Pool

The clack of pool balls striking each other filled the room as Edward entered the bar. The smell of alcohol was strong, but not quite as strong as the sound of billiard players. Edward really only came here to play. He wasn't much of a drinker. He would play for hours, however, and he participated in all the tournaments, though he didn't often win. He just loved to play.

He went straight to the back wall and collected a cue off of the racks. There were a few tables still open, and it never took long for others to come and join him at his. He set up his rack of balls and started to chalk the tip of his cue as he waited for a partner to join him. Shortly afterwards the door opened again, and a woman entered the bar whom he had not seen before. She looked around briefly before moving briskly to the wall and collecting a cue and coming straight to Edward's table.

"You're Edward, right?" He raised his eyebrow, but nodded. "Play me," she demanded. Edward chuckled and nodded, gesturing for her to take the break shot. She seemed almost angry as she took her cue and made her shot. Edward could see immediately that she was talented, as she sunk two balls right off the bat.

Over the night, they played at least a dozen games, though Edward lost track. The mysterious girl beat him at every game, without difficulty. She rarely missed a shot. The entire time, though, she seemed to be angry at him, as if his playing was somehow insulting her. He couldn't tell what was wrong, and so dedicated himself to playing. After a few games, he found it was necessary for him to purposefully make shots that blocked her off from the pockets, just so that he could have a turn.

By the end of the night, Edward had slowly managed to get closer to beating her at the game, but she seemed no closer to relieving her anger. As they played, they didn't talk. People came by to watch, and yet they seemed as entranced as the players were, as though they were not themselves allowed to speak. They didn't stop playing until the owner came to them at the end of a game and asked them to go home.

As they stepped outside, Edward stopped the woman. "What's the matter?" he asked her. She almost glared at him. "You were clearly the better player. I've never met you before. I have no idea who you are. Why are you so angry with me?"

"Why do you play the game?" she asked roughly. "I've heard all about you. Always playing, always competing, and yet you rarely win against good players. So why?"

Edward blinked, surprised. "I play to have fun," he responded simply. The woman shook her head and walked away.

Edward watched her go, confused. Her anger seemed so misplaced. "She needs to relax," he muttered to himself. "It's just a game."

Strange beginnings

Talia found herself in the middle of an enclosing of trees. She couldn't remember how she got there, or why she was there, or even frankly much of who she was. She couldn't remember much of anything other than her name. She was laying on the ground, and she couldn't tell if she had fallen there or simply fallen asleep. The open space amongst the trees was very large, and the trees themselves were gigantic.

Talia sat up slowly and rubbed her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her head, she thought that perhaps the trees were bigger than they should have been, but she wasn't sure why she thought that or what the proper size of the trees should be. She seemed to have no concept of size that was fitting with the environment around her.

She tried to stand up, but found that her legs could barely support. Luckily, she was near enough to one of the trees that she was able to slowly make her way to it and prop herself up against it. She briefly registered how tiny her hand appeared to be on the wood of the giant tree. As she rested against the tree and attempted to massage her legs, she tried to remember how she had gotten there. In doing so, her back began to ache. She wondered if perhaps she had landed on it, but she couldn't remember.

After a while, she felt confident enough in her legs that she was able to stand up. After a few shaky steps she managed to find her stride, and began making her way around the tree to see where she was. On the other side of the tree was a forest, all as big as the enclosing she was in. Just then, a giant bird flew over head, and she found herself unable to look away from it. Everything was so big here! Or maybe, she began to realize, it was that she was just very small.

She tried to find her way through the forest, but it was just too big and dense, and she couldn't keep track of where she was going or make good ground without becoming tired. As she walked, she became more and more aware of the dull ache in her back. She tried to reach around and feel if there was anything there, and her fingers grazed against something paper thin. The feeling made her back twitch.

"Where is this place?" she wondered aloud. "What is happening to me?"

"This is our forest," replied a voice from above. "And you seem to have forgotten how to use your wings, it seems."

Talia looked around for the source of the voice but saw no one. Suddenly a young man dropped from the sky in front of her, landing effortlessly, and as he stood she saw he had a beautiful set of butterfly wings growing from his back. "Who are you?" she demanded, leaping back in surprise.

"My name is Bimaal," the man responded. "You must not be from around here, I don't recognize you. Where are you from?"

"I... I can't remember. I can't seem to remember anything." Talia looked down at her feet, embarrassed.

"You poor thing," he cooed, stepping carefully towards her. She didn't back away or make him stop. "Let me help you. What's your name?"

"Talia."

"Talia, you look like your wings could use a good stretch."

"What wings? I don't remember having wings."

Bimaal placed a hand on the square of her back, running a finger down her spine. The sensation made her shiver, and suddenly she heard an unfurling as the wings growing out of her back stretched out. The ache in her back seemed to groan in relief. "W-what are you doing to me?" she asked.

