Why am I a writer?

Why am I a writer? Why do I write? Ask me this, and chances are I'll flounder. So I should probably think of something now.

There many reasons, I'm sure, ranging  from the overused standard "because I can't not write" to complex and in depth piles of dirt which I don't feel like digging up right now.

So instead, let's look into past dreams, before this one came into being. When I was very young, I went through what I now think of as very normal stages of things I wanted to become: marine, CIA operative, cowboy, knight, hobbit, Robin Hood-wizard-time traveler... The list goes on. Obviously I couldn't be all of those things. Heck, just being more than one would be very difficult. And seeing as, at seven, my acting chops weren't very developed, the only thing for me was to start writing.

Really though, that's not it at all.  No, I write because I enjoy it. Do I need anymore reason than that? Do any of us need more reason? 

God has blessed me with the triple joys of movement, writing, and baking. Between the three of them, I'm pretty sure I don't have much sanity left, but I do have fun. I'm not saying it's all rainbows and ponies, but what is the darkness except something for light to shine in.

Search for your talents, and when you find them, hold fast.

Have a very blessed day, and don't forget to have fun,

M. S.

Writing Progress Report

I was supposed to post this earlier, today, but for some reason I just didn't get around too it… oh well. It's not midnight yet. It's not late. (nodd) Though if I keep mistyping, it will be.

Okay, let me tell you how this is going to work. Come November, I'll be posting Weekly wordcounts for NaNoWriMo and talking about what I've written. Probably.

In the meantime, though, I'll use this to keep track of projects started and (hopefully) finished. I'll post progress wordcounts as I go, too.

Alrigh, now that it's explained…

Project's Began: 0 (nothing new)

Projects Continued:

Artificial —  This is the story of an artificial human who is found by love and escapes the bonds of slavery. It's cliched, but alos Sci-fi.  I like it, and that's all that matters at the moment.

1,100 new words, all written it one sitting directly after reading a Magical Words post (seriously, that blog is awesome, as are all the authors on it. Go see for yourself, I'll wait.) It brings the total word count up to 2,100. Another 2-4 thousand words to go, I think.

 Escape — This is another personal piece — I'm not even sure how to begin explaining it. I got inspired by running barefoot and coatless through a thunderstorm. That night, with it's awesome lightning flashes, hail, and sharp concrete (ouch) pretty much set the opening scene. Now I'm just exploring with my imagination.

Roughly 300 new words, written in a night of desperate war against writer's block. Victory, however small. Total word count: 7,300. Exactly.

Hick's Wood

This isn't so much a story as a series of vaguely story like ideas and random scenes. It's about this magic infested forest place—Hick's Wood—which is in part due to Old Man Hick (I know, I suck at names. I'll probably save them later on.), a slightly mad super-magician with more power than is probably good for anyone. Magical and malign creatures are drawn to this forest, partly because of him, and partly because of the natural magic—the same reason Hick makes his home there.

Hick employs a force of rangers, the Wardens, to protect the forest from invaders and invaders from the forest. These are ordinary (well, almost ordinary) men and women who have been armed with training and whatever magic they can get their hands on…

Yeah, I could go on for quite some time with this last project, but I probably shouldn't. And I don't have the time if I want to get this posted while it's still sunday here.

360 words, written while tired and feeling slightly sick (I'd skipped a meal or two. One of the many risks of being a cliched absent minded creative type. I'm totally re-rolling myself as a dashing rogue.) Another complete scene, but a random one. Evil unicorns.

Total word count: ? Um, I'm not really sure. I have two or three scenes floating about, dealing with different monsters, and another longer thing following on one of the Wardens.

And that's all. Hope I didn't bore you too much.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Late…

I'm late. I meant to post something a couple days ago, but… Best laid plans don't always work out, and it's difficult to keep a non-existantant schedule. And I don't know what to post about. I had a couple interesting ideas, but have since lost the thread.

So, have some muddled thoughts.

