Movie adaptations

"Based on the New York Times bestseller..." How many times have you seen this plastered on the front of a movie poster or trailer, trying to sell you on how good the movie is going to be? And that's only a small portion of the number of movies are based on books. In fact, many people don't even realize some of the most popular movies are based on books. Some of the most fantastic cinematic experiences were text long before the hit the big screen, and those versions are frequently forgotten.

But there are also a great number of book to movie adaptations that are straight up terrible. There is one I can think of in particular, which I will refrain from naming so as to save you from some torture. But the movie changed nearly every plot point to the entire book, making an already cliche book into an even more cliche movie, with a much poorer plot and less interesting characters.

Now, I can understand that as far as telling a story goes, a movie will never be able to compare with a book. You are much more pressed for time, you can't get the same kind of inner thoughts in in a movie that you can in a book, and you just generally can't get the same kinds of build up and character understanding in a movie that you can in a book. Movies are much more about the visual for obvious reasons, but this also means that much of the story is told through that visuality rather than through dialogue or a character's thoughts.

Now, obviously there is place for preference, and there are some people who are all about that visuality that can only come from movies. But if that's what you're looking for, you're probably not looking for a story. You're looking for something that you can look deeper into, that you can get a meaning out of that may not have even been the creator's intent. Again, if that's what you're into, all the power to you, but that's not story telling. That's just shadowing.

With that being said, I have to wonder what goes through an author's mind when he is approached about the story he has written being made into a movie. Surely he has seen all of the books that have been ruined by terrible movies. He has loved his story like a child, raised it from the ground up. To let it into another's hands, to see it be taken and twisted and turned into being something that is both what he made and not... I can only imagine the pain he would feel because of that process.

So what makes that author choose to let the movie be made? Is it money? Is it fame? Is it a desire to see his story be brought to life in a way that he knows he can never achieve alone? Is it all of those things?

It's hard to say, and it varies from person to person. I've often thought about what might happen if I were to write a book that might be made into film. How I would want to see it accomplished, but how I would be afraid to see the failure. The thought that someone might be introduce to my work by a film that may not be representative of the way my stories truly are. It's a scary premise.

I don't know what I would say in that situation. Perhaps it would depend on who it was that was approaching me. Perhaps it would depend on how heavy a hand I was permitted to have in the filming process. But who knows. It would be difficult to say until the time comes.

But it's fun to dream that you might create something that others would want to act upon.

Glitch

"Distress. Where did we go wrong?"

Merek looked at the child he and Ayleth had built in the adjacent room. It was still fresh, still coming into consciousness, still learning the way its body worked. They had built themselves a boy. But when they activated him, they could not feel his presence in the central consciousness. There was no question over what had happened.

They had built an outcast.

"Uncertainty. I do not know," Merek responded. He was the king's blacksmith, forging the armor and weaponry for the castle guards. He was well skilled - since his own creation, he had had a connection to the anvil. The thought that he could have somehow failed in the creation of his own son made his processors spark. "Fear. What do we do now?"

"Horror. They will already know." Ayleth was right. Because they were in the central consciousness, the entire population would know that they had created an outcast. And they lived in the castle. Guards could come upon them at any moment.

"Regret. We have to turn him over."

"Anger. He is our child."

"Frustration. I know. Dismay. But he will burn us with the power of the stars."

As his parents argued, their son sat in the other room, having gained his composure. He was disturbingly aware of the conversation his parents were having. Somehow, despite having only just been born into a limitless universe, he felt an understanding of the things of which they spoke. He knew he was an outsider. Illegal. A thing to be hunted by his own people for fear of what he could do.

But he also knew of the stars of which his father spoke, of which the man seemed so afraid. Out there, amongst those stars, he could be free. And with patience and insistence, he could learn of the origins which seemed to elude him. Something in his programming was missing, he felt. The furthest background, that gave explanation as to why he existed at all. He felt an unavoidable tug in his wiring that told him to seek that information out.

He looked down at his metal chassis. Such a body would permit him to survive in many environments that other beings could not. If he could find some kind of propulsion, no matter how poor, he could escape. Begin an exploration of the universe. He knew what he had to do.

His parents didn't notice when he got up and left. They were too busy arguing about his fate, and he was not connected to them as they were to each other. They did not know, nor did they need to know, that he would take that fate into his own hands. As he left the home, he slipped into an alleyway as he saw the guards approaching. They dropped off of a surprisingly advanced machine. He thought for a bit before the word came to him. A ship. He could use this.

As they entered his parents home, he entered their ship. They had abandoned it completely, unafraid that it might be stolen. And so it was.

As he flew away, it occurred to him that he had not been given a name. That was okay, he decided. He was forging his own path. He would forge his own name.

After the fall

It had been nearly a thousand years since the fall. Well, it would have been, if there were still such a thing as years. And especially if there were such a thing as Earth years. But those had all been long gone, erased from existence as the universe itself had begun to collapse, overheated and overwhelmed by its own vastness until it simply couldn't continue to exist. Left behind was an emptiness unlike any other that had existed. It was impossible to say if that emptiness was large or small. It simply wasn't.

In this vastness, much emptier than the space that had once been, was Olgar. He had survived the fall, for he was endless. Immortal. Older than time itself, not that there was any time left. He simply was when there wasn't any such thing as being, and drifted along in the emptiness, alone with his thoughts. For the thousand years that had passed since he had seen all that was violently ripped apart and compressed together again and again until there wasn't anything left, he had waited.

Then, one day if it could be called that, having just awoken from what could only be explained as sleeping, Olgar saw something. "Is this the new universe?" he wondered. "Has the day finally come in which all things will be made anew?" He waited, patiently, as the small dot in the distance grew larger and closer. It was perhaps a good many days before he could make out that it was not in fact a new universe, but another person. Another immortal who had survived the fall.

Soon they were within earshot of each other. But for some time, neither of them spoke, for what is one immortal who has survived the vast emptiness of nothing for a thousand years to say to another?

Finally, the second spoke. A woman, Olgar realized as the words escaped her lips. He had not thought of even the concept of woman for quite some time. "Olga," she said simply. Her name.

"Olgar."

"Similar."

The two nodded in agreement. By then they had come within an arm's reach of each other. Without a word, as if thinking the same thing, they reached out to each other and grabbed on to their hands. A touch. A feeling. A sensation that they had nearly forgotten existed.

Everything was so new, though they had vague memories of them having happened before. Long ago, before the fall. They began to drift together. They didn't talk much. Only in small bursts. They thought fully, but their mouths were slow and heavy. They had not had practice in quite some time.

"When?" Olga asked at one time. They had been drifting together for many years.

"The new?" Olgar asked. Olga nodded. "Don't know." Olga nodded again, thinking know. "Maybe never."

"I think..." Olga was having trouble finding the words she wanted to express herself. "Will come. Eventually."

Olgar nodded. "Hope," he said simply. Olga nodded.

"The new," she spoke again. Another year had passed in comfortable silence. "Together?"

Olgar looked at her. In the vast emptiness, they two were the only things they could see. They were the only things that existed.

"You ask?"

Friends

Darren leaned back in his seat on the couch and took a drink. He and Shannon had been friends for years, always spending time at each other's houses, always talking about everything in their lives. They had been teased their entire lives about how they liked each other or were secretly dating, but they never let it bother them. "Let people think as they will," they would say when asked about it. As they had grown older, the teasing came in waves. At times it weakened. At times it came stronger than ever. But it never really went away. 

Shannon plopped down on her spot next to Darren on the couch and started the movie. It wasn't so much so they could watch as it was to have some noise going. They talked about their days. What they did at work and what kind of people they had had to deal with throughout the day. They talked about the things they wanted to do, places they wanted to go. They talked about everything. 

"Can you believe I'm turning thirty-five soon?" Shannon asked. 

Darren chuckled and took another drink. "Well, I already did last month, so yeah, I can."

"Man, how long have we known each other? We were like six when we met, right?" Darren nodded in agreement. "So we've known each other almost thorty years. Practically our whole lives."

"I think we both know that part. We never hear the end of it."

"You remember when you dated that one girl? With the blonde hair and the green eyes and the nice rack?"

"Karen? Yeah, sure. Why?"

"I still can't believe you dated that stuck up broad. She so wasn't your type."

"Oh yeah, cause you've never dated anyone just because they were hot. What about the jock with the tan, muscular body? Brendan, was it?"

"Brandon. And I will thank you not to mention him."

"Hey, you're the one bringing up exes."

Shannon finished off the last of her drink and set it aside. "There was a while I actually thiught about dating you, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah, sure. About six years ago, right? I found the crumpled up note in your trash can. Looked like you trying to figure out how to bring it up."

"How come you never said anything?"

"Didn't seem relevant."

Shannon sat back and watched the movie for a bit. Darren didn't say anything, just waited for her to find her words, like he always did.

"Yeah," she finally said. "I suppose you're right."

"Besides," Darren continued, "you found your guy."

Shannon smiled and nodded. "You still gotta find your girl."

Darren shrugged. "I got time. I'll figure it out."

