Success

This is going to be a relatively short blog post, just as a fair warning.

I said on the last day of October that during November I would be participating in the madness known as National Novel Writing Month. I've talked about it numerous times throughout the month, and I've talked about how I've been struggling with it and spent the entire month behind on my world goals. And with word goals more than three times as difficult as the ones I've set myself for this blog, that's kind of understandable.

But I did it. In the month of November, I wrote a novel fifty thousand words long. Alongside that, I managed to continue writing for the blog every single day, at five hundred words a pop, even if those posts weren't as much fiction as I have been doing otherwise. Putting those together, in the month of November I wrote a total of roughly sixty five thousand words. Regardless of who you are or what you might think about writing, it's hard to deny how much of an accomplishment that is.

I'm screaming so hard in my head right now.

But good lord, was it exhausting. Especially because I fell so heavily behind at the beginning. That resulted in me spending the last week and a half more or less writing two thousand to three thousand words a day, and that was just for the novel. It's been mentally exhausting.

And the novel's not even done. Not even close. I'm barely getting into the middle of the story. It hit a nice high point for the end of the fifty thousand, but there is far more story to tell. I feel like I've barely scratched the surface. And as it stands, the quality is horrid.

I plan on not stopping. I won't continue the breakneck pace that I've been maintaining the past few days (at least, I don't plan on it), but I want to write at least a little bit of the novel everyday as I continue forth. And I don't plan on stopping the blog because of it.

Hopefully the quality of the blog will come back up as I relax a little with the book. It won't be done any time soon, but you'll probably hear about it from time to time. Here's hoping someday you'll get to read it.

Classics

I'm not one to try and tell people how to think or what to enjoy. Everyone has their own preferences, and that's something I'm particularly aware of, because it seems like I don't enjoy a lot of things that everyone else just assumes that you will enjoy. That's kind of a long story to get it into, so for the time being, suffice to say that I understand how people can not enjoy something that seems obvious to like. Other than breathing and eating, of course. There's something wrong with you if you don't enjoy that.

But that makes the concept of "classics" an interesting one. Now, I may be mistaken to some degree, but my understanding of a classic has always been that it is something that is simply good. Or at least considered by many to be good. Things that everyone should know or have seen and that are inherent parts of culture that can't simply be ignored. They help to structure the way that we think and act and talk, even if we're not aware of it.

And if that's the case, why is it that I don't enjoy so many of them? Even among the things that I do enjoy, many of the classics, to me, are simply of poor quality. I'm sure they were fantastic at the time, but I can't move back to that time. In many cases, I wasn't even alive at that time. I can't comprehend what was going on in that period in history, and perhaps that is detracting from my enjoyment of the so called classics.

But I'm not the only one. I know I'm not. Especially in video games, people try to go back to the classics all the time, try to recover and re-experience what they felt when they played it the first time. And when they do that, they realize that that classic isn't good. And in many cases, it never was good. No one wants to accept or believe that, but it's hard to deny facts when we experience them with our own senses.

But what's really interesting is how less that happens in other medias. There are some cases in movies and books and tv shows where that happens, but there are significantly fewer. We look back at the same things as they grow farther and farther away from the world as it is now, and we expect them to hold as true today as they were then. And in some cases, that may be true. The grandfather of video games as some call it, Super Mario Bros on the NES, still stands today not only as a classic, but as a solid game. Perhaps not the easiest, but its mechanics are sound and it is satisfying to play, even if you don't beat it.

All I'm saying is that I find it interesting that in so many cases, we try to pass what we perceive as classics to our children, and we are surprised when they don't enjoy them. But we keep telling them they are good until they believe it, and then they pass it on to their children, and are yet again surprised when they don't like it. At least, that's how I see it.

Making time

I had an interesting conversation with someone tonight, and I wanted to talk a bit about it. We were talking about how I was out of practice on certain things that in the past I highly valued, and in fact still value, and why that happened. My answer was simply that there wasn't enough time, which I do and will maintain is the answer. There's never enough time, and because of that you have to make your choices on what you want to do with it. I'm not the best at that, and I will never claim to be. But there are some things that I value enough that I forgo being lazy to do them, and lazy is my main function. One of those things is writing.

So when I told him that I spent most of my free time writing, he told me to stop, and to commit that time to other practices. Now, to be fair, he did not know me. He did not know that I am an author, and that that is my passion, and that if I stopped writing I would hate myself and never forgive me for doing so. But, that doesn't excuse such a baseless statement, especially so when it was not a suggestion, but an order. It wasn't "You should top writing as much." It was "Stop writing."

And even when I told him who I was, he still did not understand. Because we were talking about playing guitar in particular, he told me that when I am trying to think of what to write next, I should practice guitar and play a few songs.

Now, I can understand that this person was not a writer. He may very well have never spent a moment of his life ever attempting to write something creatively. And I can almost guarantee that he has never even thought to attempt writing a novel. But can you imagine if anyone gave that kind of advice to anyone else? What if it were a doctor who didn't feel he had time to exercise? "Lift a few weights while you're waiting for the nurse to hand you the scalpel during a surgery."

That's not how making time works. There are many things in life where stopping and stepping back, taking a breath, relaxing and just thinking are vital to the process. It's not space you can just fill with something else. Trying to do so would disrupt the flow of what you are doing, and prevent you from getting the work done at all.

I get that writing is less than a common passion. Sure, lots of people do it, but being an author goes a step beyond that many people don't understand. I get that seeing someone sitting at a computer with a text document open while they're staring blankly into the distance looks weird. But that's no less important to an author than protein is to a bodybuilder. It's not something you can just skip to make more time.

Black Friday

Thanks to the fact that I am now working in retail, I experienced my first ever Black Friday today. Yes, I have never even so much as stepped foot in a store on Black Friday before. In fact, I've never even shopped online on Black Friday. All the deals don't appeal to me, and frankly, having known not only worked that day, but been the one to put up all of the sales signs, I can say with certainty that ninety percent of the sales going on aren't even worth your trouble. In some cases, maybe, but the majority of the time, no.

But it wasn't the crowds that blew me away and made me utterly despise this experience. Sure, it was crowded, and trying to move around everyone and answer questions while attempting to do my actual job was frustrating. But that's just to be expected. No, what made me question humanity was how incredibly rude and self-entitled people were while they were shopping.