 I'd fallen into a recent slump, writing wise, as I've had difficulty putting my B in C. After a few days of writing nothing, it got to the point that I started to worry if I could create with the same creativity and skill I had before. I worried that I'd ruin my projects if I tried working on them. If you've ever been in this sort of mental state, you have my sympathies.

Inorder to fix myself, my sleeping schedule had to take the bullet. I sat down around my normal bedtime, said a short prayer, and dove write in. I had a vague idea of the next scene I needed, a memory of what came before it, and the trust that, even if it was crap, I'd be able to fix it later.

It worked.

I looked up after the scene was finished, and found it to be three hours later. I'd written about three hundred words. That's slow, extremely so, but it still made me happy. It reminded me that whatever worries I had keeping me from writing, they would melt away the moment I started stringing sentences together.

Rather like now.

I don't know if you'll walk away with anything after reading this; I don't care if you do read this. Sometimes you just need to forget about your cares and write. Look in a mirrior and see the story, not yourself. It feels better than beating yourself up. Trust me.


Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

NaNoWriMo

So, we're in October now… I knew NaNoWrimo was drawing closer, but it still managed to sneak up on me. Just one more month of freedom before my mind melts in the chaotic frenzy of writerly abandon.

This will be my third year battling the novel demons. I hope for triumph, but I never really know what's going to happen until it's happened.

In 2011, I went with carefully laid plans. I lead an army of loyal characters, men and women armed with a plethora of strengths, weaknesses, and conflicts. I armoured myself with a plot of epic proportions (for me, atleast), and took up the sword of language. But even the best laid plans go to hell once the combat starts.

For the first fifteen thousand words, victory seemed assured. But the enemy was crafty; he turned my characters and plots against me. Amidst growing doubts, I floundered onwards. I refused to give in, but my desperate actions only dug me deeper. After 30K of hard fighting I was forced to face defeat.

I'd killed my story…

Yet, despite that, I can still remember my first NaNo. I remember how bodly I strode, a prayer my only weapon, daring the winds to stop me. Oh, how I wrote recklessly. Words rewarded my courage, giving me more than I had thought possible. I conquered.

So, then, this year is the tie breaker. This year makes or breaks my NaNoing soul… Except it doesn't, because I know that, in this game, one win is worth the suffering of a dozen losses.

So, win or lose, I will continue NaNo. I will continue to write, even if a prayer is all that drives my pen, even if Christ is all I have left. Because when it comes down to it, Christ is all I need.

Are you up to the challenge? Will you walk with us into the shadows? NaNoWriMo is a month away, but the time to prepare, if preparation suits you, is now.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

My Return

First, I'd just like to say that, like in the Monty Python, "I am not yet dead."

Yes, I know I've been away from this blog for ages, but there were many reasons for that. Reasons which, if I were to put them all down, would likely bore you to death. As I wouldn't want to be charged with homicide, accidental or otherwise, I'm going to skip that portion of my return party.

Suffice to say: I thought about just letting this blog thing fall to the wayside permanently, but have since decided to attempt resuscitation—if it be possible.

Now then, we can move on to subjects of import—or lack of import, depending on how you look at it. (passes out appropriate paper-and-ink party hats and bacon)

Story Crafting (Or: This is the part where I bore you with what I've been up too.)

Recently, I haven't been writing much—at least as far as word counts are concerned. A pithy thousand words a week I now consider a triumph. And yet, with my current WiP—Work in Progress, for all you non-writers that might stumble across this blog—I feel like that is enough. This is because I've changed my approach.

Once upon a time, I wrote what I thought was cool without paying much mind to the craft; now, though, I've begun to explore forms, to find my own limits and push them in a pursuit of mastery. (I hope that last doesn't make me sound like a maniacal villain)

Which brings us back to my current WIP. It is very unlike my vanilla projects of the past, which were past tense and third person limited (sometimes first person, I'm not that much of an extremely limited newb), written with the intention to market. I have shunned that form (temporarily) to explore present tense with two viewpoints—one of which is first, the other third.