Bimaal chuckled. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked in response. Talia shook her head.

"You're a fairy."

Trouble sleeping

Jared often found that he had trouble sleeping at night. It took him long stretches of time simply staring at the ceiling before he could drift into unconsciousness, but he could never stay that way for long. He found himself waking frequently throughout the night, and he never felt particularly rested come morning. He spent most of his days exhausted, attempting to keep himself active through use of caffeine by various means, but it was never quite enough to compensate for such little sleep that he received.

He was eating lunch by himself one day, half awake as usual, when an unfamiliar voice asked if they could join him. He looked up from his meal to find a woman standing above him. He nodded his approval and, with a smile, she sat across from him.

"You looked lonely," she said, "and I wanted to remedy that. My name's Rebecca."

"Jared."

Rebecca smiled warmly and prepared her food. She made light conversation attempts, but Jared was too tired to fully comprehend what it was she was saying to him. Suddenly her words broke through as she asked, "Are you ok, Jared? You look very tired."

He chuckled at that. "I tend to, yes," he answered. "I chronically sleep poorly." He downed the last of his coffee and rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry if it seems I'm not paying attention. I just have trouble focusing. Too tired."

Rebecca nodded and put her hand on top of his own, much to his surprise. "I suppose you've tried medication and the like, and it doesn't help?" Jared nodded. "I'm sorry," she said. "You shouldn't have to deal with that.

Jared chuckled again and shook his head. "You don't have to apologize to me. It's not your fault. It's just something I have to deal with."

Rebecca nodded and sat back. In silence the two finished their meals. As Rebecca stood up, she said, "Thank you for letting me join you for lunch, Jared. If you ever want to try something different to help with your sleeping problem..." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card, placing it before him. "Try giving that number a call." She smiled and walked away as Jared picked up the card. All that was on it was a phone number. No name, no explanation, just the number.

It was a couple months before Jared gave in and called. It was late at night, and he simply could not fall asleep. He didn't expect an answer, given the time, but he thought perhaps he could leave a message, and the next morning have a response that could help that night. Much to his surprise, however, the phone only rang twice before there was an answer.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end was a woman, and it sounded oddly familiar, though Jared couldn't quite think of why.

"Hi, I was told I should call this number for assistance with a sleeping problem?"

The woman on the other end began to giggle for a moment, leaving Jared very confused. What number had Rebecca given him? "If you would give me your address, your assistance will be delivered momentarily."

In less than half an hour, there was a knock on Jared's door, and he was surprised to find Rebecca herself on the other side. "Rebecca?" he asked.

She giggled, and immediately he recognized it as the same laugh that had come from the other end of the phone line. "Surprise," she said, stepping inside. Jared couldn't argue, and simply closed the door behind her. She was dressed in pajamas, and without a word made her way to his bedroom, with Jared close behind.

She laid on his bed and patted the space beside her without a word. Jared was too tired to argue, and lay beside her. Rebecca wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close to her, cradling him against her body. Jared opened his mouth to question what she was doing, and she simply smiled and put a finger to his lips. "Sleep now," she said.

Jared rolled his eyes in protest, but found that his eyes were growing heavy. The last thought that crossed his mind before he passed out was that she was surprisingly comfortable.

Storylines

Let me start off by saying that I prefer Fantasy over Science Fiction. They both have very similar capabilities and tendencies as far as storytelling goes, which is why they're often stocked together in libraries and bookstores. There's more to it than this, but my explanation of the difference between them is that Science Fiction feels the need to explain itself and how it's world works, while Fantasy simply says "It's magic."

There's nothing inherently wrong with either of these. People like to argue that there is, but there's not. Everything needs to be explained in some capacity, but the depth is not nearly as important as how much it satisfies the reader. I'm the kind of person who is perfectly satisfied with "It's magic." Some people are not. As long as your explanations are consistent and satisfactory, however, it really doesn't matter.

This applies to storylines as a whole. No matter what genre you read or write, there are some stories that go crazy in depth about every little thing, and there are some that barely go in-depth at all. Sometimes in a series of stories, the amount of depth that a writer goes into changes. And that's ok too. Each story is individual, even if they are linked together. As long as the story itself is consistent, and elements aren't lost in a world between linked stories, it shouldn't matter.

With all things, these only apply if you do them well. I can think of a dozen instances off the top of my head where a story's sequel is abruptly more complex or simple than its prequel, and it pisses me off. It's not because the story is told differently, however. It's because the transition between the stories, the explanation for why that transition happens, is done poorly. A story can grow in depth, or it can shrink as it finds its focus. That's fine. It can even explode as a revelation is found, or suddenly compress as a situation changes, and that's fine too. But it has to feel appropriate, and the characters have to move at a different pace. The characters are the true force behind the story.