It's Black Friday. The stores open early, the stock is limited, and the employees are busy. These should all be givens. But evidently, to some people, it isn't. They expect to be treated as royalty, and to be able to get whatever they want whenever they want at whatever price they think is reasonable. And let me tell you - whatever price they're thinking of is most certainly not reasonable.

While there are many examples that I could point to of just how terrible people were today, there is one instance that was far and away above the rest with how much of a shit head the guy was. For context, we had way more people working in the store today than we usually do at any given time, and for good reason. But because of that, equipment supplies were low, and I received neither a walkie talkie, nor a scanner, which meant that I could not call for help, look up information, or get supplies from the backroom. I knew this perfectly well, and was sure to inform guests of this who asked me for assistance.

So a man approached me while I was working in toys, asking about buying a chair from the furniture section three areas away from where I was working. He asked me if I could help him, and I said that I wasn't sure, but that I would try, and if not, I would find him someone who could. Immediately, his response was "So does that mean you can't do shit? No one in this store wants to take my money apparently. They're training you to lose money."

I don't know what the hell was going through the guy's head, but I knew that all I could do as an employee was to try and help him. So I took him back to where his barstool was, all the while he was telling me how much of a fucking loser I was and how the only thing I was good for in the company was losing money, and how if I actually made any sales I would be fired.

We got to the chair, and because of my lack of equipment, I couldn't do anything for him, and he rages on about how much of a fucking loser I am. I inform him that I will get him someone who can assist him, and he responds with, "And how long is the wait gonna be? Two days?"

Despite the lack of a walkie talkie, I was back with someone who could help him in less than a minute. And when I return, before he even sees that there's someone else with me, he says, "How are you going to not help me now?"

Not everyone was such a fucking asshole as this man was. But I spent a large chunk of the day being insulted, simply because people couldn't get things, or couldn't get them as fast as they wanted.

It's Black Friday. They came in hours and hours after opening. I don't know what they were expecting. But don't blame the guys trying to get your stuff on the shelf for the fact that someone else bought the last one three hours ago. It just doesn't work that way.

Monthly vs daily

When I started off this blog, I chose to give myself a daily goal. I wanted to have something with which I could hold myself accountable - a palpable goal that I could easily either succeed at or fail. I wanted to know that if I had missed a day, it wasn't something I could just make up down the line. If that were the case, I would have been significantly less consistent with my blogposts, and probably ended up scrapping the idea entirely before getting even a month out of the gate. I mean, I didn't entirely expect to last as long as I have regardless, but that's just kind of a sign that I went with the right choice.

Five hundred words was kind of just an arbitrary goal, and something that I thought I could pull off daily without much concern. I could have easily done the same with a monthly goal - with an average of thirty days a month, that would be fifteen thousand words per month, give or take five hundred. Really, that's not a bad goal. I mean, it is what I end up doing anyway.

But putting it that way, in monthly increments rather than daily, gives more wiggle room. I can feel like I can take some days off if I do particularly large writings on other days, or because I know I can just write a thousand words the next day to make up for it. It allows for the opportunity to make up for failures the way a daily goal simply can't. If I miss a day the way I have it set up now, as I have done on a few occasions, that's it. My goal of writing for a year straight has to start over from there.

And that's precisely what I want out of this. I don't want wiggle room. I don't want to say, "Well, I messed up here, but I can just make up for it over here." In my experience, doing that just piles up on itself until you reach a point where you really can't make up for it anymore.

I bring this all up now because of my participation in Nano. Nano does have a monthly goal, and one that I have been falling behind on nearly all month. It's taken a great deal of effort to simply attempt to catch up, which I have yet to do, but I have started to inch back in on it. But I'm running out of time, and the next few days for me are going to be challenging.

Nearly this entire month, I have spent every day questioning whether or not I will succeed. I have tried and pushed, but some days I just can't get that much out of my story.

But thanks to the practice I have had over the last year, there has been one thing that I have managed to do with it. I have written at least a small bit of my novel every day without fail. Some days it has been next to nothing, but I wrote for it all the same. And of all the years that I have done a Nano novel, this is the first year that I have succeeded in doing that.

Which is progress. And progress feels good.

Golden

Meed sat on a throne made of gold, wearing fine silks and a crown adorned with meticulously cut and shined gems. He was the king of he richest kingdom for miles around, and his land was awash with greenery and life. The people were happy. They had little need of more, though more was always available. Their kingdom was a center of trade, and merchants and traders from the world over were daily arriving with new goods and trades, or leaving with what they had amassed in their time in the kingdom.

By all accounts, Meed was in a very powerful position, having more power than he could ever know what to do with in his hands. There was not a man in the world who would dare stand against him, else he faced the closing off of trade for his people and family. He was called on frequently to give input on political and economical problems in many lands - some even where he was only passingly familiar with the customs and language.

Yet Meed was not a happy man. Every day he awoke to the same golden walls and possessions. He listened to and spoke of the same markets and trades. People came to him to speak about money and little else. He was known world over as the golden king, and his life reflected that. Everything was gold. Everything was valuable to the point where the value in everything was lost. He could not express in words just how tired he was of the color of gold.

A servant came in just as the sun began to be visible in the eastern window. It was the beginning of the golden hour, when the people could enter the golden castle and speak with the king about any issues they were having in the kingdom. Mostly, it was problems with the foreign merchants attempting to cheat people out of their money, or at least so the people felt. The rules and regulations of the land were quite strict in those regards, however, and nine times out of ten, they had not been broken. In the few cases where they had been, the guards were quick to punish and remove offenders.

Meed allowed the people to enter his throne room and air their grievances. He only half listened to them. He listened just long enough to know what the verdict would be in the end, then tuned out the person's words and waited for their lips to stop moving. He did not wish to hear how many times they would utter the word gold. He had once counted, and during a single hour, he had heard the word nearly a thousand times. It was as if the people in his kingdom had learned the word gold before any other, and speaking it had become as easy as breathing.

He was so sick of gold. If he could melt all of the gold in the kingdom and discard it, he would do it in an instant. He would watch the people despair, and the economy collapse.

At least it would be something different.