This form is proving to be challenging but exciting. It is so unlike anything else I've ever attempted; there is something almost fay about it. I'm exploring the ways in which two viewpoints can foreshadow and feed off of each other, experimenting with dropping the tension in one as it rises in the other, and playing around with language. (When to use cliches, and when not to. Descriptions. Creating phrases unique to the world—that sort of thing. I'm not Tolkien; I don't invent languages.)

This all sounds sickeningly literature like, now that I think about it; and I certainly wouldn't have even dreamed of doing something like this eight months ago. But it's a good exercise, and extremely fun. And gritty post-apocalyptic-noir-sci-fi to boot. So i'll take it as proof that I'm growing as a writer.

What about you, doing anything different? Ever get that urge to experiment, but don't? If you haven't yet, I strongly suggest you give it a try. Let your imagination run free. Because doing different things is refreshing sometimes.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Tears — A Sign of Weakness?

Today I'm going to say a few words about heroes that cry. You've been warned.

Why, does it seem, that so many people view weeping as unheroic? Why is a character, real or imagined, often considered to be weak or vulnerable because he or she displays their emotions openly? It doesn't make any sense to me. Why should characters be considered weak because they feels strongly for something? Why do some people demand cold, robotic heros?

Grant it, there is something to be said for heroes that bear their pain under a stoic mask, silently keeping their cares to themselves; but are they any greater than those who do not? After all, Jesus wept, and there's none greater. I'm tired of people implying—or outright saying—that a strong character (male or female), is any weaker, any less heroic, because of tears.

The truth is that some obstacles are too great, some terrors too terrible, for people to just take in stride. And heros are people—always remember that. It isn't their prowess that makes them heroic, it's that they find the strength to carry on, even when they'd rather give up and go home. And if the problem a character faces doesn't test them, I'm going to put down your book (or movie, or tv show, or whatever it is), and walk away. 'Cause I don't like being bored.

Anyway, those are my thoughts. Now that I've subjected you to them, I'm going to sign off,

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

PS I still hope to do a Music Spotlight post today, but I've been sorta busy, so it'll be late.

Headphones!

I have headphones now. They make me smile. Now I can enter my happy writing place even when I'm in rooms with siblings, television, or other distracting commotions.

That is all. I'm going back to my word smithing now.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Parkour Places — New Eyes

For ages, the traceur/freerunner in me has been bummed out…or so I thought. It turns out he was only sleeping.

I've been upset because I didn't know of anywhere close by—within easy jogging distance—to practice parkour. There were walls to run on, some rails to vault over and balance on, trees to climb, but that was pretty much it…or so I thought. (that seems to be the theme of this post. Perhaps I should've titled it "…or so I thought")

As it turns out, it really is true that all you have to do is open your eyes. There's this little alley I walk by, and some times through, multiple times every week, but only tonight did I realize there's a spot with walls close enough together to body prop. There're drain pipes made of sturdy metal that are easy to shimmy up. There's a wall I can climb…

The traceur woke up, and now it's as if I'm seeing the world with new eyes. Parkour eyes. I'm even seeing ways to move in training spots I previously  thought exhausted and boring. There are countless ways to move under, over, and through obstacles, and there are obstacles everywhere. Jumps. Climbs. Balance opportunities, etc…

I've also had a break through in writing creativity as well. I thought I got a lot of story ideas before, but now it seems my thought well has doubled in capacity. I'm seeing stories in everything. Whether at work, on a walk, listening to siblings discuss television shows, or sitting in a tree—the stories come.

So relax and Jump, Reach. Opportunities come with awareness, when you're looking for them. Practice, determination, and belief will get you through, but first you have to seize start looking.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

P. S. Yeah, I realize I'm a bit flaky right now(perhaps that is not the word I mean), but I'm really tired. (It's a wonder I can still type coherently.) *yawn* I think I go bed now..