Let's assume, for a moment, that there is a story about a farmboy, living his life on a farm. Complications happen, things need to be fixed, but it all takes place on the farm. Then, in the next story, suddenly that same farmboy finds himself in a huge city. His world is suddenly, abruptly exploding before him. But what makes the transition work is that he reacts to it as a farmboy. He can't abruptly be a city slicker to fit in with his new world. He can be that by the end of the story, which opens an interesting story about what happens when he goes back home to the farm. But it can't happen immediately.

The only way that kind of transition can happen quickly is if the next story has a significant change in time between the two stories. But you can only get away with that if, as the story progresses, you explain what has happened in that missing time. You can string your readers along this route and it works, as long as by the end of it the don't feel like they missed something.

Too often I see people talk about how they wish a story was more simple or more complex to fit them as a person. If a story doesn't resonate with you, then it wasn't meant for you. There's nothing wrong with that. But you can't expect a story to change as you do. A story changes as its own characters dictate. Not even the author can change that and still have a coherent, interesting story.

Fanfiction

You can probably guess what fanfiction is by the name if you've never heard of it, but let me just briefly explain. Fanfiction is simply a story written within the context of another story that already exists, written by a fan of that other story. It's fairly common for tv shows, video games, movies and the like to have fanfiction written to them.

I find that a lot of people who write or read fanfiction are very defensive about it. They don't want to be judged by it, they don't want to be thought of as less because they have some connection to it. But why is this a supposed problem? What's wrong with fanfiction? People who write original stories will often do small fanfiction pieces as writing practices. Do they publish them? No. But that doesn't mean it's not good writing. It applies your writing abilities in different ways than a lot of other writing practices do.

I like reading fanfiction. I don't do it often, but I enjoy it. I can not write it for the life of me. I've tried. I simply can't do it. Trying to wrap my brain around characters and a world which aren't mine, and telling a story with them in a new and different way, is something I struggle with. So I have a lot of respect for people who can. Some people have the opposite issue, where they can write fanfiction, but can't write original stories for the life of them. And I would imagine they have a lot of respect for people who can.

So why is there some sort of fight going on between these two sets of people? What is so offensive about writing fanfiction? Why should it have to be defended like it's some bizarre, unacceptable act? And why is it treated as though it's an inclusive community, and only those involved directly in it can influence it? I have a friend who is intimately familiar with fanfiction communities, and they have told me a lot about the kinds of things they do. They thoroughly confuse me.

I grant that some things are very community specific. But from what I've been told, fanfiction writers only seem to want to listen to the advice that other fanfiction writers can give. They treat it as though it is totally different from other forms of writing. This isn't a thing. All writing is connected to each other in some way. Texting and writing the next great novel seem so vastly different, but they both involve trying to carry a meaning across to an audience. You have to know what words to use, when, and how. Writing is writing. It doesn't matter what. It only matters that you do.

We are all better at some forms of writing than others. This is undeniable. I'm good at fiction. I suck at research papers, journalistic articles, fanfiction, and even online conversations at times. But that doesn't mean that they aren't connected. So I think that we should stop treating them like separate entities, and appreciate them all for what they are.

Resolutions (Continued)

I am writing this, beginning at 11:48. This is what I was talking about yesterday. It's very difficult to keep this shit up after this point, due to the laziness of the holidays. I find it unlikely that I will be able to finish this in time to truly say that I kept it up everyday, but I am going to try and do so regardless. That's the goal, and that's what I'm going to push myself to do. At the very least, I can say that I started this on the correct day, and that I tried. Fortunately I haven't started counting yet.

These things happen. It's why we set goals for ourselves. So that we have something to constantly be pushing towards, because even if we never make it to the end goal, we're still bettering ourselves along the way. I know this because I have never truly made it to a goal that I have set. I have gotten close many times, but I have always fallen short. But I am still a better man for having done so.

It may turn out by the end of 2015 that I go against that statement. I may make it to the end without missing a single day of writing. I find it unlikely, but it may happen. But realistically speaking, that's not the real goal that I'm trying to go for. My goal is to create a pattern for myself in which I write every day. I've said that before, but it's important that I keep it in mind. In theory, making it through a year with writing every single day should be far more than enough to establish a pattern. But it may not be so. I don't know. I've never particularly tried to establish a pattern before. I have patterns that I follow, surely, but I've never really consciously established them. Nor have I really tried.

All this is a new experience for me. But that is kind of the point of a resolution, after all. You're resolving yourself to do something new, different, exciting. Maybe two of those three, I don't know. But you're still trying to change something about yourself, ideally making it better. And you can't do that once and never do it again. You have to keep doing it, constantly, or else you fall short of becoming a better person. Being a good human being doesn't mean doing the right thing once when it matters. It means doing the right thing all the time, especially when it matters.

