to give it away. To a story editor, a publisher, a director, a producer. You will simply have to give it up.

So Brady asked me – what’s that like for me? To give my writing up.

It’s wonderful!

Well, if you think about it, it’s bound to be wonderful, isn’t it? I’ve burned the midnight oil, abandoned my social life, grown fat and smelly in the solitary pursuit of my writing and now, finally, somebody wants it enough that they are willing to take it on and show it to the world for me.

Wonderful… but scary too.

I’ve been in total control of this thing. I’ve been dictator, demagogue, deity over my little patch or writing, answerable to nobody. Now, it’s up and leaving me.

Scary… and sometimes disappointing.

My vision for my writing is a deeply personal thing. Often the person who takes it and presents it to the world/village hall will not share intimately in my vision. What the world sees may not tally exactly with what I intended. That can be disappointing.

But ultimately, I have found the business of letting people take my writing away to be exciting, educational, liberating, inspiring, stimulating and tremendously satisfying.

In my limited experience, the people who are motivated enough to take your writing out into the world will inject something of themselves into the work and the result is almost invariably greater than the sum of its parts.

So when the guy comes looking for your writing, you will give it away. You have to, it’s the final consummation of all your efforts.

My advice? Do it with a big smile. The result is almost sure to be great.

Almost sure to be.

Video Post: Short Story Suggestions

Video Post number 2! The quality isn't that great because I had to put it together on my laptop. Enjoy!



Creative Writing Prompt:

A Good Day

Today turned out to be quite a good day. We had a bar-b-que to celebrate my 28th birthday. The weather turned out much better today than if we had done it last weekend. I was pleasantly surprised. I cooked up 14 steaks and two bratwurst on the grill and everything was tasty! My daughter made a mean fruit salad and my wife put together a scrumptious pasta salad with baby spinach. There were a total of five cakes as well. What a feast!
Of course, before all that could happen we had to do a lot of work around the house. We spent a few hours outside cleaning up the yard and then I tilled up the garden a bit. Now I'm starting to feel as if I may have gotten just a bit too much sun, my mind is quite foggy and I have the beginnings of what seems to be a nasty headache coming on. Was it worth it? I think so. I don't generally have a lot of good family experiences and today turned out to be an unexpected treat. Ah, and so the stars align.

On Saturday we had the kid's carnival. My wife had a migraine from over-working herself, shame shame, so we had to cut it a little short, but the kids and I had fun while we were there and I did get a chance to get some pics for later use as writing prompts. Yay!

I think I may have to cut this post short today, maybe tomorrow I'll be feeling better. I hope you all had a wonderful weekend! For those of you waiting for the next installment of the Lyric Writing series, stay tuned, it's coming soon.

Creative Writing Prompt:

The Trouble with Eragon

I've been pretty busy over the last few weeks, and very mentally drained at that. I haven't really had a whole lot of time to read, but I have been listening to Eragon and now the second book in the series, Eldest. I had heard a lot of buzz about Christopher Paolini and the Eragon series, both good and bad. I had seen the movie before reading the book and thought it was pretty decent for what it was. Everyone else at the time was seemingly uniform in their disgust, though I would often hear comments about how wonderfully Saphira was portrayed.
At first I was taken aback by the powerful descriptions in Eragon. I wasn't sure exactly what it was, but something about the way he described things was almost entrancing. As the story drove onward I began to narrow it down. By mid-book I had put my finger on it. In the beginning the vocabulary had been refreshing, almost exhilarating. I found myself wondering how on earth he had come up with a particular word in a description. But, as time wore on, it bogged down the story. The descriptions became painful roadblocks in the way of story progression. What plot conflicts there were seemed to be resolved much too easily. Eragon himself was a half-wit at best. He was a character I couldn't relate to, he was so stupid. The book would explain something and then chapters later he would ask a question that seemed to scream out that he paid no attention to anything that had transpired beforehand. I have little patience for stupid heroes. If I remember something from chapters back, he should too.
Another thing that really bothered me was the interaction between Eragon and Saphira. The dialogue for many characters throughout the book was clichéd and pretentious, but nowhere was it as bad as the conversations between these two characters.
Where Eragon was decent, Eldest has proven far worse. I find myself yelling at my computer, telling the vocal artist reading the story to just get on with it. Those beautiful, fancy words have since turned to ash in my mind. Overuse is probably a contributing factor, but I believe the biggest part of it has been how he feels he must share with us every imparting detail of the world he has created. I couldn't care less about a pit stop along the way, if it isn't important to the story you don't need to describe it in painful detail. It feels as if the book is almost completely description driven. It makes for a very boring journey. Also, I find that after a while I start noticing that I am no longer paying attention when he delves into another descriptive episode. That pains me as a reader or in this case, I suppose I am a listener. Either way it detracts from the story itself.
Another excruciating part about Eldest isn't just the unnatural character progression but the training. Oh woe the training. Why must we be subjected to the everyday schooling of Eragon? We aren't dragon riders... I mean, some training? Okay. All of it? Oh man... It just gives Eragon a plethora of opportunities to show us how big of a tool he is. Of course he takes every single one (and then some) to prove that he is a dunce. This is the last hope against the Empire? Heaven help us all.
This leaves me one last comment... which I will pose as a question and then expand with my own thoughts on the matter. How do you feel about poems and songs in fiction books?
I find them bothersome. I get so attached to the characters I'm following that I want to view their world through their eyes. When they start singing a random song I want to know the rhythm, the pacing, the cadence if you will. But if the song isn't a part of the plot... why? Why?! WHY!?!??! Eldest has quite a few of these. Poems, songs, patches of text in some language that none of us know. This bothers me to no end. If you want to write poetry, please do. But if it isn't central to the story, keep it out, PLEASE! It serves as nothing more than a distraction. One or two I can stand, but it if becomes a repeating theme throughout the story I will skip them entirely. If it becomes too bothersome, I may just put down the book entirely. I like a good story, but why should I have to work for it?
These are, of course, my opinions. As is often the case, some "fanboys" may be tempted to say something along the lines of, "Well if you don't like it, read something else." To this I would say that any author who would share such an opinion could never be great by any standard. Yes, Eragon has had a lot of success as a book, but unfortunately it would seem that much of that success can be attributed to Christopher's age. People say, "Wow this is so good for a 15 year old!" But what happens as he gets older? Eragon has been much better than Eldest, and it wasn't even that great to begin with. If Mr. Paolini is smart he will examine his writing and learn the value of good description. He will use the power of his words where it counts and let the story and plot drive the rest. He will make his characters earn their plot resolutions. It would serve him well to observe people and listen to how they speak. He would do well to listen to people who are smart, and a few that only believe they are. He may learn the difference in the way they speak. Truly wise men don't talk as if they love to hear themselves speak. Mr. Miyagi's infinite wisdom was not beautiful or robust. But it proved that he knew what he was talking about. "Wax on - wax off, Daniel-san." What does waxing a car have to do with Karate? Apparently a lot more than any of us expected.

Creative Writing Prompt:

Out My Front Window

Here it is, the first of May, and snowing beautifully. This picture was taken from my front porch!