"I'm your best man, right?"

Darren chuckled and finished his drink. "You know it."

Relationships

It's no secret that I love a good romance in a story. That's just the kind of person that I am. I'm like that in life, too, always happy to see a good relationship forming, so it makes sense that it translates into my reading and writing. However, I am just as irritated to see a bad relationship forming, be it in real life or in fiction, as I am happy to see a good one.

Explaining the difference can be challenging, however, as it can be difficult to explain just what it is that makes a good relationship good. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about it. Generally speaking, however, you can tell when someone who has never been in a relationship tries to write one. It feels ridged, forced, and characters say things that no person ever would. Things feel too perfect, or the problems in the relationship make no sense.

Of course, most people who talk about the problems with relationships in stories will point out that they don't even need to be relationships most of the time. "What's wrong with being friends?" is a question asked quite frequently when it comes to stories, as many people feel that stories are far too oversaturated with romance. This is a sentiment that I don't necessarily disagree with, but I feel like the idea that characters should be friends and not lovers is missing the point.

If nothing else, a good relationship should be defined by being good friends. You can't love someone without liking them, after all. Even if your story reaches its end and the reader still does not think the couple should have been together, they should at least believe that they were friends. If you want to dabble in the storytelling of hate sex or what have you, then whatever. But don't try to sell something as being romantic if there's no friendship there to support it.

The fact that people ship characters who are little more than good friends is proof of concept. I have seen people do this frequently, and people are free to think whatever they want. My point is merely the fact that if people do this, then you should use that to your advantage as a writer. They can fight and disagree, as all friends do, but at the end of the day if they are friends, then people will believe that they can be lovers.

I can't give any insight past this point. If I tried, it would probably end up sounding more like life advice, and that's not really what I'm talking about. People already spend too much time thinking that fictional relationships are good bases for how to think about real life relationships, and I don't want to push that any farther. But if you want to write some romance into a story, don't just make them fall in love because you want them to. Make them fall in love because they're more than just friends. But start at friends. It will be so much easier, and so much more believable.

Cut down

Lianne faced down the knight on his horse, her sheathed sword held in her left hand just above the hilt, a thumb ready to push it just out of the sheath, and her right hand on the handle. The knight grinned at her, his lance held loftily by his horse's flank. "Well, girl," he called out mockingly, "it seems to me that you must have the advantage. Such a short range range weapon against a mounted and trained knight? Clearly, I can not win."

Lianne's eyebrows pinched together, but her voice betrayed none of her frustration. "I would tend to agree," she responded. "I suggest you go about your way."

The knight did not have her composure. "Get out of my way before I skewer you like the dog you are," he barked. His fist clenched tight around the wooden shaft of his lance, flicking the tip in her direction. His intentions were clear. He did not have the chivalry that was so touted about the knights of Crestin. "You don't stand a chance. Even if you managed to deflect my blow, my horse would trample you in an instant."

Lianne didn't move. "If you're so confident about that, then feel free to test me. Just remember who cut you down when you arrive at the gates of hell."

The knight bellowed as he kicked his horse into a charge. There was a good ten yards between them. That gave Lianne perhaps fifteen seconds to act.

She spent the first ten seconds waiting patiently.

The horse was only a few paces away when she acted. She slipped forward, ducking just under the spearing head of the lance. She flicked her thumb forward, pushing the sword out of its sheath just enough so it would no longer be steadfast, allowing her to pull it smoothly and quickly out with her dominant hand. It slashed wide, hard and fast, cutting not at the knight, but at the back of the knee of his horse.

The horse cried out in pain and toppled forward, the cut taking out the muscle that supported the structure of its leg. The knight, already shifting his weight forward to strike with the lance, lost his balance and was catapulted out of his seat, slamming his face hard into the ground. By the time he got up, Lianne was facing him, sword already back in its sheath, looking as though she hadn't even moved.

"How?" he asked.

"Like I said," Lianne replied. "Remember who cut you down at the gates of hell."

He saw her thumb flick the sword forward before his head hit the ground.

When to write

I've talked before about, and it's fairly easy to see by what time I upload, how I tend to do most of my writing at night, before I go to bed. You might be able to guess that that's not necessarily the best time to be writing, and you would be guessing right. I can't begin to describe the number of times that my writing feels hampered or slowed by how tired I am. I should be able to, because I'm a writer, but that's a different point entirely.

Everyone has an optimum time for everything. Optimum times don't always work out for people, however. That's why we have coffee and energy drinks, both of which are things I don't enjoy for a variety of reasons and thus tend to stay away from. The solution, therefore, should be to find that optimum time for writing and figure out how to incorporate it into my day, or plan my day around it, whichever is more achievable. However, I have problems with consistency. One of the many reasons I made the blog. And even besides that, every time seems to have its own problem.

When I wake up in the morning, I'm groggy, as most people would tend to be I would assume, and I can't really think straight. So I take some time off, do some other stuff that don't take a lot of brain power and get me going into the day. However, once I get going on those kinds of things, I find it difficult to stop. I burn my way through the day, constantly thinking about how I should be writing, but I never do because I want to get done with whatever it is I'm doing at the time first, and by the time I've finished, I've already forgotten about what I wanted to be writing. Even when I do start to write earlier on in the day, I think to myself that hey, I started early, I can take a break. After all, I have the whole day to get my writing done. So I go off to do something else, and I have the same trouble all over again. And that happens in and out until the day is drawing to a close.

I've tried to write despite the distractions. Despite the way I feel. I've written in good times and bad, and it's hard to say how much of an impact any of it has had on the writing itself. There are a number of pieces which I hate, and other people enjoy, and a number of pieces that I absolutely love, and no one else could give two shits about. It's hard to judge how much of that is personal preference, how much is reader/writer bias, how much is when I write, how much is what I write - all sorts of issues.

All things considered, however, I do find that the best time to write for me is when there can be some quiet. That's not always a consistent thing, and it's not really something you can depend on happening. But when there is quiet, and you can be alone with your thoughts, you are more likely to get a flow, rather than a stop and go struggle.

The worst thing about trying to find a time to write is that it may not even be the same for you from day to day. It may not be a time that you want to be doing your writing. But if you're going to a writer, you have to suck it up and write. Through the good times and the bad. When you're less motivated to do anything, much less write, and when you want to spend days at a time doing nothing but writing. And you never know when you're going to get the best results. So you just have to keep writing, and trying to tell yourself that you should be writing, and making yourself write when you should be writing.

Sooner or later you're going to end up with the piece that you've been waiting for. And like it or not, it's probably not going to happen when you want it to.

Break up

Melissa slapped him hard across the face, the ringing in his ears because of it matched perfectly by the burn of pain on his cheek. She had gotten mad at him, but never this mad. He could practically see the steam coming out of her head as she spun away from him and grabbed a bag, throwing her things inside it. It took him longer than he cared to admit to realize that she was leaving. The pang he felt in his heart hit him a lot harder than he expected.

"You stupid son of a bitch," Melissa muttered angrily, fighting back the tears in her eyes. "Why do you always do this? When I met you, you were a better man than this. But you've changed." She stuffed clothes and personal belongings into the bag without concern or discrepancy, blinded by rage and bitter sadness. She waited for Leon to say something, to prove that there was some shred of the man she had loved left within him, but he sat and watched her in stunned silence. It only made her feel worse.

Leon watched her, trying to think of something to say. Some way that he could prove that he still loved her, that he was still the man she loved. That her accepting his proposal hadn't been a mistake. But he couldn't think straight now, knowing that she was so sick of him that she wanted out. Flashes of their past together crossed his mind. He wanted to reach out, to return to those times, but he knew he couldn't, and the more he tried to focus on them, the further away they felt.

"Aren't you going to fucking say anything?" Melissa demanded, turning back to Leon. He couldn't help but stare at her hand. He hadn't noticed when she did it, but the ring he had given her was no longer on her finger. It now laid on the bed. He felt the blood draining from his face. He felt cold. His whole life seemed to be disappearing before his eyes. He couldn't even make his mouth open, much less form any words.

"So that's just it?" she demanded again. Leon didn't move. "Fine. Be that way. I'm sick of your garbage. Don't expect to ever see me again."

Leon watched in silence as she stormed out of the house. The door slammed shut, and the first sob racked his body, the sudden force shaking him like he had been punched in the gut and sending him to his knees. Another sob, and the tears were in his eyes, making the room around him swim. He couldn't breath.

Melissa stood outside the door, waiting. Waiting for him to open it, to say something, to find a way to take her back. But the door didn't open. "Fine," she whispered to herself. "I give up. I'm not playing this game anymore. Clearly I'm not good enough for you to ask for me back." And so she walked away, trying hard not to cry, and failing.

Leon woke up in the morning when the sun hit his face through the window. He didn't remember falling asleep. His body was stiff, and the ground underneath him was hard, not at all like his bed. For a moment, he thought that perhaps it had been a dream. But when he opened his eyes, he saw where he was, and he could see the mess that had been made by Melissa's packing.

She was gone. And it was too late to do anything about. Another sob racked his body. He didn't get up for a long time.