Familial love

Drane was very quiet as he sat by the windowside and watched the rain fall. It was a calm rain, little more than a sprinkling of water falling from the sky. Some may have found the rain depressing, holding them inside as captives and preventing them from doing as they wished. But Drane found it relaxing. The soft sound filled his mind and gave him peace. A peace that he had not felt in quite some time. 

It was the one year anniversary of his father's death. There had been many tears shed, and many throats made sore from the loud and heaving sobs. But none from Drane. He had not cried at his father's funeral. Nor at his mother's before that. 

Friends reached out to him frequently, attempting to give words of encouragement or offers of homes and food. But Drane had always turned them down. He did not fear loneliness, nor feel need of company. He had a job, a home, and a way of life. His parents had not been a part of that for some time. 

He had left home when he was eighteen, with hopes and dreams for his future. He had had to start low, however. And he had. Working meaningless jobs for pennies, but gaining real life experience. He proved himself and rose through the ranks until he was making enough money that he could actually put some away into savings. And he saved up so that he could afford a home. 

People would inevitably ask about the family. He would dismiss them, saying not to worry about it, that it wasn't important. They were never happy with that answer, but eventually they would learn simply not to ask. That was how it always went. 

But now, as Darne sat alone, for the first time he wondered. He wondered what life would be like if he had stayed at home. If he had not so despised his family, and if they had not despised him. People told him that with age they had changed. But was it age? Or was it that he had gone away?

If he had loved them... How would things have changed?

He was happy the way things were. 

But could he be happier?

Publishing

As I've spent this month writing my novel, I've found myself thinking more and more frequently about not only finishing it, but publishing it. It's a long ways off, and to be honest, it's a pretty scary thought. There are a lot of things to think about with publishing. How are you gonna get the word out there? What if publishers don't like it? Should I use a publisher at all? What if people don't like it? What if it gets torn to shreds, looked at as an example of how not to write a story?

But despite these things, it's still something that I want to pursue. I mean, why wouldn't I want to pursue it? Publishing is what I've always dreamed of. To have a book out there that is mine, and that I can tell people about, and that I can hopefully make some sort of living out of. To say that I am a writer, rather than a writer hopeful, and have something to point to as proof. That is my life dream.

And fortunately for me, National Novel Writing Month doesn't just want me to write a novel. They want me to edit one. They want me to publish one. And if I can win this month with writing, they'll be all the more helpful in doing that. Winners are given a discount code to receive a free physical proof copy of their book, and a discount on starting the publishing process. Published winners are invited to advertise their books on the website, to prove to the other hopefuls that it's possible.

If I could be one of those people... I think I'd die of happiness.

Of course, what I'm writing right now is by no means ready, appropriate, or worthy of being published. What I'm writing now is complete and utter shit. And I already know that when I get to editing, I'm going to be starting by removing the prologue to my story entirely. It's all background information that would be better used sparced throughout the story and...

Regardless. It's not good enough to be published. But if I were to think about it, it would never be good enough to be published. There is always something to be improved upon. When is enough enough? How many drafts do you go through before you hit final? And how long should it all take?

I guess these are just more things that I'll have to figure out when I get there. Just do what I have to do. Maybe get some test readers to see what they think, and if the story makes sense the way it is, and if there are things they want to know that would be appropriate to add in to the book (or, potentially, the sequel). But eventually I'll publish. I hope.

Archery

When I was a child, studying the arts of being a boy though not yet understanding them, I was handed a bow and arrow, pointed down a course, and told to hit a bale of hay with a paper target on it. And if I hit the bullseye of that target, I was told that I would be given a small wooden bead with a poorly painted target on it to show as proof of my victory.

That may not sound like much to you, but to a ten year old boy, it was complete and utter magic to my ears.

I don't recall how many arrows I shot, or how many times I returned to the archery range to give it a second shot. I can, however, tell you how many of those tiny wooden beads I obtained.

A whole, whopping zero.

But the memory of the bow stayed with me and mixed with the inherent love I had of the middle ages. Like many boys, I spent a good amount of time playing make believe - a skill I wish adults still had, but I digress - and when doing so, if I didn't have a sword in my hands, you can bet I had a bow. Even when the game was all about using guns.

I tried a few times throughout my life to pick up toy bows and arrows, but it never had the same satisfaction to it. It was always too small, too unwieldy, too inaccurate. In time, I all but gave up the idea of ever really using a bow, and especially of ever having any talent at it.

But fortunately, the cub scouts lead to the boy scouts, and in boy scouts, you can be quite sure that chances arise a second time.

I was a young teenager by the time I picked up a bow again, and in the time between I had gained strength thanks to my new involvement in karate. Where once I had been a scrawny and weak child, though I was by no means strong, I was certainly stronger than times passed.

I didn't expect much. I remembered the past. I remembered taking my bow, with all the confidence in the world, and never once even hitting the target, firing one wide over the bale, and the next into the dirt at my feet.

And so I lifted that bow. I notched that arrow. I pulled back, further than ever before. I could feel it. The pull in my arm and in my back. I looked down the shaft of my arrow, straight at the target, and I let it go.

It struck true. And the arrow stuck halfway out of the bullseye. And I was handed that small wooden bead that I had sought so hard in the past.

And once more I was a boy. So happy with my bead, as I would have been back then.

Evolution

I have no misconception about the kinds of things that I write here on the blog. They are random bits of stories or thoughts that come and go without much connection or communication between any of the others. They're not like a book where things have to have some sort of flow or at least a tie between events so that, when you reach the end, you have some sort of understanding about what has happened throughout the story. With the small segments that I've spent the last year writing, this is a concept that I have, for the most part, ignored, and so have not been able to comment heavily on. These are also rough drafts, largely unedited, save for spelling errors, but this is where the topic I wish to talk about begins.

I mentioned at the beginning of the month that I would be spending November participating in National Novel Writing Month. This isn't the first time that I've done this - attempting to write an entire novel in the span of a single month - but it is the first time that I have done so alongside creating these short rough drafts. And now, being able to so closely compare the two, one thing in particular about book writing has begun to stand out to me.

When writing these short stories, there's not a whole lot of space for things to get mixed up or changed as the story evolves. In fact, there isn't a whole lot of evolution in each story in general. There is in my writing - and much like real evolution, it is a very slow and sometimes failure-ridden or subtle process - but not in each individual story.