Random Piece of Writing

Alright, that last post was exhausting to write. It was Serious. I hate being serious, but it is good exercise every once in a while. Now that I'm done with Serious for the week, I can now move on to other, not so serious subjects. Like writing!

Okay, so writing's still sorta serious, but not the way I do it. What's the point of writing if not to have a little fun, putting imagination into words? True, at times writing can be emotionally or mentally painful. Sometimes I sit and bleed onto the page… but in doing so I find release from whatever emotions had hold over me. Nothing is so comforting to me as a prayer, a pen, and few hundred sheets of empty paper longing to be  filled with beautiful flowing letters and drawings…

So here's a little writing for your reading pleasure (or displeasure, if you happen to dislike it). It's just a scrap. I have many scraps filed away. Still, I'd welcome critiques from anyone that gets the urge.


*Matthew did not always make a habit glancing over his shoulder, but there was something about this place that felt utterly disquieting. Part of him rationalized that it was merely his anxiety acting up again, that there really wasn't someone—or some thing—watching him, waiting for him to let down his guard…


No, stop that thinking! He shook himself, but it didn't do anything towards stilling his inner paranoiac. 
There was something out here. He knew there was. Why hadn't he believed the villagers? Why did he always have to see things for himself? Sometimes it seemed the battle between curiosity and paranoia left no room inside his mind for rational thought.


Angels defend me, he pleaded, fighting back a fresh wave of fear. He felt the flight urge forcing its way in, but his curiosity stood unyielding, would not let him move.


Something clattered in the darkness, echoing in the open space, and Matthew spun, knees bent and ready to run at the first sign of danger.


"Who's there?"


The darkness refused to answer.


After a moments silence, Mathew began to relax. There was nothing out there. It was just his his imagination acting up again… He nearly choked on the relief, but then he heard it. A second clatter.


In an instant he had the shockbow unhooked from his belt and ready for action.

"Who's there?"

The darkness… giggled?

Matthew cursed himself, cursed the darkness. Obviously, it was simply children playing some prank on him. It was not the first time in his search…

With a weary shake of the head, he returned the weapon to his belt. "You children should know better!"

He turned to the light of the entrance way, fully intent on not wasting another breath here. He had barely gone two paces when it dawned on him that the light was no longer there. Impossible, he thought, it's high noon outside.


The darkness giggled again; Matthew cursed. He spun, hand going to unhook his shockbow, but it was already too late.  The shockbow was gone. He was disarmed. There was nothing he could do to defend himself now. With that realization, all the fear melted away, and he laughed. If he was to die anyway, what use was fear?

He laughed, and the darkness said, "Um,  you're supposed to be afraid."*




And that's all I have of this s-crappy bit. Again, I'm open to critiques from anyone that feels the urge.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Edit: Unlarged font size on writing scrap because it was a little hard to read once posted. Marked beginning and end with asterisks.

Editing

is tedious. And annoying. If you're like me, then editing is the hardest aspect of writing. BIC? Easy, if I have time. Rejections? I'll live. But editing?

NOOOO!!!!! Spare me.

What is it I dislike so much about editing? Is it because I think everything I've written is golden and doesn't need cleaning up? Ha!

No, editing is difficult for me because… well, because it's difficult. Digging into the novel and finding the flaws, the things that don't work, and then correcting them, is a mountainous task.

Some are frozen with fear at the sight of said mountain, but that's not the case with me. I find it easy to make the first steps; I attack the first draft eagerly. However, as the task draws on I get worn down.

Stamina is a trait that I just don't have when it comes to editing—or writing, for that matter—so I have to take frequent breaks. Flurries of progress are followed by bouts of do-nothing. And the longer I push myself, the longer the lapses seem to last, the more demoralized I become. By the time I draw close to the end of a round of edits, there's nothing I want to do more than throw the entire MS into next week (or the garbage, as the case may be).

Somehow, I know, I have to find the strength to go on. I need help.

"Help? Never!" Oh shut up.

Sure, playing the Fate Spider of your fictive world is fun (at least, I think so), but some obstacles are so great one cannot overcome them on his own.