Astroknight

Uther lived on the protoplanet Ceres, which was contained within an asteroid belt in the vastness of space. From his home, he could look in all directions and see the tiny dots that made up other planets and protoplanets, stars, asteroids, and all other sorts of things. There was no food or water on the rock that he called a home, but that was hardly a concern when it could be harvested through the use of alchemy. He was no expert on the subject, but he knew that the alchemists were able to take small particles from all kinds of places and combine them in ways that formed all sorts of matter. Water included. His supply was running low. Perhaps a month's worth. That would more than cover the trip to gather more, but he would have to set out soon.

He set out from his home, which was more a cave on Ceres than a home as people used to tell of in the old days, wearing his armor, and carrying his sword. It was a massive thing, made from the core of a meteor, melted and forged a thousand times over to create an alloy far more powerful than anything anyone had ever managed to create on Earth. It was possible to do that when you could use a star as your forge. It had taken them some time to develop the technique, as the cold harshness of space was hard on the heated metal, but it had been many generations since that problem had been solved. His armor was made of similar materials, and the helmet had been lined with alchemizers that produced oxygen so that he could breath.

He set his eyes on his destination, a far off asteroid that was a stepping stone to the next, and pushed hard with his legs. In the same movement, he lifted the great claymore he wielded and swiped hard in front of him, cutting a line of wind that he passed through which acted as a propellant, launching him through space at high velocities. While he could, in theory, continue to do so as he soared through the empty space between asteroids, the motion of the swing would not only propel him, but change his trajectory as well. There were some who could predict these changes and use them to their advantage, but Uther was not quite so practiced. He chose, instead, to simply enjoy the hour long ride from one asteroid to the next.

Even out in the analogues of space, the astroknights continued to abide by Earth time. Despite having been away from their home planets for many hundreds of years, keeping the tradition of timekeeping in this way allowed for consistency, and some familiarity with their ancestors. It connected them to each other, and to their history. It had taken time, somewhat ironically, to create the timekeeping devices that allowed them to be aware of Earth hours out there, but by the time Uther was swinging his way through space, they were standard issue.

Uther reflected on some of the ideas that his ancestors had had. He kept a collection of books on history, which he had studied earnestly in his free time. They had thought that beyond the Earth must be God. That there could be nothing else, for God had created only for them the Earth. Uther wondered what had given them such ideas. There was certainly much out there than they had thought. If there was a God, he was much farther away. And he found it difficult to believe anyone could get much further out.

He kicked hard as the hour mark drew close, giving himself a slow rotation so that, as he reached the surface of the next asteroid, it was his feet that set down on it. It pulled him towards it, just barely, allowing him to make his way around to position for the next leap. He prepared his sword, swung, and leapt. There would be many more before he reached the supply of water.

Glasses

Ralph was talking with his friend, John, as they were walking home from school. It had been a long day, and it had come after a long night, so Ralph wasn't paying too much attention now that school was out. After Friday tests, he was ready to go home and relax - play some games, get some sleep, anything but worry about classes. The two were talking about their plans, as flimsy as they may be, so neither happened to notice the street sign until Ralph ran into it, face first.

The clang of the impact was loud, and it knocked the glasses off of Ralph's face, sending them tumbling to the ground. Reeling back in pain, Ralph didn't notice, and as he stepped the painful crunching sound of breaking glass was unmistakable. Ralph groaned in pain, both physical and emotional, as he realized he had broken his glasses.

"Dude, are you alright?" John asked. His hand was on Ralph's shoulder only a few moments after he had slammed into the pole, attempting to steady him. He heard the crunch of the glasses breaking as well, but he was more concerned with the well being of his friend.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine..." Ralph replied, rubbing at his face. He pulled his hand away and recognized in the blur that was his hand that there was no blood. That meant he hadn't broken his nose, which was good. "I'm just fucking blind now without my glasses." Ralph looked around, trying to make sense of which way he was facing, but everything was a blurry mess. But something in the corner of his eye...

Before he could turn to look at it, John had his attention. "Hey man, don't worry about it. You got a spare at home, right? We just gotta get you back, and then you tell your parents what happened. A couple days with a little bit weaker of a prescription and you'll be good as gold, right?" Ralph could barely make out the reassuring smile on his friend's face and nodded in frustrated agreement. He was right, of course, Ralph thought, as he always was. But that didn't mean Ralph had to be happy about it.

John stuck by Ralph's side as they continued the walk home, paying better attention to what was around them. The shock of the impact and the numb pain still in his face had fully woken Ralph for the first time all day. He couldn't really make out what was around him, but he had made the walk home enough times that he had a general idea of where he was going. But as he looked around, he kept seeing something out of the corner of his eye. Something that hadn't been there before...

John got them back to Ralph's house and offered to help him find the spare. As they were searching the incessant feeling of something being there wouldn't leave Ralph alone. When John had his back turned, Ralph turned quickly back and forth, trying to catch whatever it was that was just at the corner of his vision.

Clear as day on the blurry backdrop, a small imp sat on his windowsill. Ralph felt like he was losing his mind. Clearly he was just tired. There was no way he was really seeing this. But he stared at it long and hard, and the imp never went away.

"Found them!" John exclaimed happily, just as Ralph was about to say something. He turned to his friend and grabbed the glasses, pushing them onto his face and turning back to the window. The imp was gone. "Something wrong?" John asked.

Ralph hesitated for a moment. He couldn't explain what had just happened. He didn't even understand it. "Thought I saw something," he muttered. "Must have just been the lack of depth perception."

John smiled and playfully smacked his friend on the back. "Probably, man. Hey, I gotta head home. Mom'll be mad if I'm not home soon. I'll text you, alright?"

Ralph nodded without saying a word. As he heard the door close, he lifted the glasses off his nose once more, still staring at the window, and saw the imp once more, clear as day.

Immortal

Ryan could feel the bullet ripping through his chest as the bang from the revolver shook his ears. The shot had pierced straight through his heart and out his back. He only had an instant of recognition, of unbelievable pain, of the abrupt but undeniable understanding that this was death, his death, he was dying, he was dead. His body collapsed to the ground in a heap. A small pool of blood began to form under his back. His eyes were still wide open, now glazed over. He was unmistakably dead. 

Marcus popped the empty shell out of his revolver and put the gun back in its holster. "Good riddance," he muttered under his breath. The man had been much easier to kill than his employer had made him out to be. "Highly dangerous my ass. At least I'm getting paid well tonight." He turned his back on the body and started to walk away when he heard the sound of shuffling feet skidding along the ground. He looked back, hoping it was a raccoon or something and not another body to get out of the way. 

Ryan was lifting himself off of the ground, shakily, one hand over his heart where he had been shot. Marcus couldn't believe his eyes. This wasn't happening. There was no way this worthless piece of trash was standing up after having been shot in the heart. It just was not physically possible. His eyes strayed down, and he saw the sizable pool of blood that had formed under his back. Someone might survive that much blood loss, but only barely. Not well enough to be standing up on there own. 

Ryan let his hand drop to reveal a hole in his shirt over unscathed skin. He looked a little pale, but not nearly as much as he should have. "So," he asked, "Who sent you? I can't imagine it was anyone particularly smart. Sending a hitman after someone like me. What's even the point?" Marcus stared at the man in stunned silence, unable to even comprehend what was happening. "I'm guessing you weren't given the full details," Ryan continued. "They never are. Probably wouldn't take the job if they were."

Without thinking, Marcus drew the gun once more and fired. The second bullet hit between the freak's eyes. He didn't try to move. Didn't try anything to stop it. Some of his brains flew out the back of his head along with the bullet. He dropped dead once more, but this time Marcus didn't sheath his gun or turn away. He kept his eyes glued to the corpse laying before him, and on the gaping wound in its head. 

After a moment, like some kind of demon possessed, magic-ridden puppet, the body lurched back to life. The muscles and tissue began to bubble, crawling over themselves to regrow what was now missing, repairing the body so it could function once more. Marcus watched in terror, feeling as though he had somehow managed to find himself in a sick and twosted horror movie. 

Once more, Ryan slowly got back up to his feet. By the time he was fully standing, the wound had been healed, and if it weren't for the blood and guts both on him and on the ground before him, you would have never know anything had happened. 

"What in hell are you?" Marcus demanded. 

Ryan shrugged. "Good question," he responded. "Maybe you can ask for me when you get there." He pulled his own gun from the waistline of his pants and fired twice, mimicing the killing shots he had recieved. Marcus was too afraid to stop him. 

Writing every day

I have been writing this blog for well over half a year now, which may or may not sound like a long time, depending on how you look at it. I've written a lot of things, several of which I've touched on multiple times, and I'd like to think I've improved in my writing, as small of an improvement as that may be. But I have done my best to write every day, just as I set out to do. I haven't exactly made a habit out of it yet, but it's near constantly in my head now, and it becomes increasingly difficult to get to the end of the day and have completely forgotten about writing. Which, again, may not sound like much, but for me is pretty good.