In writing a novel, that isn't the case. Something that you wrote at the beginning of the story, as you continue to write, you begin to realize doesn't quite work with where the story is going. And eventually, it becomes so different from where the story begins that you have to go back and rewrite it, else the rest of the story simply doesn't make sense anymore. These can be small details, things that less perceptive readers might pass over, but they can also be large story points or background information that is as integral to the story as breathing is to humans.

And it can be tempting to go back now, while you're still writing, and change it as soon as the change becomes needed. But what happens if it changes again later on? You never know how many changes are going to happen, or how frequently they will come about, or if all those changes will be in different places, or if it will be one thing changing over and over and over again, until by the end of the story it has become so redefined that every instance of it will need to be rewritten. And sure, you can go back and do it throughout, but doing so is preventing you from getting to the rest of the story.

It's something that you never really think about when you're just reading. By the time that story gets to its audience, all of those evolutions have already happened and been corrected. But it doesn't take long into the writing process for it to pop up.

Hero's call

They were outnumbered ten to one, the small group of five in a tight circle, backs to one another, facing out at the massive group surrounding them. They had been on the run for days, but their luck had finally run out, and their pursuers were holding nothing back anymore.

It had all started after Darius had accidentally killed the head of the royal guard. He had been drunk but minding his own business when the guard had come along and tried to seize him for public indecency. When the guard had been leading him out of the bar, Darius had stumbled, tripping the guard and causing him to fall into the path of an oncoming horse carriage, the hoofs and wheels of which crushed the guard's skull, instantly killing him. His friends had tried to defend him, leading to them all becoming heavily wanted men.

They had had to run. They could either run, hoping to find a new place where they could make a living, or they could stay where they were and be arrested, tried, and killed for an accident that had been completely out of any of their control. They chose the chance at life.

But it hadn't lasted long. Now, as they stood back to back, it was pretty clear to them that this would be their last stand. "It was good knowing you guys," Marcus called out as the group closed in on them. "I hope we take a few of the pigs out on our way."

"You really already giving up, Marc?" Lorena called back. "You don't think we can take them all out? Already laying down your arms? Why'd you even come with us in the first place? With that kind of attitude, you'll only be holding us back."

"Can we not argue about this right now, please?" Darius asked. "I'm kinda trying to think of a plan right now."

"Seems to me," Fred countered, "that there's only one way we're going to get out of this. And that's if the guy who got us here in the first place decides to step up his game."

"You want him to just give himself up?"

"No, Lorena, shut up. He knows what I'm talking about."

Darius sighed. He did know what Fred was talking about. He stepped away from the group, and suddenly all eyes were on him.

"I recommend you guys don't watch this."

His eyes began to glow a vibrant orange, and his hair stood on end. His skin began to fall apart, revealing a blinding light coming from beneath. No one looked away.

In a moment, he was obliterated. There was no sound. No visible change. He was simply gone, and all of the soldiers with him.

Dueling

Zephina took a few seep breaths as she took a step back, the fire in her hands subsiding for a moment as she strategized. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and her clothes were a mess, torn in some places, burned in others. Her movements had become muddied and slow, deeply crippling her from her normally light-footed and nimble steps that allowed her to move in and out of situations quickly and easily. Though she couldn't see them, she could still feel the ethereal chains bound to her ankles.

Fortunately, Ragas was not looking much better. The cloth covering his armor was near entirely burned away, and the armor itself was now covered in rust and chipping away. The hammer he swung with his off hand was weighing heavily on him, hanging limply by his side, and she could see the strain on his muscles in that arm that came just from holding on to it. But his other arm...

The blows came quick and heavy, and it was all Zephina could do to withhold her mental barriers. She tried to call on her magic, but doing so weakened her mental defenses, and one of Ragas' blow struck directly at her mana, knocking it away from her like a sword and shield out of her hands, and she fell back onto the ground.

He laughed as she hit the ground and threw himself at her, slamming his hammer into the ground next to her head. "I've got you now," he whispered, grabbing her by the throat with his iridescent arm. Magic coursed threw her body the moment it touched her, frying her nervous system, racking her body with spasming pain that made her wish she was dead. But she knew she wouldn't die from this. Not yet. Not until he had his fill.

He lifted her from the ground for a moment before slamming it back down, cracking the back of her skull. "You're gonna pay for insulting me, you insolent wench," he whispered. She could only cry back in response. Everything was pain, but as he tormented her, she put everything she had left into her magic.

When she pushed back, the effect was immediate. Her hands glowed bright blue and, putting them directly onto his chest, he was launched back through the air until he collided with the ceiling before dropping to the ground.

She slowly pushed herself back onto her feet. She could barely breath. "What was that?" she mumbled. "Punk?"

I love you

We had been sitting in the grass for an hour, just awkwardly attempting to make conversation. Admittedly, we hadn't known each other all that long, and we were still very much in that awkward phase of figuring stuff out. There were a lot of things that we had to learn about each other, and while we were trying to work on figuring them out, that kind of thing always takes time, because it's a lot harder to think of the important things about yourself than you expect it to be.

But she was running low on time, needing to get back home, so, somewhat reluctantly, we got up and shared a goodbye hug. Hard to say how long we were standing there. Far longer than a goodbye hug had any right to last, but it sure didn't stop us. We didn't want to leave.

I don't think there was any denying at the time what our feelings for each other were. They were young and fledgling, sure, but we were fully aware of them, and at least some of the people around us were too. We just didn't fully understand them. Not yet. Perhaps I had a better idea - I had more experience. But this was new. Different. In a lot of ways.

But when I was holding her, and all throughout when we had been talking, there was one thought running through my mind. Three little words, repeating over and over in my head, and I wanted to say them out loud, but... Could I? Should I? How would she react? Was now the right time? Did I even really mean them? There was just something about her, something I couldn't explain, but that I felt rushing up against me, forcing its way into every inch of my brain until there wasn't any space for anything else.

I knew it was early. There were still a lot of uncertainties, a lot of things that had the potential to fail. But I knew what I was feeling, or at least I felt pretty sure that I did. And I had a good feeling about what her feelings were. And yet...

Then she was pulling away. She had more than run out of time, and she needed to go. It was the make or break time. I could speak my mind, just let it happen, let out those words that were straining so hard against my brain, or I could hold it back and have it continue to fester and bother me. The struggle of saying them was so frustrating, so painful, that I just didn't know if I even could.