We all fall short of that. It's just how it is. But that doesn't truly make us bad. It just means that we have to keep trying. That's something that I have to remind myself a lot, to keep trying. It's so easy to look at your past mistakes and say that you're not worth anything and just let yourself fall flat on your face. But you have to keep going. You lose meaning and purpose if you just stop there. Great authors didn't write their best work and say "That's it, I'm done." They wrote their best work and said "This isn't good enough. I can do better." And they kept writing. They may have never lived up to that one high point, or they may have never finished the piece that was greater than anything they had ever written before. But that didn't mean they stopped.

It's easy to look at a person, define them by a single instance in their life, and never let anything else change that. We all do it. We do it daily. But we shouldn't. Just imagine how you would feel, do feel, when someone else does that to you. You're growing, you're changing, but they still see you as something you left behind you. It sucks. But you keep going, because they're not the one's that matter. You are.

We have to keep going. We have to push even when we think we can't do it. Because hey, you might start writing at 11:48 and still manage to finish what you were trying to write nine minutes later.

Resolutions

I've never really understood the purpose of making New Year's Resolutions. You're just coming off a huge string of holidays, you've been lazy for weeks, and you've got presumably a whole batch of new things from Christmas. What the hell makes you think you're going to just jump into a new life aspect? The most common resolution is to go to the gym. Do you really expect to get up and start going to the gym right away? Especially January 1st. You've just spent the night partying. Getting up in the morning is not going to go well, and you think you're going to get up and do work you've probably never successfully done before? It's not going to work.

It's early to be talking about this. So why am I? Because trying to move it back a week isn't any better. It's Christmas today. It's a day to be lazy. It is so incredibly hard to make myself do anything but play games that I got as presents. And that's what I've been doing all day. And yet, here I am, writing another bit of writing.

I started this a week prior to Christmas. I knew this was coming. But that's why I started it early. I wanted to start building the habit before the hard part came. It's easier to keep pushing than to start. Especially through the hard times. At some level, we all know this, because we've all been through it. In school, in work, with our family. We've all had times where we wanted to just give up, but we did it anyway.

But imagine if that was the starting point. If finals came before the classes, if evaluations came before the work, and if the fights came before the love. Why would you ever get past day one? Why would you ever want to? We may not want to acknowledge it, but the new year is probably the day when we are weakest, at least as far as a regular calendar is concerned. We are happy, undoubtedly, but we are tired, fat, and weak. That's just how it goes.

So why is this when we try to make a life changing difference? I grant, we feel weak, we want to change that. But we know it's going to happen. It's an established tradition. It's about changing. So let's change it.

Let's make our resolutions on December 1st, instead of January. Then we have time. We've recovered from Thanksgiving enough that we can start doing something impactful. We still have to deal with our everyday lives, but that's the point. You can't make a change in yourself on an abnormal day. If you do, when you get back to the normal, you don't know how to make the two fit together. So you do it when nothing is letting you do it.

The first day still sucks. It always will. But it won't suck as much. And the second day you can actually make it to. The third day, you might have to take a break, but on the fourth day you get right back to it. Make no excuses, except no excuses. A week goes by before you know it, and you keep going. Then when the holidays arrive, you have momentum. It carries you through Christmas, as much as it sucks, and it keeps you going til New Years. Then you make it to January 1st, and what do you do? You don't change anything. That's the important bit. It is absolutely vital that you don't change anything, because you have already made your change, and you need to stick to it. It must be normal, or at least getting there. Because January 1st is the hard part.

I am trying very hard to keep this up. I have to make it to the New Year before I even start counting. That's what I decided. But I'm trying very hard before I even get there because I want to give myself as much of a chance to do it as I can. That's why I have such a hard time understanding the tradition. New Years, to me, isn't a time to start over. It's a time to start counting. Counting the things we've already started, and counting how long we can keep them up.

Music on a snowy day

The snow fell from the sky like feathers dropping off from a high up bird. Alicia danced in spun in the school yard, arms far outstretched, enjoying the cool breeze on her face, a smile spread across her cheeks. She hummed to herself, a happy, meaningless tune, and she could swear she felt the sun making a spotlight down on herself as she did so.

It was Christmas break, and as far as she knew, there was no one else on campus. Not that that would have stopped her from enjoying herself, but she didn't mind the thought of not being judged for doing what she enjoyed. As she danced, she imagined the sound of an acoustic band playing behind her, accompanying her dance and song. She sang meaningless words to the tune in her head, not meaning to make any real lyrics.

The more she danced and sang, the more real the band in her mind sounded, and the more she could feel that spotlight on her. She could feel her cheeks warming up from the joy of being herself so freely. But soon she began to realize that at least one instrument of her band was not only in her head. It was soft and distant, but she could swear she heard a guitar playing. She stopped and listened, and as she felt herself returning to the real world, she was assured that that was in fact the case. Somewhere in the distance, there was someone else on campus, and they were playing a guitar.