This help can come in a variety of forms. Simple things like prayer, staying active, and taking time off to think can do wonders. Also, keep friends informed of progress, including the lack thereof. Even if they don't care, and they should if they care about you, the shame of not getting enough done can keep the motivation flag flying long after the winds have passed.

Finally, if you need to take breaks (like me), then take them before you burn out.

These are just a few methods I use. What do you do to combat editing/writing fatigue? Or are you one of those people for whom writing and editing is as easy as breathing? (do those people really exist?)

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Writing — I Can't Move On

Recently I've experienced doubt as to whether or not I'll ever be a REAL writer. I've never been published, I've hardly even finished anything. I feel that if I pursue this dream, then the thought police will show up in their dark glasses, dark expressions, and all black SUV's.

I fear I'll never make it… But I still can't give up. This is something I have to do, because it's part of me.

And here's something else that's part of me.

"The Book of Aelus" was my first major writing project. I spent years on it (5ish?), while writing other things, but this story I was determined to finish. And finish it I did, finally, late last year. With around 110,000 words, much of it rewritten or scrapped completely. Then I sat back, looked at what I had created, and was disappointed. It was a mess, and my aimless re writing, I felt, had cut the heart out of it.

So I tried to move on… But it wasn't that easy. Time and again, something kept me coming back to it. The characters called to me, the story cried out to become something beautiful.

I planned and attempted a major revision this past February, but lost steam. This was due to 2 things: 1,  unreasonable goals that I couldn't possible keep (once you fail a goal, it makes it easier to fail the ones after it.); and 2, I'd lost the heart of the story, I'd forgotten what it was, what I'd intended it to be.

I decided the story was dead. I forced my bloody, guilt ridden hands away, and tossed it in a file to collect dust. I moved on to other things, other projects. I wrote a couple flash pieces, a short story, and got several thousand words done on several different projects.

But today something changed again. Another reversal. The call back to "The Hot Gates" and her crew has again reached my ears. I know what I'm getting into is a long and dark tunnel (one that will probably be filled with pain), but that will not keep me from searching for the light.

I want this story to be told. I want it to be something I can point to, to say: "you should read this." Because this story was more than a learning experience, it is a part of me—and I don't want it to die.

That's not to say that I'll abandon my other projects in the process—I don't have the kind of one track mind required for that. Nor will I try to rush through it like it did in my previous attempts. I'm taking it slow, knowing that it's more important to do something write than to do something fast. Ideally one does the job both fast and right; but hey, I'm still learning.

Maybe I'm just crazy, maybe I'm wasting my time. But I've tried to move on, an that's something I just can't do. I truly do think this tale is worth the telling. I'll never give up hope.

Am I deluded? Is this just story just holding me back? Perhaps, but that is a risk I'm willing to take. You have to take risks for what you love, don't you?

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Skill

is what separates the master and the novice. Wikipedia defines it as "the learned capacity to carry out pre-determined results." Skill is learned, and it is honed with the sharpest wheel of all—Time. The more hours you pour into something, the better you'll become.

This is seen quite clearly in mock sword fights between my siblings. My eldest brother, handily beats me whenever we clash practice blades—only rarely do I score a hit on him. Many hours spent in training have given him the ability to deconstruct my defenses with ease.

Yet, there's one brother I'm able to defeat when wielding a sword in my off hand and munching an apple with my primary. Why? Because he doesn't practice, his swings are wild and uncontrolled; his form almost nonexistent.

When you're new to something, you aren't going to be good at it (unless you have natural talent, you lucky person). You can fail easily, and those failures either strengthen your resolve to learn, or they break you. Sometimes, you don't even begin for fear of failure. Your greatest enemy is yourself.

But if you can muster the strength and passion to begin, if you can clench that strength and persevere— then you'll acquire skill. Anything can be achieved with time. You might never become a grandmaster, but you don't know how high you can rise until you try.