So I made up my mind. I took her face in my hands. I looked her in the eyes. I summoned up all the courage in my body, all the stupidity that allowed me to ignore my inhibitions, all of the fear and need, and I pushed it all into that one, tiny, quiet sentence.

"I love you."

The words were out of my mouth, and it was too late to reach out and grab them back. Iwas almost scared to see her expression, but the look on her face. Her thoughts were practically spelled out right there in her eyes.

"Oh my god. I can't believe you just said that. Oh my god. Oh my god. I'm going to kiss you so hard right now."

Ideas

I get ideas for my writing from a lot of places. Songs, pictures, dreams, other movies and books and video games, and sometimes they simply come from nowhere. I once asked an author where he got the idea for the book series of his I was currently reading, and he looked at me with a blank look in his eye, as if it were the stupidest thing I could have asked. He simply didn't know. One day the idea was simply there, and he rolled with it.

With over three hundred posts on this blog, I can not begin to tell you how many ideas I have had, and tried to use, and still have not. There are days when I sit at my computer, and restart what I am writing at least three times before finally settling on something that I want to write. Some of those ideas will come back, and I'll be more successful on another try. And sometimes that idea will simply vanish.

I've tried writing down ideas I have that don't work out the first time every once in a while. Then, of course, the problem is still remembering. I can read a short prompt that I've written and not recall what it was supposed to be in the slightest. This happens more than I care to admit. And other times, I'll read the prompt and be inspired to write something entirely unrelated.

There are lots of reasons some of these ideas don't work. Sometimes they just don't sound right. Sometimes I realize I don't have anything more than a title or a first sentence. Sometimes I don't want to just be rewriting the game or movie that gave me the idea in the first place. That one in particular seems to happen a lot. I guess I just play too many video games.

I also have a lot of ideas about the blog. Ideas for things that I want to do, but are too impractical, or new kinds of things that I could write, but that I don't actually want to do.

An excellent example of that is fanfiction. I've written my opinion on fanfiction before, so I don't want to dip into that. But I've written one example of it on the blog, and it was because I was using it as a first draft into a contest. At times I think about doing this more, particularly when I have ideas directly from games. But it's just not something that I'm overly interested in doing.

Another such idea came from the way the blog itself works. When I was learning the ins and outs of what I can do with it, I saw that I could fairly easily add pictures to posts. I had a great idea about posting fan art that people drew based on some of the things I had written.

But that requires having fans first.

Autobiographies

I'm usually not huge on autobiographies, though I have read a few that I have found to be very interesting. It's not that I don't enjoy learning things about people, especially ones who are prominent in society or who I find inspiring. It's just that I don't really need to know about the birthday party they had when they were five where the neighbor bullied them and that scarred them for life and lead them down the path that they ended up on.

Just in case it wasn't obvious, that was an exaggeration. I highly doubt there are any autobiographies out there that have something like that in them, nor would I ever expect one to. Though I honestly wouldn't be surprised. But my point is that "ever since I was a kid" is a phrase that I practically expect an autobiography to open up with. And honestly, how else would you open one a lot of the time? There's nothing wrong with that particular phrase, and it's probably a true statement. It just gets really old really quick.

Sometimes I think about what it would be like for me to write an autobiography. In a way, I suppose I already have written bits and pieces of one. Every non-fiction post on here is exactly that - a story from my real life. If you were unaware, that might change how you view them, or how you view me. But regardless, most of the time when I think about this subject, I come to the conclusion that I would not want to write one.

It's not that I'm ashamed of my life, or even that I think people wouldn't find it interesting. I mean, obviously I haven't lived a lot of it yet, and I'm not trying to say that my life is super interesting and it would make a great story if I did write it down. But I also know that in my time, I have done some really cool stuff, and a lot of the time, people love to hear about them.

But I don't.

I get tired of my life. I get tired of experiencing sometimes. Sometimes, I just want to hear about other people's experiences, let them have the limelight. It's a really backwards way of thinking, and I have no arguments about that. I've just spent so much time in my life doing, while the people around me have spent so much time not doing, and while they're jealous of me, I'm jealous of them.

I suppose it's a grass is always greener situation. If you've enjoyed any of my non-fiction stories, you should probably know that I've told most of them enough times that they don't hold much meaning to me anymore. There are exceptions of course, one in particular that I can think of, but generally speaking, they just feel dull to me.

And I wouldn't want to fill a book with dull life stories. That's not what I want to read. So why write it?

Confrontation

Arianna felt her heart freeze. She knew that voice. She had only heard it the one time, but she knew that voice all too well. It haunted her dreams.

It was the first time Harr had seen the walking storm, but looking at him, he knew in an instant who it was. The man was massive, a hulking figure dressed in tight black clothing, and Harr hardly even had to focus to see the black tendrils dripping and rolling off of his body. His potential was incredible, but it didn't have a single lick of light within it. The man was more than a walking storm. He was practically death incarnate.

"Give me the girl, and you may be fortunate enough to only walk away with some damaged body functions."

Arianna was trembling, Harr could see it out of the corner of his eyes. He had to get her out of there. It was the only option. He just couldn't see a way of doing it. The man was approaching from the other side of the fire that dinner was still cooking on, just barely lit up by it. The shadows streaked across his face, making his eyes look empty, his features sharp and deadly. He was moving slowly now, but from how Arianna had described, that wouldn't mean much once he had decided they wouldn't go down easy. They may only have a few seconds.

The horses were barely beginning to lift their heads, and certainly wouldn't be on their feet in time for the two to even mount up. With barely any call, Harr's eyes were calling hard on potential. He saw lights coming from every direction, most weak, coming from animals in the area around them. Arianna's was bright and powerful, but was shrinking away from the blackness of the man. His dark flame was preparing to engulf everything in the area. Options were running short, and they certainly weren't going to last for long.

His only hope was the fire. The real fire. The lights of potential disappeared in an instant, and Harr slowly rose from the ground, his hands lifted in surrender. Arianna watched him, terrified, unknowing what he was about to do. For all she knew, he had seen the terror that was the storm, and he was preparing to give her up. Just as Perman had tried to kill her, know her own family was ready to give her away.

"You must be hungry," Harr called out. The man rose an eyebrow, but did not falter. "It's been a bit of a journey to get out this far, and I don't see your horse anywhere. Surely you must be tired."