As she began to follow the sound, she thought to herself how strange it was that someone would choose to play their guitar while it was snowing. Surely the snow would be bad for the strings and the wood of the instrument and make it unsuited for playing before long. But perhaps the mystery player had found a spot under an awning where they would not be hampered by the weather in such ways. She tried to think of such awnings as she followed the sound, but she could not think of any.

Soon she found herself fitting herself between two buildings, taking a thin pathway into an opening behind the school buildings. In the middle of that opening, atop a mound of snow, sat a boy she recognized from class named Jake. Alicia couldn't think of many times that Jake had spoken out, but he had always seemed like a distant, almost cruel person. She had never been sure if that were true, or if he were simply uncomfortable being around people.

Beside him sat a guitar case and a blanket. The guitar case was empty, as the acoustic guitar it had once held now rested in his hands, which he played almost gracefully. His fingers danced along the strings, and a soft melody seemed to float from it to Alicia's ears. It had been a long time since she could remember hearing anything so beautiful. As she silently watched him play, it began to occur to her that the snow never seemed to land upon him, as though some invisible heat reached out from him and melted the snow before it could touch him and his guitar.

Without thinking, she took a step forward, and a stray leaf crunched beneath her feet. Jake opened his eyes for the first time since she had arrived and froze upon seeing her. A brief moment later, the snow began to drift closer to him than it had before, and he swung wildly for the blanket and draped it over his guitar. "What do you want?" he cried out, his voice nearly breaking. Alicia stuttered, unable to find the words she needed. "Get out!" he screamed.

Not knowing what he would do, she turned around and ran.

The dance of the sword

Sir Regis was enjoying the party as it continued on, couples dancing, the band playing, and onlookers feasting happily. At that moment, he felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked down to see a small child standing beside him. "Yes, child?" he asked. "Is there something I can do for you on this fine evening?"

The small boy looked up at the knight with curiosity in his eyes. "Sir?" he asked. "You are a knight, right?" Regis smiled and nodded his head. "And that means you fight with a sword, right?" He chuckled and nodded again. "My parents tell me tales of knights and their good deeds. They say that you can not be stopped from protecting us. Can you teach me to use a sword to do that?"

Regis laughed and lifted the child up onto his lap. "Look at the dancers, child, and I shall teach you," he said. The boy was surprised, but turned his eyes intently to the dancing people. "Do you see how they move, going back and forth, using their weight to move one another around?" The boy watched as the people danced, trying to see what the knight was trying to tell him. Regis waited patiently as the boy observed, and slowly the boy began to see. As the dancers moved amongst each other, they moved their feet just so as to flow from one position to another, and their partner moved in response. Couples moved smoothly back and forth, in one moment taking control, and in the next letting the other do the same. Slowly, the boy nodded his head.

"Good," said the knight. "Combat, the way we fight, is based around this same flow. The sword is nothing more than an extension of our own beings. We must be capable of seeing the intention of our enemies, a dancer's partner, and act in kind. Do you know how to dance?" The boy shook his head. "You must learn the steps before you can dance. It is so with all people. And it is the same with a sword. You must first learn the strikes of the sword. But that is not enough. Watch again. See how, even though all the dancers know and use the same steps, no two dancers are the same."

Again, the boy turned his attention to the dancers. He spent time watching a single couple, seeing how they moved and remembering it, before he moved on to the next. Not at first, but eventually he could see in their feet that what the knight said was true. In essence, they all danced exactly the same. But watching them as a whole, they all looked so incredibly different from one another. He looked up at the knight, confused. "Sir?" he asked. "If they all learned the same steps, and they all follow them, why do they look so different?"

Regis smiled at the boy. "You are a smart one," he complimented. "One day you may make a very wise knight indeed." The boy smiled back, but his eyes remained confused. "You're right. A dance is nothing without a person to dance it. And a sword is useless without a knight to wield it. Though we each must learn the steps, we each must also lend ourselves as a person to our fields. The dancers all look different because they all are different. They think differently, and they are capable of different things. The take the basics, and the develop them in new ways. And as they come into contact with others, they learn from them, take away new ways of being from them. And their dance changes, becomes something newer and brighter. And of course, it is the same with the sword."

Regis chuckled and patted the boy on the back. "But I think I've taken up enough of your time now, child. Did I answer your question?" The boy looked up at him and nodded as he climbed out of the knight's lap. "Go on then, and don't stop asking questions. That is how you learn, after all." He watched as the boy ran off, and once he disappeared into the crowd, Regis turned back to watch the dancers. He chuckled to himself and rested his chin on his fist. "One of these days," he mused to himself, "I should really learn to dance."

The wall

Leonidas stood atop the castle wall, staring at into the distance over the kingdom. He could see peasants working, farm animals grazing, and trees swaying. As his gaze fell further away towards the boundaries of the land, he could see densely populated forests. Above them rose snow peaked mountains that protected them from neighboring kingdoms. It was a particularly clear day that allowed him to see all of these things, aided by the height of the wall which carried him so high he could not hear the clangs of knights training in the courtyard below.