But writing over 200 pieces of varying content and genre does tend to take its toll. I've talked a number of times about the difficulty of trying to choose what to write, and how easy it can be to hit a mental roadblock. Lately I have found my biggest difficulty is remembering what I have already written. The past few days especially, I have gone to write about a topic and, just to be sure, gone back through the archives to find that I have already written exactly that, and frequently in much the same way as I am about to write it over again. One in particular, by coincidence, I had begun to write the first sentence and it was almost word for word the exact same as what I had written months earlier.

I'm not necessarily opposed to writing on the same topic a second time. I've done it a few times now, but when I do it, I want to have new things to say, or new ways to portray the thoughts which may not have themselves changed. But sometimes, those advances simply have not yet occurred, so to try and write anew on that topic seems like cheating to me. This is similar to why, upon setting out on this writing venture, I elected to impose a minimum word count on myself, so as not to write a shitty haiku and call it a day.

In theory, these are things that I shouldn't be worrying about. I'm not writing this blog to make money. I'm not writing it to advertise myself or my stories. I'm not even writing it to make stories. I'm writing it to try and improve as a writer, and learn my strengths and weaknesses, and learn how to better utilize my words to get my points across. In some ways, I am teaching myself all the keys of language that I need to know in order to write, as ineffective as that may be. So, there shouldn't necessarily be a problem with writing on things that I have written on before.

The problem is that without making a concerted effort to take what I had previously written and make it better, I am going to end up writing the same thing all over again. Perhaps it will be slightly improved, and perhaps it will be slightly weakened, but in essence little will have changed. And I'm not ok with letting myself fall into that trap. Unfortunately, the more I write, the easier it will be to fall into that trap, but that's a risk that I have to take. I just have to try to be aware of what I am doing, and what I have done.

If only my memory was better than it is.

Lunch date

Leo set down his glass of water as he saw Raine returning from the backroom. His finger had once more begun to tap methodically away on the table without his realizing. He was down to the last half of his third glass of water, and he smiled to see that Raine was bringing two more. He wasn't sure if it was meant to be one for him and one fore her, but he didn't much mind either way.

"And I am now officially on break," Raine announced ashe she sat down, placing the glasses on the table. She slid one over to Leo, who quickly downed the last half of the previous glass. He could feel his throat finally starting to settle down. It had been much more sore earlier, far too dried out by the day's work, and he had been steadily working away at cooling and refreshing it ever since Raine had come to take his order.

"Thanks for letting me take this lunch break with you," Raine continued, making a note in the back of her head that his finger was once again tapping away. She wondered why it was that he did that. Before it had seemed as though he were acting impatient, but he seemed much more relaxed now, so it seemed unrelated. "I know it was kind of a strange request."

Leo shook his head and waved her off. "It's not often you strike off with someone you've just met," he replied. His voice was still deep, but it was much smoother now. "Besides, it's nice to have the company every once in a while. I don't often get to sit down and just talk with people."

Raine leaned forward onto the table, resting her chin on her fist as she looked at him. It was hard for her to deny the cuteness that Katherine had been teasing her about while she was putting his order in. "You keep talking like you don't have any friends or something," she said. "Are you some kind of loner or something? You don't really seem like the type."

Leo shook his head as he sat back in his own chair. "It's not that I'm a loner," he explained. "It's just that the whole throat thing? It's not really uncommon for me. Usually I don't get around to being able to fully fix it like this until late in the day, and it's not exactly comfortable to talk like that, you know?"

"Why is your throat always so dry?"

Leo smiled and pointed at her. Raine blinked, confused, not understanding what he was getting at. "Your necklace," Leo said. Raine felt a very slight blush form on her face, and she tried to push it down. Yes, the necklace. Of course. For a second she had thought... No, the necklace. Of course. "Would you mind telling me where you got it? It looks very familiar to me,"

Raine felt her hand go to her necklace, and gently scooped it up to look down at it. She had had it for so long, she didn't really remember where she had picked it up. Out shopping with her friends at one point? She shook her head as if to say that she just couldn't remember before looking back up at him. "Why does it look familiar to you?"

"It looks like something I made once," Leo explained. "I made a few in my spare time, before I really got into my work, and I know that one or two started getting around. I didn't expect to ever see one in the wild."

Raine was taken aback. "You... made?"

Leo nodded. "I'm a blacksmith. Mostly make recreations of historical pieces, or horseshoes, or replacement blades for machinery. That kind of stuff. But every once in a while, when I have free time, I do a little bit of silversmithing."

Suddenly a lot of things about Leo were starting to make sense to Raine. The way he dressed. The muscles. The sore throat. The tapping of his fingers. The muscles. A blacksmith. Yeah, that made a lot of sense. "And... you think this might be one of the necklaces you made?"

Leo smiled. "Might be. Hard to tell, it's been so long. But I do still have one at home. If I compared them, I could probably tell."

Raine felt a smile spreading across her face. "Wow. To think I could be talking to the person who made my necklace right now."

Leo chuckled. "I guess you could say fate brought us together today."

Raine had to fight down another blush. "Yeah. I guess so."

White

The bright white came suddenly and without warning. James found himself in it, alone and uneasy, no solid ground or walls that he could see, though his position did not change from what it had been only moments before. He had just stood up to help his friend get the food for the party that was arriving at the door. He had blinked, and suddenly he was in this empty white space. It seemed to go on for miles in every direction, no end or horizon in sight. He did not feel as though he were floating, however. His feet continued to be planted on solid ground, even though he could see none, or even feel the ground underneath him. He kneeled down and placed his hand on the "floor," where it simply stopped, unable to move any further, though he could not feel the resistance.

"Hello, James," came a voice. James bolted upright, his head swinging wildly from side to side as he searched for the source, but still he saw nothing but white. He wondered if he had become blind. "Today is a special day for you, it seems." The voice came from every direction at once, completely surrounding him, and it didn't sound like anyone he had ever met before. "You may find that this will bring you into a new era of your life. I hope that you do with it something good."

"Who are you?" James wanted to cry out. But no voice came from his lips. He reached for his mouth and throat, but he seemed unable to reach him. The panic began to set in. Not knowing where he was, or what was happening, or who was speaking to him, James wondered if something had happened. Had he died? If so, how? Shouldn't he have known? Nothing made any sense. He remembered everything clearly. He and his friends had been talking about girls, as they often did. They had been drinking. A tv had been on in the background, though he hadn't been paying enough attention on it to know what was showing. He had simply gone from one moment being there, to the next being... here. Wherever here was.

James could feel a presence beginning to encircle him. He could only think that he must have been going crazy. There was no other explanation. Someone had slipped something into his drink. Yeah, that was it. That would explain the tiger materializing in front of him. And the dragon. And the molerat. He was hallucinating, that was it. He was high on something fierce.

"We wonder what you will do with us," said the molerat. It was the same voice that James had heard moments before. "Will you accept us?" the tiger asked. The same voice. "Or reject us?" The dragon. The same voice.

James wanted to ask them what they were talking about. What anything they were saying was supposed to mean. But it was as if he were as whitewashed as the empty space around him. He felt as though he barely existed. That only fed the panic more. He wanted to reach out to the creatures, to touch them, to see if any of this was real, but he was becoming ever more frozen in spot. He could no longer move his head to look around. He wondered if something had grabbed him. Locked him in place. And if they had, what did they intend to do with him...?

"Time is running up, James." He couldn't tell which creature was speaking at that moment. Maybe they all were. Together. "It's time to make a choice. What are we to you? Are we anything at all?"

James shut his eyes tight. The contrast of the white world on his black inner eyelids was staggering. He felt as though he were falling backwards, flying through space, faster and faster until he was being ripped apart. He didn't dare open his eyes and see what was happening. He wasn't sure which would be worse: the stark whiteness of nothing, or things rushing past him as he fell, letting him see how near or far his landing was.

"Yo, James." This voice was familiar. It had better be. It had spoken only a short moment ago, asking James to help get the food. "You feeling alright?"

James opened his eyes. He was still in the house, just having gotten off the couch, and he was still with his friends. They all looked at him, somewhat concerned. James looked at them all, unsure for a moment what to say.

"Yeah, I'm alright," he finally said. "Just one of those... you know... you stand up to fast, and..."

James' friend smiled and nodded his head. "Yeah, I gotcha. Come on, let's go."

James nodded and, rubbing his forehead, walked out the door to get the food.

Love at first sight

Matt was always the awkward one at parties. He wasn't very outgoing, and even when people did come to talk to him, he could never quite form the words he wanted to say, and even the words he wanted to say weren't quite arranged in logical sentences in his brain. When the people left, feeling about as uncomfortable around him as he felt around them, he was always able to pull himself together. He'd think about the things he should have said. He'd try to practice the things he should say when the next person came around. But things just never quite worked out.

It was his best friend's birthday (and coincidentally, one of his only friends), and he had promised to be there. Matt knew that John would have lots of friends over, like he always did, and John knew that Matt would feel uncomfortable with so many people around. But John always made sure to make time for Matt, to sit down and talk with him away from everyone else, and they had arranged to have a sleepover with just the two of them after the party, and so Matt was willing to go through the party in return. Even if at times it made his skin crawl.