"I should hope you do not think you can win my good side," the man called back. "You should know that I don't have one."

"Please, we were just making dinner. By all means, take it." He was inching carefully towards the food, arms outstretched as though he were presenting it to him.

The man was only a dozen feet away now. His dark and heavy voice felt like a thud to the chest with every word. "You have three seconds to hand over the girl." There was no hesitation in his voice. No hint that he was willing to negotiate. Three seconds, and then they would be dead. "One."

Arianna felt as though her heart was stopping. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. She saw her uncle reach down for the stick in the flames, and then the man was launching forward at high speed. It only took him two steps to reach Harr, who pulled back hard, flinging fire and ash into the air in front of him, just barely splashing it across the man's face. It paused him for only a moment, but in that moment Harr struck.

He punched the man in the chest with all of the force that he could muster, a straight blow to the dead center of his ribcage. Any normal would likely have at least cracked a rib. But the storm did not move.

Instead, as he blinked the burning rubbish from his face, he threw his own punch, slamming Harr in the gut and sending him flying through the air, directly over Arianna's head, before he hit the ground hard and rolled, spitting out blood as he made contact.

Arianna screamed. She screamed louder than she had ever screamed before. Screamed her throat out, her lungs dry, and made her own ears rattle in the process.

Harr could barely look up to see what was happening, struggling through the pain. He saw the storm stalking towards his niece, brushing the remains of the fire from his chest. He saw her trembling in fear, heard her screaming, felt her screaming rattling his chest, piercing through his already shattered ribs. And just beyond them, he saw another shape.

The wolf had heard the screams of the princess. In the moment, Harr could only assume that the wolf had recognized the scream as that of a dying creature, and wanted in on the remains. It leapt through the fires towards the two, unheard beyond the screams of Arianna, and landed on the man's back, claws digging in as it took a heavy bite out of the side of the man's neck. He was caught completely off guard and roared in pain, grabbing the wolf by the collar and tearing it away to smash it into the ground.

But the wolf had gotten a better grip than the man had counted on, and in pulling it off he teared out a sizeable chunk of his own neck. He roared in pain as blood poured out of the open wound, and the wolf landed just beside Arianna, bloody chunk of human flesh still in its mouth.

The sight only made her screaming worse. She was terrified beyond belief. She could see her life flashing before her eyes. This was not how she wanted to die. Not in the slightest. She didn't want to die alone in the middle of nowhere to a lunatic who was stronger than any man had any right to be, with a wolf looking to feed on human flesh, and her uncle lying a dozen feet away, utterly broken.

But the wolf's attack had bought a few more seconds of time. And in that time, the horses had gotten to their feet, packs still on their backs. One turned hard and ran to Harr, making a wall in between him and the man, while the other nudged Arianna's shoulder hard, pulling her for a moment out of her frozen state. Desperate to leave, she gripped the horse's mane, and as if knowing what she wanted, it grabbed her collar in its jaw to fling her onto its back, bolting hard away from the cleared space.

The man roared in anger, launching a rock through the air after the horse, but the pain in his neck put his aim out of commission, and the rock slammed into the ground ahead of them, having flown just to the right of Arianna's head.

And then the wolf was on him again, this time attacking his ankles. His roars were just as terrible as the rest of him, booming through the air as Arianna's horse galloped away as hard as it could.

It wasn't until she could no longer hear the man's screaming that she looked back and noticed that Harr was not with her.

Teamwork

Vana froze when she heard the roar of the monster from her nightmares. She had seen it once before. Witnessed its terrible power. Nearly been destroyed by it. It had haunted her for years, having crippled her and left her on the verge of death, and those who she had been working with had discarded her. She had lost faith in humanity. Tried to move away from civilization, build a new life with nothing to do with the one she had had before.

But a boy had come along who remembered her, and changed everything. He had saved her when she didn't want to be saved. Introduced her to people who could help her and love her, and he had never abandoned her. She had thought that maybe she could go back to how things had been. There was a small part of her, pushed way back behind the pain and misery, that wanted to be a hunter again. But she had been too scared to admit it.

She was in the field again. She hadn't been fully back to how she had been, but she had been improving again. Regaining the muscle memory and endurance necessary for hunting down and slaying monsters that were torturing and aggravating the people and wildlife around them. She had thought maybe she could go back to how things had been. But now it was back. Coming for her.

She looked over her shoulder, barely able to breath, to see that giant, hulking white dragon charging towards her. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't move. The crippling pain came back instead, and she fell to her knees with an agonizing scream. She was going to die. She was going to be crushed by the beast's jaw, filled with darkness that would explode out from within her and decimate her.

She closed her eyes and waited. The sound of those feet pounding, claws digging, and that rage fueled roar kept getting closer until it was just on top of her.

And then there was the sound of steel slamming down on scales, and the monster roared in pain and anger, and turned its focus away from her. Vana could feel her heart beating out of her chest, but she would not open her eyes. She was dreaming. She had to be. In her final moments, she was hallucinating the possibility of being saved.

But she kept breathing. Her heart kept pounding. She was alive.

She opened her eyes to see the monster rolling along the ground, pawing at its face in obvious pain. She looked around, lost and confused, and then Moris' hand was on her shoulder, pulling her up onto her feet.

She looked into his eyes, terror apparent in hers, and calming care in his. "Deep breaths," he told her quietly. She gulped for air, and tried to relax. He held out her hammer to her. She had dropped it, and he had used it to beat the beast down just long enough to protect her. "We're gonna make it. You and me. We're taking him down. Keep telling yourself that. Don't stop repeating it until it's true."

Vana nodded silently and gripped her hammer. She saw the beast getting up behind Moris, but before she could tell him, he was already turning and pulling his massive axe off of his back. "Let's prove that before was just a fluke."

And then he was running off, hell bent on destroying what had nearly destroyed her.

She could not have loved him more than in that moment.

Maps

George dropped his bag on the rocky ground and sat on one of the small boulders beside it, leaning forward to dig through the bag and pull out his map of the area. It was uncharted territory, at least by humans, and he was working on traveling through what had been deemed as the wastelands and chronicling what he found in them to the best of his ability. He was exhausted from the day's journey, his clothes soaked through with sweat, and he pulled his shirt off and cast it aside in hopes that it would dry as he drew.