He swung his legs up and over the wall so he could sit on its edge and enjoy the view. Falling from this high up would kill him, no questions asked, but he didn't feel any fear as he let his legs dangle over the edge. He had done this a number of times before. So few people came this high up the wall except for the patrolling guards, and they knew better than to play games. A few times before they had asked him to get down from the wall, but they were used to him being there now. They simply let him be.

A soft breeze was blowing from the valley below, and it carried the smell of the far off woods with it. Leonidas breathed it in deeply. It was not often that he was permitted to leave the castle, and so this was one of the few ways he could experience such sensations. Within the castle walls he often felt confined and cramped, but up on top of them he felt freedom, even if it was only temporary and limited. He closed his eyes and felt the world around him. He daydreamed of growing wings and simply falling off the walls, his wings catching him and letting him fly away just before he hit the ground.

"Hello, Leonidas," came a soft voice from behind him. He opened his eyes and looked back to see an unfamiliar girl standing a short distance away. "You looked lonely, so I thought I might keep you company.

Leonidas took a moment to take her in before answering her question. She wore a simple dress of soft green, and her brown hair fell just past her shoulders. Her face was thin, carefully encompassed by her hair, and her matching brown eyes seemed to smile up at him. "I did not feel particularly lonely," he informed her, "but if you are willing to sit as I do, then you may join me."

The girl smiled at him and stepped toward the wall. He was surprised - he had expected her to leave immediately. She held her hand out to him, and he helped her up onto the wall, where she sat and let her legs swing off the side beside his own. He looked at her, now not sure what to think of her. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Just a friend, your majesty," she replied. Leonidas paused for a moment, looking her in the eyes, and then smiled, and as one they looked out to enjoy the countryside together in solemn quietude.

Writing women

I know this is a divisive topic. I don't expect people to agree with me. I freely admit that I come at this topic as a white male, but specifically one who loves to write, prefers to write women characters, and has my own strong opinions based upon my experiences and ideals. So when I come at this topic, I don't mean to be the be all end all voice on the argument. I'm just hear voicing my opinion, trying to make sense of the whys and the hows of how I personally write women, and what I like to see in women in fiction.

I often find that I'm in disagreement with people about what it is that makes a good woman in fiction. Probably the best example is in the tv show Doctor Who. I absolutely despise the character of Donna Noble, and yet everyone I seem to come across loves her. I don't get it. To me, she's the exact kind of woman that we, as an advancing society, are supposed to be ignoring and moving past. I'll try not to go into too many specifics, because it's been a while since I've watched the episodes she was in, and so my opinions may be more heavily based upon her early episodes which I more clearly remember. Suffice to say, I found her one-dimensional, and not redeeming.

I have some friends who spend a lot of time talking about sexuality, gender, and all those kinds of things. I'm not going to argue that they're not important topics, because they are, but they bore me. I don't find them interesting. Sexuality, gender, race, these things don't matter to me. Do I have stereotypes of these things? Of course I do. Everyone does, no matter how much they may argue otherwise. But I am perfectly willing to be proven wrong on an individual basis. I bring this up because, of all these topics, women are the most prominent. Women get all the attention when it comes to these arguments, and it probably won't stop being that way any time soon. Our society simple doesn't tell stories about women right now, at least not in a fair proportion. But I hate the constant arguing.

It's not that more stories need to be told about women. It's that the stories about women need to be more dynamic. One of my favorite stories, one of the few that I have ever managed to read more than once, is called The Blue Sword. It's been a while, so excuse me for forgetting some details, but it's a story about a girl, taken away from her home, who learns to survive in a new environment. She ends up becoming one of the most prominent fighters and thinkers in this new place, and finds herself not wanting to return to her old life. This story is amazing. The main character is fantastic. And it has nothing to do with her being a woman.

I'm afraid I don't remember her name, so from here on in, I'll refer to her as Blue. Blue is great because she grows as a character as the story progresses. She starts in one place, where she is limited and frankly uninteresting, and by the end of the story she might as well be a different character. She goes through an entire journey of growth, and we as the reader get to witness the entire thing. That is storytelling.

The point is, women in writing don't matter, just as men in writing don't matter. Who a character is is nothing compared to what kind of person they are. Sometimes when we're telling stories, there are characters who logically make more sense in the position of the story we are telling, and there's nothing wrong with that. Sometimes, we want our character to be out of the norm, and that opens up our options far more. And that's fantastic. All writers will tell stories that fall into both of these characters at one point or another.