I think this is true in everything we aspire to, whether it be martial arts, writing, baking, acting, parkour, gymnastics, drawing, painting, carving, etc. So don't let the fear of beginnings, the lack of skill stop you. Go forth, and know that skill will come with time spent in practice.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

P.S. Wow, is it really midnight? No wonder I'm so loopy :)

Baking Bread

happens to be one of my favorite activities, especially shortly after I awake. Working the dough provides something to do with the hands, a slow introduction to activity in the early morning hours. It's meditative as well, requiring me to relax, to get inside the dough and feel when it's ready to rise.

There's a quote, I'm not sure who said it,  that goes: "Clean out a corner of your mind, and creativity will instantly fill it." This is exactly what happens when I make bread. During the kneading process, thoughts of stories fill my head. Whenever I'm stuck, it helps me to work out plot problems, build backstory and character, even realize flaws I didn't know were there.

Then, when it rises, I sit down and write until it comes time to work the dough again. I write again when it enters the often, only stopping when it's time to come out. But even after it comes out of the oven, it isn't done helping me write. It provides me with a reward, a delicious treat at the end of a work period that soothes my mental muscles. It reminds me that I am truly blessed.

As I try to write more often, I also bake more often—it has become an essential part of my writing process.

Well, internets, what activities have become essential for you? What do you do that helps creative thoughts flow?

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Call to Wander

Sometimes, one gets the call to wander. It might be the sunshine slanting through the windows, or it could be the rain dancing on the roof; it may be a simple song, a memory, a feeling. You get the urge to shod your feet—or not, as the case may be—and hit the streets, the sidewalks, the dirt trails, the pathless ways. You want to put soft grass under your feet, to feel rocks and sand and bark tearing at your hands, to taste crisp clean water and misty air. To find a secluded place and just observe…

Well, I do, anyway. I want to run and scream, to dance and swing, to climb and fall. The door to my imagination opens. I want to enter.

I want to see something new everyday, if only a new angle of the old. I want to wander, if only in my mind. I want to dine with adventure worn heroes in smoky taverns, swap stories with bards, share bread with beggars, train with knights, serve.

I want to write.

Maybe I'm just crazy, but I don't have time to dwell on that. Adventure calls, and I must  heed it.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Writer's Block

is something I sometimes have trouble with, but often it's not, "normal," writer's block—whatever that is. Sure, there are loads of times I can't get writing done on a project, but it's not what I've heard most people describe as "block."

See, I'm most often afflicted by something a brother once called, "writer's log jam." It's not that I can't think what comes next, or even that I just can't get myself to write. No, my head gets so overfilled with ideas that I don't know what to work on next, thus blocking the flow of words. When I'm afflicted, I rapidly think up new projects, barely having time research an start work on any one of them. I bounce back and forth, never focusing on one thing for more than a day or two at a time, and never getting more than a few hundred words in at a time. It frustrates. Immensely.

How do I solve it?

I don't know; nothing I've tried works. Luckily, it's not a constant affliction. It comes and goes with time.

Of course, there're a few other kinds of block I get: "Hate," in which I hate the story and/or main characters so much that I forget the potential or redeemable characteristics that drew me to them during creation; "Life," in which life stuff gets in the way; and "Couldn't-Be-Bothered", when I just don't care.

Of the three, "Hate," is the most frustrating, as it usually signifies there's some inherent flaw in the story I'm unaware of—or there's no flaw and I just need time away to clear my head. There's nothing, really, that I can do to overcome life, except to pray—something most of us should probably do a lot more of.

Couldn't be bothered is probably the worst, though, as it's fundamentally impossible to fight. How can you fight something when you don't care? No, the only thing you can hope to do is: preemptively avoid. You can do this by reminding yourself daily of why you're writing, what it means to you. And, of course, praying that you don't fall into that particular mire.

Anyway, if my problems seem at all familiar to you, then you have my condolences. If you know of a way to overcome them, then feel free to tell me.

What about you? What sort of writer's blocks do you get? What do you do to overcome them?


Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
Gorby