The air around him was hot and muggy, but he had long since gotten used to the feeling. Most had called him crazy for wanting to explore into such uncharted territory, but in his own opinion, the wastelands had been both good to him and for him. The travels and work he put in had made him strong and enduring, and the sun had been long on his back, tanning his skin. He imagined that when he returned many would no longer recognize him. But he was dedicated to his work.

As he drew, he rested his back against the hard surface that had risen to meet him. It was tough, especially on his bare skin, but as with many things on his journey, he had grown to be comfortable with this. He had been traveling and working for nearly a year now - more than enough time for one's entire life to be turned upside down.

You are most fortunate that I can remember things so well. The voice spoke directly into George's mind, but he did not so much as flinch, unperturbed from his work. It was a familiar and friendly voice. One he had long since come to rely upon.

"What I am fortunate of," he responded, "is that you are so willing to assist me."

The dragon's head lifted up from the ground and curled around to look at George from the side. He was resting against it's side, sitting on the rock which it had wrapped its tail around, and the heat it exuded filled the air, steaming the shirt that George had discarded. It eyes were thin and golden, and its scales as dark as the rocks it rested upon. Anyone who did not know it was there would not have noticed its presence. But George had been the dragons companion for nearly a year.

Yes, it replied, I suppose you are. There are not many dragons who would be so fond of a human as I. And fewer yet who would have the patience for such a dull and boring task as yours.

George smiled and continued to draw. "Dull to dragons, perhaps, but not to humans. This is valuable information to have. And especially for one as curious as me. But you know that already. And I am just glad to have found a dragon old and tired enough to enjoy the kind of lifestyle and partnership that I can provide."

The dragon puffed a hot blast of smoke and air from its nostrils before laying its head down. You were quite lucky, I suppose. But what will you do if I am the one who will die first?

"Aside from bemoan the loss of a good friend?" He could feel the dragon's smile. "I will probably have to give up mapmaking for one. Your memory and our connection is too essential to my works."

And then what will you do?

George looked out over the landscape. The two were sitting atop a high plateau overlooking the wasteland's deep and long valley. "With so little left," he said quietly, "I suppose I will just have to pray that I am not long behind you."

There was a long pause after that, and George went back to his work.

Perhaps we shall simply have to go onto the next world together.

"Yes. I think I would rather enjoy that."

Free Write 2

I honestly didn't want to really do another one of these. In concept they're alright, but I don't know. It feels like a cop out. But truth be told, I'm running kind of low on creativity lately.

I've been focusing nearly all of my writing creativity on trying to write my novel for Nano. And I'm behind on that, and by a fairly substantial amount as well. It's incredibly frustrating. I feel constantly tired, and my story this year seems to be lacking flow. I cannot begin to describe how many times I have written what feels like the exact same dribble over and over. I know I've written over two thousand words, and that is a good deal of reading, but what I have been writing feels so compact. I'm not sure how to explain it. But everything so far has happened over the span of three days, and while I feel like an emphasis on the events that are taking place is necessary, I don't know it's as necessary as I have been writing it, if that makes any sense.

A part of me doesn't like how much Real Talk I've been writing on this blog during this month. But another part of me knows just how much fiction I have been writing outside of it, and tells me that I shouldn't feel bad about it. I think the conflict comes from the fact that, despite the fact I know almost no one reads my blog, I think of it as though I have an audience. And I wouldn't want to be throwing a bunch of boring rambles at an audience who is here to read fiction. It would be like J. K. Rowling releasing a series of shorts in the world of Harry Potter, but half of them are just autobiographical. I understand it's a wild and totally unrealistic comparison - it's just how it feels in my head.

Going back to the novel I've been working on, if it means anything to anyone, it's based on the story that Wings started, though in a slightly different vein. To tell the truth, other than that opening, I don't have a lot going for that story. But it's one that's been in my head for years, and that I've always wanted to write. When I wrote Wings on the blog, it was the first time I had felt satisfied that I could write this story.

Good lord, did I prove myself wrong.

But I still want to write it. I want to explore that world. There's just something about it that intrigues and mystifies me, and I can only hope beyond hope that I can instill that in a reader. So I'm going to make myself keep writing it, in much the same way as I make myself keep writing for the blog every day. I mean, that's half the reason I do this, as I've said before. Even if the story ends up being a heaping pile of shit, at least I'll be able to say that I've written it, and hopefully from there I'll be able to edit it until it becomes something actually worth reading.

Bad guys

Daniel and Lee sat on the roof of the bank, waiting for a signal to come over their walkies, decked out with concealed weapons and a belt full of tools. They were part of a small team of individuals who had come together with a goal of making a better world. In order to do so, they looked into big corporations, looking for their secrets that they didn't want the public to know. Secrets about how they were cheating people out of their money. Their possessions. Their lives.

Daniel held his walkie in one hand, the other resting on the pistol on his hip. His father had died in a freak accident, or so he had been told. He had been told by Freddie, the lead of their group, that that had been a lie. By hacking into the company's database where his father had been working, Freddie showed Daniel how his father had tried to push for change in his company, and a plan had put together to have him killed under the guise of an accident. Ever since that day, Daniel had sworn to work under Freddie to prevent that from happening to anyone else.

Lee had already planted the small explosive on the lock of the ventilation system, and was waiting for his signal to blow it so that the two could make their way inside. His wife had been fired from her job shortly after being diagnosed with severe depression. Within a week she had committed suicide. Freddie had delivered him similar news.

The pair had become fast friends as they had worked together. They trusted each other, perhaps more than they trusted any of their other partners. They knew the pain of loss, and the knew the feeling of determination. They never wanted anyone to experience what they had, and they were going to do something to make that happen.

It was getting close to time for them to infiltrate. Up to that point, the two had been silent, patiently waiting for their signal. But suddenly, Daniel broke the silence.

"Do you ever think we're the bad guys?" he asked.

Lee looked at him, nothing but confusion on his face. "Are you Daniel?" he asked. "Are you my partner? Or did they send me a doppelganger that's here to try and test me?"

Daniel sighed and shook his head, as if trying to shake out his own thoughts. "I know," he said. "I know. I can't deny what happened. It's clear as day. And clearly if we don't want that to happen to other people, then we have to do something. But..."

"But what, Dan?"

"But we're breaking into a bank."