The reason that the arguments that come up around this topic annoy me, is because people have trouble separating these kinds of stories in their heads. If you try to write an abnormal character into a position and pass it off as normal, it doesn't work. And if you try to write a normal character and pass it off as abnormal, that doesn't work either. To go back to a topic from a few days ago, if you want to write a medieval blacksmith in a typical setting, you can't write a woman. It just doesn't work, because women did not typically work as blacksmiths at the time. You can write one, and there were a rare few, but there was nothing typical about that. So if you're going to write a female blacksmith in the middle ages, it has to be odd. And you don't prove that she, as a female, can do anything other blacksmiths can. You prove that she, as a blacksmith, can do anything other blacksmiths can.

Gender is nothing more than a starting point. It sets up a character so we can picture them in our minds. From there, a good character is made purely off of what they do, not who they are.

The boxing match

Brad could feel his feet sliding back back slightly as he tried to stand his ground against the barrage of punches. He didn't know how long he would be able to hold his own. Round's only lasted for three minutes, but he felt as though he had been fighting for an eternity. His arms were heavy, his breathing was rough, and his legs felt like they would give out at any moment. But he knew he had to persevere.

Before the match had begun, before the tournament as a whole, Brad had spent a straight year training. He had wanted to be able to prove himself. He wanted to push himself beyond his limits, and he had done that. He couldn't remember the number of times his knuckles had bled, and he'd kept punching. The training was intense, and his coach never held back, but that was what he had asked for. This was his dream. He was the rookie, and he had made it to the champion round.

Now he just had to win.

The bell rang just a moment before the champ landed a solid blow right in his face. He could see the fist stop barely an inch before his nose and retract. Without a word, both fighters returned to their corners. He felt the water splash against his face, could hear his coach telling him what to do, but he wasn't processing any of it. His mind was going blank. Bare moments seemed to pass before the bell rang again, and his body stood up as if on its own. The champ approached him, a few bruises starting to form from the early blows Brad had managed to land, his face flat and ready to go as it had been every round before.

Brad knew the crowd was cheering. But in that moment, watching the champ come at him again, everything in his mind seemed to go silent. He knew that one solid blow would take him out, so he couldn't let that happen. As soon as the bell rang to start the round, he saw a fist coming straight for him.

He didn't know if it was adrenaline, or something that came from being so close to defeat, but in that moment it was as if everything moved more slowly. He could see where the punch was coming from, what it left open, what weaknesses it had. He felt his feet shift automatically, felt the wind made by the punch whiff by his head, and the impact of his own fist slamming right into the champ's ribs. And then suddenly the sound was back, and he heard the audience gasp and cheer as the champ stumbled back in surprise.

He knew he couldn't let this moment go. Brad leapt forward, and saw the champ's eyes look up at him just before his fist covered them. The champ fell to the ground, and Brad went down after him. His fists rained down, one after the other, pummeling away at his face. His arm froze, just as it rose to swing down again, when he heard the ref start to count. He sat on the champ's chest, waiting, watching for him to try to resist, but one of his eyes seemed unable to open.

The sound of ten and a bell rang out, and Brad fell to the side, his body unable to hold him. A few moment's later, he felt his coach's arms wrap around his waist and lift him to his feet. He looked around at the audience standing, screaming his name. He couldn't believe it.

He'd won.

Role playing

I thoroughly enjoy a little practice called roleplaying. Chances are, it's not what you're thinking of. Let's be honest, when you hear those words, you either think of RPGs or the bedroom. That's not what I mean. There's a third kind of roleplaying which I take part in, and it centers around writing. What a shock, am I right? The idea is that two people are telling a story together. But what makes it interesting is that each person is in charge of a particular character or set of characters. The story is thus told as a back and forth motion between these characters, seeing how they interact and what they manage to together.

What makes this cool to me is that it's a challenge you can't get by writing alone. Don't get me wrong, writing alone is hard. I know that perfectly well, which is why I'm here writing this blog in the first place. But we've been over that already. The challenge that comes from roleplaying is that you are only responsible for your part. You may have an idea of how a scene is going to go, or even how the entire story will go, but that is entirely dependent on what your partner writes in response. You may, as I often do, have it in your head that the two main characters will fall in love. But the other writer may decide that their character hates yours, and there's nothing you can do about that, and suddenly all your plans are out the window and all you can do is react and go with the new flow of the story.

It's an experience you really can't get writing on your own. Now, that's not to say that as a solo author, you always know what's going to happen in your story and that you are in complete control. I know better than that. A story can take an unexpected twist at any time, and there's nothing you can do about that. But in a group, as it is with a roleplay, that applies to every single author participating. Suddenly one twist can become twenty. It makes it a very dynamic setting.

But you're also not fighting the people you are writing with. It's still cooperative. You can choose to talk about the story outside of the writing, to plan together what will happen, or to just let the story go as it does. But you're not trying to outdo each other. You're not trying to throw off each other. You're just trying to tell a story. You're learning who your characters are, and seeing where they go together.