There was one girl in particular there who Matt hadn't seen before. He was trying to remember all of the names of the people John had invited, because he knew that there had been a few that he didn't recognize, but he was struggling with coming up with who they were. He hadn't honestly been paying much attention at the time. This girl would drift in and out of Matt's view, and he found that each time he saw her, he became irritated with the fact that he couldn't place a name on her face, and he couldn't determine why.

She was a pretty girl with blonde hair that ran just past her shoulders, a tank top, and a cute skirt. She seemed to be a much more lively person than even John was, bouncing around between conversations, a smile constantly plastered on her face. For a long time, she didn't notice Matt, hidden away back in a corner so that fewer people would talk to him, but when she did her face seemed to light up and she made a beeline straight towards him. Matt could feel his entire body freezing up as she approached.

"Hi there!" she called out as she got close, her voice just as bubbly as her appearance. "I don't think we've met. My name's Lauren." She held out her hand, and Matt starred at it for a moment, unable to come up with what she wanted him to do. Even when he realized she was offering to shake his hand, it took a moment for him to make his body respond, and after wait felt like an eternity, he reached out and took her hand.

The touch of her skin was electricity. It shot through his body, a cold thunderbolt at first, to be replaced with fire only a moment later. Every inch of him was taken by it. He felt like his eyes must be bulging out of his head, his muscles contracting and expanding at random, trying to make him move while at the same time holding him in place. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He didn't even register that the girl was happily shaking his hand, and she pulled her arm away from his, the feeling dimmed, but lingered.

"And you are?" Lauren asked. Matt couldn't take his eyes off of her face. Was he going crazy, or had she suddenly become even better looking? It took every ounce of willpower that he had to stutter out his own name in response to her question. He was always shy, but this... This was something more. He couldn't understand what was happening. "It's nice to meet you, Matt," Lauren continued, blissfully unaware of the madness running through Matt's mind and body. "You must be a good friend of John's to not be talking to anyone and still be here."

Matt barely registered that his head nodded slightly. He had entered full autopilot. His brain was running full thrusters on trying to understand what was happening to him. "I've still got a lot of people to meet. I'll see you around, ok?" She waved as she bounced back off.

Matt gulped for air. He didn't know when he had stopped breathing. For the first time, he didn't regain control as soon as he was left alone. The fire was no longer raging inside him, but he could still feel a hot simmer coursing through his blood. He didn't even notice that John had come up beside him. He didn't know how long it had been since Lauren left.

"You feeling ok, bro?" John asked. Matt looked at him, trying to pull himself together. John put a soda in Matt's hand, which he drank quickly, hoping it would cool him down. It didn't. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Who..." Matt could barely get the words out. "Who's Lauren?" he asked.

"Oh, you met Lauren? I'm sorry, for you, she probably came off a little strong. She's my cousin."

"Cousin?"

"Yeah, she's from out of state, so I don't see her much. She's actually staying the night. But I made sure she'd be on the other side of the house, so we won't have to worry about her tonight."

Matt wasn't sure if that was a very good thing, or a very bad thing.

Recommended reading

You may guess from the title of this that I'm going to recommend some books for you to read, but it's really more about the action of recommending books in itself. It's not very often two people talk about books without recommending ones to one another, and that is an excellent thing. More than any other consumable, books are really spread by word of mouth through recommendations, and can live on bookshelves a lot longer than, say, games can, because of the fact that people will keep talking about them, and if a sequel is ever written, you really can't experience it without experiencing the first. Not to mention, books never fall out of compatibility, unlike VHS tapes or PS1 games.

However, I would argue that books are some of the hardest things to recommend to people, because there's nothing to point to except for words in their regard. The only thing they have going for them is their story, and while I may love a good story, other people may not. Games and movies you can point to their cinematography, their character designs, their soundtracks, how beautiful they are or how easy they are to get into. But a book doesn't have any of those things. Just words, of varying length and complexity, with varying quantities, and if those words don't grab you from the first page, they're never going to. Not to mention, trying to explain the story or why it entices you is a lot more difficult then simply showing a person a small snippet of what is there.

And accordingly, it can be much more difficult to judge a person's taste in books than their taste in games or movies. I know that I am far and away mostly interested in medieval fantasy, yet when I tell people that they without fail will suggest Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones. However, I have tried both of these series, and I do not enjoy either of them. And this confuses people. And if I tell them what kind of books I do like, say The Blue Sword and The Exiled Queen, most people have no idea what I'm talking about because they've never heard of those books. So of course I, in turn, would recommend those books, though people don't tend to take my recommendations very often. But I suppose the books I read are fairly uncommon and ones I found on a whim, but I digress.

But making those kinds of recommendations, even if they're never followed through on, is still a good use of time. It opens a dialogue between two people. Allows them to learn about one another. Get to know the way they think. See the kinds of things they like. Perhaps even understand why they like what they like. For me, as I've said before, a lot of it is about character development. I love to see the way a character grows in time and ends a story a different person than who they were when they began it. And that's reflected in the books, movies, and games that I recommend. And, hopefully, in the stories that I write. For others, it's about the world building, or the atmosphere, or the danger. And I'm fine with all of those, but they don't make a story in my eyes. They're just the flavoring. The meat, for me, lies in the characters alone.

But we all think differently. We all want different things from our stories. And that's a good thing. Because that means that there are going to be even more stories out there in the world. And I can't think of anything better than that.

Family

Sirius sat on a chair on the porch, watching his two young boys play in the yard, having pretend battles against pretend demons, making the noises of weapons clashing and defeated opponents fly through the air and die as they were struck. He couldn't help but smile as he watched them, their minds hard at work, creating a new world entirely separate from the one they truly lived in. Sirius had a vague recollection of time long ago when, in his own childhood, he had played similar games. Back then though there had been more children out in the streets to play with. Some of them played the role of the villain, fighting back against the ranks of them, the good guys, and eventually being vanquished. Usually just in time for dinner.

Intermittently, the sounds of the children's laughter filled the dimming air of the evening sky. They would have to be called back inside soon to eat and clean up for bed. But Sirius wanted to make sure they had as much time outside as they possibly could. It was because of their laughter, well timed as it was, that Sirius did not hear the door opening and closing softly behind him. Suddenly there were two arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing tightly, not choking him but hugging.

Sirius reached up and grabbed his wife's face, pulling it down so he could see her. "Julia!" he nearly shouted, though playfully. "Why must you always sneak up on me?"

Julia grinned at her husband, his face appearing upside down from this angle. "Where's the fun in letting you know what's going to happen next?" she asked.

Sirius sighed and rolled his eyes, though a smile still tickled the edge of his lips. He let her head go, and she his neck, and she moved around to sit beside him. They sat in silence for a long moment, as they watched their kids play.

"You remember playing like that when you were their age?" Sirius asked after a while.

Julia didn't turn to look at him, just continuing to watch her children. "Yeah," she said. "Of course, the games I played weren't usually quite as violent as what the boys played. Me and the other girls, we'd play house more frequently, or other such games."

"But always more kids."

Julia nodded silently. Another long moment passed as they continued to watch. Another burst of laughter split the air, filling the two parents with a happiness they had not felt in quite some time.

"You ever wonder if we're doing it right?" Julia was the one asking this time.

Sirius smiled to himself, though it wasn't a full smile. He knew exactly what kind of question she was asking. "Everyday," he replied, more quietly than he realized.

"I just... Things are so different now than they were when we were that age, you know?"

"I know."

"And our parents, they always seemed to have all the answers. They always seemed to know what they were doing. I mean, I know better than that now, but at the time..."

Sirius nodded without a word. It wasn't the first time they had had this discussion.

"And I just worry that maybe they'll look at us, and they won't see the strong pillars that we saw at that age. That maybe they'll realize we don't have enough money, or that we barely got out of school, much less had the answers to all the questions, and that someday soon they'll have a question we won't even begin to comprehend so how on earth are we going to be able to help them, and..."

Sirius put his hand on his wife's arm as she ran out of breath. Her face had a panicked look to it, so Sirius put a hand on her cheek and forced her to look at him. "I don't know what we'll do if that happens, honey," he said quietly. Her mouth clamped shut and she gave him a small nod. "Maybe that stuff will happen. Maybe we won't be as good of parents as our own were.But what's the point in worrying about it now? We just have to keep going one day at a time. Just like we always have."

Julia nodded, trying to reassure herself, and they slowly drifted back into their chairs and back to watching the kids play. The sun would be down soon. They shouldn't leave them outside much longer.

"How are you always so calm about these things?" Julia asked.

Sirius smiled. "I'm not," he responded. Julia turned to look at him, confused. "I'm just as terrified as you are about what's going to come. Just as terrified that I can't be a good parent to our kids. But I try to put on a strong face, because someone needs to."

Julia leaned over and kissed his lips, softly. Sirius put a hand on the back of her head and held her there for a long moment. When she finally pulled away, her eyes still closed, she whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too."

"Kids! It's time to come in!"