And that's the part that I like the most. My writing is very character focused. I write few characters, and I explore them to my heart's content. And roleplaying is heavily focused on that. It helps me think about what I like about characters, how I like to write them, what kind of characters interest me. All at the same time, I'm being challenged to write a character that someone else can interact with and enjoy. That's the exact kind of thing you want as an author. You want your readers to think of your characters as people they can talk to, that they can understand, and who they want to see progress. And roleplaying is just that, but for multiple authors.

I realize I'm doing a lot more non-fiction than fiction in my actually writings here. It's just kind of what's coming out of me. But I'm still writing, which is the important part. We'll see if I can pump out some fiction tomorrow, just to dig my toes back into it, but I'm not gonna promise anything about that. Just that there will be words.

Blacksmiths

The concept of using a blacksmith as a main character in a story has appealed to me for a long time, but I've had difficulty finding a context that allows that to make an interesting story. I've tried several times, and I never get very far. I just can't seem to make it entertaining. It works well enough as a hobby or side characteristic, but as a main character, I don't know where to take them that makes good story telling.

I like writing romances, and a blacksmith does well for that. Well, technically speaking it's more of a silversmith that works well for that, and I know those are two separate professions, but to be honest I don't much care. I figure if a blacksmith wants to take a swing at making jewelry for the sake of romance, he can damn well do so. The point is, they can make stuff. What lady doesn't like it when their man makes them stuff? Ones who don't have or want men, I know. Shut up.

I'm primarily a fantasy writer, and you would think that would lend it's hand well to blacksmithing. And it does. Just not really as a main character, or at least not for me. I guess a blacksmith is just lacking in action. Blacksmithing requires a lot of surprisingly precise, but monotonous action. And you can write that, but it's incessantly difficult to write that well and make someone want to read it. You could have a chapter easily that talks about the roaring flames, the pounding of the hammer, and quenching the metal in oils and letting them burn away. Folding the metal over, melting and hammering it together, making it take shape slowly over time and going from a simple sheet of metal into a helmet, shield, or sword. A single chapter of that would be fascinating. But a chapter a story does not make.

Blacksmiths work great as side characters. They can provide insight for a warrior, both in how to use their equipment and how to break the equipment of their opponent. A blacksmith can see the weaknesses in metal, and either strengthen or exploit them. You could easily make a blacksmith a guide for a main character, or an advisor of some sort, and many have, and they are great characters.

But making a blacksmith into a main character is very hard. They're strong, and they have incredible accuracy, and the sort of resistance you get from being so close to a fire all day long and making mistakes is incredible. But could they fight? Do they have the kind of control to wield the weapons that they make? How would they react to seeing a man come charging at them full speed, covered in armor and armed? Would they stand their ground, or turn tail and run?

And better yet, why would anyone pick a fight with a blacksmith in the first place? Because they ripped you off? Maybe, but if they're the only one around, do you want to take that chance? You may need their help again some day, and they may not be so willing to help after that? And they're imposing creatures, no doubt about that.

These are the problems I have with writing blacksmiths as main characters. I want to, I really do. The concept fascinates me. But I just can't find a story in which to do so.

Here's the point

I've toyed with this idea for a while, after my dad put the thought in my head. Especially in the past few years, I have been dissatisfied with the amount of writing that I put out. I mean, I want to be an author, for christ's sake. I should be writing. So my goal with this blog is to change that.

There likely won't be much rhyme or reason going from one post to another. The point is to write - it doesn't matter what that writing is. Some days I will write fiction, and some days I will write about things that have happened in my life. Some things that I think about, and some things that I think up. Some pieces will be terrible, and let's not kid, that will probably be many of them, and some pieces will be fantastic. But that's just how writing works. You have to polish a turd to make it into a diamond. That's the whole idea.

Starting on January 1, 2015, I want to write daily for a year. I'm thinking of starting off with a minimum 500 word per day goal for myself, but we'll see how that works out. I don't think it should be too difficult, so I may end up bumping that up. I won't know until I try. This is not to say I won't write anything before that date, and it certainly doesn't mean I won't write anything after. I'm just trying to set a goal.

I invite anyone who may find this blog, for any reason, to give me feedback. Please don't just tell me my writing is terrible or great, though. I mean, it's nice and all if you like my writing, but tell me why. And if you don't like it, tell me if it's just because you don't like what I'm writing about, or if there's something about my writing that I could possibly do better. Like I said, the point of this exercise is to try and become a better writer. I want to establish a pattern for myself, but I also want to improve as a writer in general. Writing the same kind of stuff every day isn't going to serve that purpose particularly well.

I am also going to be working on figuring out how all the stuff on this blog works. I've never done this before, and it's all one big experiment for me. I'm really hoping it works out, and I would love some help to do that. If you know anything about using blogger, or about writing, or anything at all that might be useful, don't hesitate to say something.

A way to check word count in particular would be great.