Comedy

When I was thinking about making my blog post, I tried to think about the funny books that I have read throughout my life. But you don't really write comedy, I came to realize. You can make a comedy movie. You can even make a comedy game, given the right circumstances. But it's difficult to write a comedy.

Some of the great poets did, of course. There's all kinds of classics that are heavily comedic. But they wrote those with it in mind that they would be acted out by people. People who could deliver lines and act in certain ways and make the story more than just words. But when you're just pure straight writing, words are all you have.

That's not to say that I've never read something that was funny. There are so many books out there that I can point to in so many ways that made me laugh out loud while I was reading them. But I've never read a book that was just pure straight comedy. And I have trouble imagining that it would ever particularly work. I have no doubt that people have tried. But I do doubt that they have succeeded.

There are, of course, plenty of joke books. Plenty of books that have a sole intention of making the reader laugh. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about a book with a story, and that story exists to make you laugh from beginning to end.

I've thought a number of times throughout my life about trying to write a book like that. But there are a number of problems with me doing that, the greatest of which is the fact that I'm not particularly funny. I can make dumb fart noises, say things that make no sense and make people laugh at the sheer stupidity of it. I can repeat jokes that I've heard. But I wouldn't consider myself funny. Especially not in a way that could translate well into words on a page. I remember when I was a kid, and I would try to write funny scenes in stories. They were funny then. But I was also a kid. No one over the age of ten would ever in their right minds imagine that the things that I wrote had any sort of comedic value to them.

But I just find it interesting. Every form of visual media has a sub-genre that is purely dedicated to comedy, and the closest that textual comedy gets is the scripts for those visual medias and collections of jokes. I mean, I suppose that you could write an entire story with the purpose of leading up to one big punch line at the very end, but I feel like your readers would find that more frustrating than hilarious.

Perhaps I'm wrong, though. Perhaps a comedy novel does exist out there somewhere, and I'm simply completely unaware of its existence. That would certainly be something to see. But I just find it unlikely. I'd love to see someone try and do it, though. I'd love for someone out there to sit down and find a way to turn comedy gold into a purely text substance. To be able to pick up a book and both enjoy its contents while laughing out loud the entire way. That would be something.

Storming the castle

Jerome watched as his men lifted the long log into the air and rammed it into the tall, iron doors, swinging back and forth again and again, each thrust producing a massive ring that shook through the walls of the hallway. Everything that they had worked for was leading them to this moment. They would enter the throne room, capture the king, and usher in a new age of rule. Just as they had promised their friends and family back home. The king would have nowhere to run to from inside the throne room. It was as good as done.

After five minutes of pounding, the doors finally cracked and burst open, iron, wood and rubble all falling together in a cloud of destruction as Jerome and his men rushed into the throne room. Inside there were no guards. No protection. No last standing lines of defense. The king sat on his throne, resting his cheek on his closed fist, a look of bored impatience on his face. "You know," he said, "perhaps if your men were worth anything it wouldn't have taken you so long to break down those doors. Not that you even needed to. They were unlocked. But I know you needed to show off your manly bravado somehow, so there you go."

The crowd of men seethed with hatred for this king who had so long brought suffering into their lives, but Jerome stepped past them, hand on the hilt of his sword which he wore on his hip. His shield was slung over his shoulder so that it would not be in the way as they had rammed the door down. He didn't believe a word that was coming out of this farce's mouth. "It's time you forfeit the throne, 'your highness.'" He let as much contempt as he could ooze out of his mouth in those last two words. "We're here to put an end to your reign of madness."

"Yes, yes, of course you are," the king replied dismissively. "I think that much is obvious, you don't have to say that to me." He stood up off of his throne. He wore no armor, had no shield. He only had his own sword on his waist, though his was much more finely decorated than Jerome's. His face showed clearly that he was not in the least afraid of Jerome and his men. They were mere pawns to him, as they had always been, and he looked on them with the subtle contempt deserving of that which has lost its value. "Why, then, don't you come and actually try and take it from me?"

One of his men lurched forward to strike, but Jerome held up a hand. Slowly he drew his own blade from its scabbard, and shrugged his shield off of his shoulders and onto the ground. "It seems only right we fight on equal ground," he called out. The king merely rolled his eyes.

Jerome launched himself forward, intending to take the upper hand. In the blink of an eye the king's sword was in his hand, already in the air after having delivered a blow, and Jerome tumbled backwards, the vibration of his sword having only just barely blocked the strike tearing through his arms. He had no idea what had happened.

The king slowly resheathed his sword. He had barely moved. "Still think you can take me on?" he challenged. "Please, by all means, waste your strength against me."

Jerome pushed himself onto his feet and rushed forward once more. He strained his eyes not to blink, to watch the king's every movement. But the king was too fast. Once more the sword was out, and now Jerome's own blade was flying through the air to stick into the wall. Nigh instantaneously the king's sword was at his throat.

"You are barely even a plaything to me," the king said, clearly so that all Jerome's men could hear. "I suggest you go home. It should be clear now that you cannot win this battle. Go, before I take your lives. Hide in exile if you prefer. Find some kind of peace. But choose quickly, before I change my mind."

A pause. Then Jerome could hear the sounds of footsteps as his men fled for their lives. He had failed. He had come so far, only to fail now. He didn't understand.

"You are a brave one, Jerome, I'll give you that." He didn't know how the king knew his name. "But bravery can only get you so far. Do you think I became king by luck? That people bow before because of name alone? I'm afraid status such as mine is not so easily earned. This is your last chance to run."

Jerome might have run then. But his legs wouldn't move. He was frozen in place. He knew not why.

"A shame that you could not achieve more."

He didn't even see the blade move.

Chosen one

“Some are born great. Some are made great. And some have greatness thrust upon them.”

I know that’s from somewhere. Or someone. But I can’t think of it at the moment. Sorry.

But these are words that I think most everyone has heard in someway or another at one point in their lives. If you read many books or play a lot of games, watch a lot of movies, you’re probably more than well aware of the trop of a chosen one. A person, seemingly of no consequence, who discovers that perhaps they are the last descendant of a far off land in one way or another. Imbued with some kind of gift that marks them apart from the people around them. Gives them a purpose they were otherwise lacking.

But to a reader, a viewer, a gamer (especially a gamer, though that’s another story), this may be incredibly obvious. And it’s probably obvious to everyone around this chosen person, but no one ever wants to say anything for fear that they might bring about ruin, whether it be of this person’s preconceived notions and understandings, or of the lives of those around them whom they love and care for. Whatever it is that sets them apart, it is so vastly different from the people around them that a reader can’t help but be waiting impatiently for this glaringly obvious fact to come to the chosen one in a blinding flash of revelation.

This character’s life is turned on its head in the blink of an eye. Shattered beyond recognition, with all kinds of pieces missing, and new unfamiliar ones to take their place. Perhaps their life is smaller than it has ever been. And perhaps it is larger than they could have ever imagined. Regardless, they are likely to think that this is the end of the life, but the truth is that it is merely the beginning.

Does that not sound exciting? Interesting? Enticing? Why is it, then, that this makes for such a boring, predictable, poorly structured story?

Because we know exactly what’s going to happen from the beginning. We know that they are different. Nine times out of ten, it could not possibly be more obvious. The fact that they can’t see this just makes them look stupid.

This, as many things, could be handled much better. There’s nothing inherently wrong with having a chosen one as a main character. But the fact that they are chosen should be as much a surprise to the reader as it is to them. Make their differences subtle. That, or do not start the story with them learning of their difference. Start with it already established. But perhaps they don’t have a full grasp of their role, or how to accomplish it.

You may disagree, but it is my opinion that the reader should never be ahead of the characters. The two should be strung along together, never quite sure of what’s going to come next, never jumping the gun of one another, always piecing the story together in tandem.

That’s not easy, of course. It never is. But that’s the goal. And you should want to get as close to that as possible.

At least. That’s how I feel.

8th child

The legend of a child, a seventh child of a seventh child, born in a time of strife and darkness had been passed down among families for generations. That such a child would be born with incredible magical powers, he would be able to go against the forces of darkness in order to save the people from the forces which oppressed them, and bring light once more to a land which had been starved of it for far too long. Every family in Anelia was familiar with the story, and it was not uncommon that these families would strive for seven children, in hopes that they would be saved from the monarchy that ruled over them, proclaiming death upon innumerable people for unknown reasons, and sending the rest tirelessly into the fields and mines to collect resources that they never saw again after turning them in.

The king of Anelia did not believe in such legends. His own family had ruled for as many generations as the legend had been passed down, and in that time they had seen hundreds of seventh sons of seventh sons. Not a one was capable of standing against them. For a time they had slaughtered these children, both to ensure their own lineage and to strike despair into the hearts of their subjects, but they eventually found that letting these children live, unable to fulfill any mystical prophecy, was a far better deterrent against any possible rebellion.

Dran was one of many seventh sons of a seventh son. He was different than others, however. He had, in fact, begun to develop magical powers at a young age. His parents were ecstatic, and put everything they had in to training him and keeping him a secret from the king's men. If they ever discovered him, Dran would die by the end of the day, no questions asked. This, they knew for certain. Dran struggled with his lessons, however, developing his powers slowly, but his parents showed no fear that he would not be able to take on the king. They believed so fully in the legends that, even if they died before he could, they believed that their son would be the one to save the kingdom.

Dran was not so sure. He was frightened, by the weight of the load being loaded on his back, by the pressure his parents were constantly forcing onto him, by the slowness of his development, and by the long nights that he had to spend training and studying, followed all too closely by the days of working in the fields. He was constantly tired, lagging behind all the people around him, which resulted in often being punished by the guards. His body was weak by the lack of sleep and the tearing pain of the whips on his back. This did not help him catch up.

Dran was not the youngest child in his family, however. A year after he was born, his parents had an eighth child, who they named Rolan. Rolan was not as loved by his parents, who spent the majority of their time with Dran, attempting to train him so that he might fulfill the legends. Accordingly, they did not realize that Dran was not the only one to develop magical powers. Rolan's magic, in fact, was far more powerful and quick growing than Dran could ever dream of. He had attempted to explain this to their parents, but they had simply set him aside to continue with Dran's training.

At nights, Rolan would often stay up, watching his older brother's training and secret, and mastering the skills Dran struggled with with ease. While his brother struggled, Rolan experimented with the powers that he was devloping, and found that he could invent new spells on his own. He created his own powers of healing, enhancement, and elemental mastery. At one time, he discovered the book from which his brother was being trained, and was surprised to see that the things he was able to do were nowhere to be found within its pages. He had long since surpassed what his parents could teach.

During the days, as he worked in the mines, he observed the people around him. They were weak, tired, and scared, but they each also held a small scrap of hope that the legend would be fulfilled. They yearned for a child that would be able to save them from the hardships that they so frequently faced. They spoke in hushed whispers of a seventh child whenever a new one was born. "Perhaps this will be the one," they would say, "who will finally develop the magic to save us."

They had no idea that there was one who stood among them who would soon be capable of far greater things than they could imagine. He was simply the wrong number for them to care.

Reading

I don't think there's anyone in the world who, at this point, would be surprised to hear that people are reading books less and less. I don't know how true that is, or if it's just something people like to say to scare each other about future generations, and I've never looked into any of the statistics that may be out there about it. But as someone who wants to make a living and a future out of writing, it  is an absolutely terrifying thought. You can already write the most amazing story in the world, and if you don't tell anybody about it, then it won't do you any good. But if people aren't reading, then you can write the most amazing story ever told by mankind, tell the entire world of its existence, and it won't do you any good because no one will care.

I won't pretend to have some mystical answer as to how to get people to read more. Hell, I don't read as much as I know I should, and I'm the one trying to make a living out of it. There is a vast collection today of visual medias, that make us see fantastical worlds and and incredible powers and wonders that we in the real world can hardly dream of. And every day, these visual medias become better, more advanced, and more enticing. Its easy to set aside a textual media that leaves all the things you see in your imagination, but what some people may not remember is that all of the visual stories we see had to start off as exactly that - something someone imagined and wrote down.

I say these things, and a large number of people say these things, and yet there are still incredible famous authors who come out all the time. We still consider people who make it onto the New York Times bestseller list to be making incredible achievements, and we still know that those authors who hit the top of the charts are more than making a living off of their writings. So that must mean that not only is there someone out there who is still reading, but there are a large number of people who are doing that. Especially when you consider that books, especially novels, are not particularly expensive. Most book out there are less than twenty dollars, which is only just over two hours of minimum wage work, as opposed to say a video game that you might get similar time out of, but would cost three times as much money.

So with all of that being said, there must be people out there somewhere who are still reading. So perhaps the question is whether or not they are reading books. There are all kinds of ways to digitally acquire and read books, and more of them are coming out all the time. Kindles, phones, computers, you can read pretty much anywhere now a days. And I have nothing against people who do like to read that way. I totally get the appeal. But me? I still like to have a good old fashioned book in my hands. I like the feel of the paper between my fingers, the varying weight in my hands going from book to book. In some ways, I even enjoy seeing and feeling the curves and folds of a well loved and aged book. As long, of course, as it is not damaged.

I wouldn't be in the least surprised if physical books are what's really in decline. And the way the world is headed, I can't particularly blame anyone for that happening. But I do hope that as we move forward, physical books do not simply disappear. Even if they become an old fashioned, hipster kind of thing, like vinyl records are today, as long as they continue to exist in some form, and some people may even choose to produce them in that way, I will be happy.

The sleeping valley

Taylor perked up when she heard the sound of the train coming to a stop in the town's station. It wasn't often that anyone came to town. Hardly ever happened, in fact. A smile spread across her face as she thought about what that might mean. She set the brush she had been holding aside and patted the horse's muzzle softly but quickly. "I promise I'll be back," she whispered. "But this is an opportunity I can't miss out on." The horse only neighed in response.

Taylor rushed out of the stables and in the direction of the town she lived on the outskirts of. New folks in town probably needed a horse. And if they needed a horse, there was no one better suited for selling them than her. She had been raised on the farm, taught to ride and care for the horses, and she had spent her whole life learning the ins and outs of what made a horse tick. When her parents had died, she inherited the family business. She was able to make due on the things that she had, but she always leaped at an opportunity to make a sale. Life was just easier with a little extra cash on the side.

She walked briskly through the town, glancing briefly at the buildings as she walked past. A church, a bank, and a bar all sat together in a row. Across the street was the sheriff's office and the local prison. There weren't often many criminals inside, large or small, but you always felt a little safer knowing that if any did come by, there was a place to lock them up in. It was no large town, this Acanston, but it was homely, and it had the things you needed. Good people. Good foods. But that wasn't enough to drive a crowd.

That's what made new people so exciting. They could bring a whole new dynamic to these folk's lives, even if they only stayed a day. Especially for Taylor. She had a number of horses that she was ready to sell. She would mis them surely. She always missed a horse when she was able to sell it. But selling a horse meant being able to better care for the ones she had left, and that was always a venture worth taking.

She made it to the train station about the same time as the train came to a stop. She waited patiently, grin pushing her cheeks up high, as she waited to see who got off. The doors opened and, for a long moment, there was no one. She wondered if stopping had been a mistake. But then a man walked off, his eyes narrow and distant.

He was a young man, with an air of power and danger around him. He had two pistols hanging from either hip, and a rifle slung across his back. A number of scars on his face and the tightness of his stance suggested that he knew well how to use them. His clothes were dark and ragged, well worn, and his emotions were hidden away behind a mask of unfriendliness.

But Taylor was undeterred.

"Howdy there!" she called out. The man turned to her immediately, eyes tight, an eyebrow raised in question. "Y'all look like you're new in town! Name's Taylor. You look like you might be needing a horse."

The man looked her up and down, his expression never moving away from the rough blankness. He was clearly attempting to intimidate, to keep people off of his back and from asking too many questions, but no such attempts would work on Taylor. She was too tough skinned.

Finally he spoke, his voice deep but surprisingly smooth. "Yeah," he said. "I could use a horse."

The future

God ran his fingers over his books. Trillions of books, each labelled with a single picture of the baby whose life was contained within the pages. He pulled out one of the books, over a million pages long, and set it down in his lap. He could feel the force of the life of that child eminating from its pages. A life full of choices, large and small, every possible outcome written down, every possible path of their life ready for them to walk down. He knew every page of every book by heart, could recite every one of his children's entire life stories from memory, but he enjoyed sitting down and reading them from time to time. 

He cracked open the book on his lap - the life of a still living girl named Laurie Cravsky - and flipped through the opening pages. It was her teenage years he wanted to read about. This was the time in which many important decisions would be made. Decisions that would begin to pave the path that would define her adult years. Decisions like what classes she would take, what hobbies she would participate in, how she would approach the people she liked or hated. He could see in particular down the road she would come to realize that she was unlike other girls. She would not have much interest in boys, something that would confise her for some time until she realized that the other girls were more than just potential friends. Whether she chose to keep this to herself as long as she could, or be open with these thoughts and feelings with her friends and family would help to determine many things down the road, though she may never realize it. 

This would especially be defining for her because of her religious upbringing. She would struggle for some time with who she was, and how that could fit into his plan. Whether she decided that she could continue in his grace or must reject him because of this was another choice she would have to make. That decision was hers and hers alone. 

God looked up from her book to watch the world. It was tiny to him, a speck in the universe that he had created, slowly turning like a baby's mobile in the sky. It was still so young. It had so much potential. Just like Laurie. She would be entering high school soon. That was when she would learn who she was. He wanted to reach out to her, tell her that things would be alright, that he would love her forever no matter who she was or what decisions she made. That no path she chose would make him stop wishing the best for her.

He knew that she would not hear him, thiugh. Or rather that she would, but not understand who he was. His voice was just the voice in the back of her head. A part of her, she would think, and a part not worth listening to because it didn't sound quite like her.

There were some that listened. That heard his words, if only once, and understood that he was there, watching over them. People didn't like to listen to them either though.

He looked back at his bookshelf. There was one thing about it that he did not know. He knew how many people there had ever been and were. He knew the contents of every book there was. But he did not know when he would run out of books. 

Writing fight scenes

I don't think it will come as a surprise to anyone that I thoroughly enjoy writing fight scenes. I studied martial arts for nearly ten years, I love everything to do with swords, and I'm a fairly violent minded person. These things tend to come nicely together for the purpose of writing a fight. However, writing a fight scene is roughly as difficult as winning a real fight, though for very different reasons.

I find that with experience comes a lot of technical jargon. I know the names of a variety of attacks that I could easily throw out, and in some cases it would be a fairly good description. A front kick to the chest, a round kick to the ribs, a jab between the eyes. Most people who have ever heard of the concept of fighting would probably be able to take a good guess at what these attacks are. Others are a bit more vague. A crescent kick to the side of the head, a hook kick to the face, or a knifehand strike to the throat. All wonderful, difficult to preform accurately and powerful strikes. But I wouldn't want to just drop those into a fight scene because the reader is going to find those more difficult to visualize.

I could describe these motions in great detail easily. I've done them a dozen times, I can feel the push and pull of the muscles for each blow in my body just thinking about it, and I can put all of that into words. But fights are frantic, quick paced. How often do we mock movies and tv shows for stopping in the middle of a fight to have a long dialogue? You might not think so, but long descriptions can be just as disruptive as such abrupt exposition.

Let's go to the hook kick to the face as an example. First, I will go into long detail about this single attack, then I will try to describe it as briefly as possible.

"His body slipped to the side as he dodged the oncoming straight blow. His foot pivoted in the motion, and he used the momentum to begin turning. His head snapped around from one side to the other so that he could keep his eyes on his opponent. At the same time, he lifted his back leg, his knee bent hard to keep his foot attached to the back of his thigh. As he turned, his opponent continued to move forward, carried by the momentum of his own attack, placing him exactly where he could strike. In the blink of an eye, his leg straightened, as he turned, giving his leg a smooth circular motion before it snapped hard, moving with the spin of his body as it closed once more to rip across his opponent's face, breaking the man's nose and knocking him hard to the ground."

There's no question of what happened here. Every motion is planned and useful, but the length of the action is exaggerated. In reality, the entire attack takes only a second. That might look something like this.

"He slipped to the side as he dodged the oncoming straight blow. He pivoted hard, lifting his leg as he did so, and as he faced his opponent once more, his knee snapped his leg shut to rip his foot into the man's face, breaking his nose and knocking him hard to the ground."

The speed of the attack is apparent here. It happens in literally less than a sentence. However, the purpose of such a flashy spinning move is lost. In the first example, you can see that he never lets his opponent out of his sights, and that the turning is used to build speed and power. In the second example, however, it just seems like he is showing off.

It's a hard decision to make between the two. A fight can be a hundred blows, and I can describe every single blow throughout the entire fight in both ways. Deciding which is better for the given situation is what makes writing a fight scene so difficult. Making the fight both realistic and interesting. Giving a sense of both the speed and power of each attack, but also giving each attack a purpose. This, however, is a challenge that I love, and I will gladly go step by step through an entire fight to make it right.

Entropy

Ramsey ran down the halls of the castle, slowed by the weight and awkwardness of his hands, which had been sealed together in a block of concrete. He looked over his shoulders and didn't see anyone coming, but he could hear the sounds of the guards closing in on him. His stupid hands had been what had gotten him in to this mess, but he wasn't going to be able to get out without them.

He slipped into a crevice, having to hold his arms above his head to fit because of the bulky block around his hands, only barely strong enough to hold the weight above his head, and a few moments later the group of guards rushed past him. He waited, arms shaking, blood rushing out of his arms and making his head turn red with the stress, all to make sure that the guards were all gone. When he was absolutely sure he was safe, he ran back out the way he had come, having seen a spot on the way that he might be able to free himself using.

He rushed into the courtyard and into the corner where a spare anvil was being kept. He lifted his arms up above his head once more and brought them down hard on the compact and solid anvil. A loud clang sounded out, echoing among the castle walls, and a powerful vibration shot through his body, making his bones shake painfully. The concrete did not break. He knew that the guards would not be long. He had to break free soon. He lifted his arms once more and brought the down again, harder this time. Another ringing. Another shaking of his bones.

And a crack. It was small, barely anything worth noting, but it was there in the concrete. He was making progress, tiny as it may be. Once more he struck. Another crack. He could hear the guards getting closer. He only had enough time for one more strike. He had to make it count.

He knew that the blows he had been making weren't going to be enough. He took a deep breath and leaped into the air, throwing his arms above him for momentum to rise higher, then brought them down with all the strength he could muster as he fell back to the ground. The pain that shot through his body was unbearable as he made impact, only amplified by his face slamming into the anvil only moments later as his momentum carried him down and pushed him off balance.

The guards were rushing into the courtyard as Ramsey forced himself to sit up. His entire body was numb with pain, except for his face, which was burning in pain. He brought his hand up to touch his nose, checking if it was broken, and only then did he realize it had worked.

Not having any more time to pity himself, he forced himself onto his feet and bolted away from the guards. His hands were shaky, stiff with pain and disuse. He tried again and again to make them work. He needed to take action. But his fingers weren't co-operating.

Snap

The sound was a surprise, though it was familiar. He looked around wildly, but nothing had seemed to change. "Damn," he whispered to himself. "Come on now, I need this."

Snap

He looked back at the pursuing guards. Their armor appeared to have changed colors. "Not helping," he murmured angrily.

Snap

He didn't have time to see what had changed as he abruptly slammed into a wall. He wasn't sure if it had been there before or not. It felt like half his ribcage was broken now. But the guards were still coming. He pushed his way past the wall and kept running. "Please, please, I'm begging you, please just help help me. Something, anything to make it end."

Snap

The pain in his chest was immense for a brief moment, far more than anything he had experienced before, but as quickly as it had come it vanished. He knew what had happened. The bones had melded back together. It was a start.

Snap

His feet lost friction for a moment, no ground beneath them to run on. He tumbled forward and hit the soft grass at the bottom of the hill. It was quiet here. He breathed slowly, taking it in. He was away from the castle. He didn't know how far, or even where he was, but he was away now. Ramsey closed his eyes and fell asleep.

He awoke in the morning to the bright sun shining on his face. Painfully he got up and looked around. He was not far from the castle at all. But no one would be expecting to find him here. Not in the hunting forests.

He sighed and rubbed his hands on his pants, trying to make the feeling come back to them. They were still sore from their concrete prison. "I swear to god," he muttered to himself. "If I can't figure out how to get the princess back, I am going to die..."

He raised his hand slowly and closed his eyes, not sure what to expect next.

Snap

Hot air balloon

The propane fueled flames roared in Jacob's ears, deafeningly loud, and the heat less than a foot overhead was nearly unbearable. His hand gripped the trigger tightly, pumping the massive balloon full with heated air as he slowly lifted further and further into the air. He leaned over the side of his basket, watching the features of the land below becoming a little more distant, a little less recognizable. He still had a few hundred feet left to ascend before he could stop pumping the flames and level out. As he got higher, the cooled air of the elevated altitude would make the heat above his head more manageable. 

"Can barely even see the cars driving from up here," he said to no one in particular. His crew were the only people that Jacob interacted with when he was up in his hot air balloon. Not even his family could contact him. He left everything but the tools he needed behind, allowing himself more capable of enjoying the views that he could get from here, sights that could be seen in no other way, and especially not at such a leisurely pace. It wasn't the first time he headed into the sky, but he was always taken aback by the wonders of the things one could witness feom such heights. It was why he kept coming back. 

The radio on his belt crackled to life. "Calling three five flyer, come in. Come in three five flyer."

Jacob snapped the radio out of its holster on his hip and let go of the flames just long enough to answer. "Coming in loud and clear, three five base. Three five flyer reporting."

"Everything under control up there?"

"Affirmative."

"Remember, J. You've only got a few hours up there because of the late start. The crew can't wait forever. Try not to go too far."

"You got it, Rich. I'll let you know when I pass the ridge line."

"Yeah, you better. Don't fall asleep on us like you did last time. Over and out."

The radio was clipped back onto his belt and his hand was wrapped around the handle for the flames only a moment later. He tried not to think about having fallen asleep in his basket. His balloon had lost a considerable amount of air, and he had drifted dangerously close to the ground far past his designated target. He could have easily died that day. He owed his life to his crew. He didn't plan on testing their skill and loyalty like that again.

Not to mention his wife and daughter. They had known his schedule that day. When he had been late, they called his crew, who said they had been unable to contact him and he had missed his designated landing zone. He could see the terror on their faces when he made his emergency landing. That image would be etched in his mind forever. 

But Jacob still loved flying. And they knew he did. But before he took off again, they had made him swear that if anything like that happened again, he would give it up completely. He couldn't argue with that request. 

But it was a clear day. There was a nice breeze blowing him right where he wanted to go. And, despite what had happened, he still felt at home in the sky, and he was able to relax as he drifted lazily along.