Lee laughed. He laughed long and hard. He knew he was supposed to be quiet, but he couldn't help but laugh. "You know that just because that's what the bad guys do in books doesn't mean it's always bad," he said. "We're doing this for a reason. This isn't for us. It's for everyone."

Daniel nodded. "You're right," he said. "You're right."

And the signal came, and without hesitation, Lee blew the vent.

Hero's Journey

One of the first things you learn when you are learning to analyze stories is the hero's journey. And for good reason. Nearly every story that has ever been told, particularly when it comes to action and adventure stories. From the classics by Homer to The Lion King, the Hero's Journey describes the journey of a hero through his story. From low beginnings, to learning new abilities, facing hardships, and having a climatic face off before the story settles down to show a snippet of life after everything has taken place.

It's pretty basic. There's a reason it works with so many stories. If it was any more complicated, any more in depth, then it wouldn't be as effective in describing stories as it is. And it was specifically designed for that purpose. It's a great tool for understanding good storytelling, as there are very few stories that shouldn't follow the path of a steadily rising intensity plot that reaches its peak in the final showdown before mellowing out for an epilogue.

Consider what would happen if you didn't do this. Perhaps you started your story with the climax. The story begins with your character defeating the thing that has plagued them their entire life. They overcome and conquer it, becoming something that they never before thought it possible that they could become. Now what? They can settle down, start a new life, be everything they've ever dreamed of. It's possible that you could write an entire story out of this, sure, but where would it go? Perhaps they could face new conflicts, but likely the story would have to go in a radically different direction from its beginning chapters in that situation, meaning that anyone who attempts to read it will be highly misdirected.

But there are some people who will look at a story, see that it follows the hero's journey, and criticize it because of that. Say that it is not original enough of a story because it follows this age old transcript that thousands of stories before it has followed. That the author should be trying harder to test their boundaries and push the limits of their storytelling.

But is that fair? It is so easy for someone to be following this guideline that they would have to be actively trying not to, and in actively forcing their story to stray away from such a basic, simple path, they are severely limiting their creativity and making the story something that it does not wish to be. To put it simply - trying not to follow the hero's journey actively will more than likely only serve to make your story worse.

And in the long run, there's probably a good chance that it will follow the hero's journey anyway. It's just that far encompassing of an idea.

Dragon's breath

Miranda stabbed her staff into the ground, one hand wrapped tight around its shaft, the other rapidly tracing out the runes of a spell in the air before her. "I'm gonna need some time for this!" she shouted out to her companion.

Marcus sighed and rolled his shoulders, pulling his shield in front of his body and his sword by his ear, angled to be pointing forward towards the massive onslaught before him. It was two against... what? Fifty? His odds were not good.

"Time," he muttered under his breath. "Right. Because we have so much of that."

The ground just behind his feet rapidly sunk down, the crust of the earth breaking apart and slipping down around Miranda, leaving massive gaps of space between her and the attackers, the inside slowly filling with magma. That would keep her safe for the time being. But Marcus would have to keep the men fighting, else they begin to construct some sort of bridge or path. It would only take a few men to do that. That meant he had to be moving between several warriors at a time, and quickly. And all the while he had to not die.

"Damn witches."

The attackers fell on top of Marcus like a landslide, swords and shields coming down like hammers on steel. He could already feel the strength in his arm beginning to fail just trying to hold back the swarming flow of blows as he tried to find an opening to strike back. He had to move quickly, slipping between strikes and using his strength to divert blows rather than stop them, countering with his own blade when he could.

But he was quickly being overwhelmed. He could feels the heavy dull blows of shields, hilts, and feet pounding against his body, and small nicks of blades were cutting away at his armor and grazing his flesh. He dropped no more than a handful of men before he could see a group of stragglers attempting to plan away across to where Miranda was. He tried to push toward them, but he was surrounded. In a ditch effort, he threw his sword like a javelin, just barely piercing one of the men's shoulders, catching the group off guard and pulling them back towards the fight.

But that meant that Marcus was left with only a shield. He did his best to use it to defend himself, while at the same time striking out with it, aiming for throats but frequently hitting chests instead. The blows came quicker and heavier on his body, and there was little he could do about it.

The fighting had only lasted for a matter of minutes, but to Marcus it felt like an eternity. But it had given Miranda the time she needed.

A roar that split the air brought the fighting to an abrupt halt. Marcus dropped to his knees as the men turned to see Miranda, staff held high, flames bursting forth from its head to create the long form of a dragon, swirling around her and looking to feed. It took one look at the group of men and lashed out at them, teeth gnashing, flaming scales searing the land.

The men ran. The dragon gave chase.

It burned and destroyed everything in its path. It started with the slower, decimating them in a heartbeat, slowly climbing its way up their ranks until not a man was left standing.

Marcus lay on the ground, beaten, bruised, and bleeding, his breath brief. He watched the fire dragon destroy those who he had barely survived against. And then he watched the land rise back up to its previous place, and Miranda was standing over him.

"Remind me not to get on your bad side," he wheezed.

The one year point

Man I'm writing a lot of Real Talks lately.

We're not there yet, but I wanted to touch briefly on the fact that I'm getting close to having done this blog project of mine for a year. It'll be about a month and a half until I hit 365 blog posts, but I don't officially consider having started until January 1, so in reality it's more like two months. But I said from the beginning that I wanted to try and hit a full year of having done this blog every single day, and while I technically haven't done that, as I've missed two or three days, I've done infinitely better than I ever thought I would.

I believe this will be post number three hundred twenty four. 324. I make this joke a lot, but that's about 314 more posts than I ever expected to make. And I know that's funny and a bit tongue in cheek, but it's also pretty true. I'm not very good at making habits or following patterns. For all the many things that I am, I am a procrastinator above all else. Even with this blog, I write and post nearly all of my stories and musings shortly (or more frequently, immediately) before going to bed. But these are things I've said before.

I just wanted to talk a bit before we get there about the end of this year in writing. My goal from the beginning was to hit a year. A year of writing every single day is a huge undertaking, and a massive accomplishment, especially for me. I've tried to push myself in new directions, and some of those directions worked surprisingly well, even when I didn't like writing them. I'd like to think that I've gotten better at writing during this year, but I've also realized just how much further I have to go, and the slow progress towards that goal is quite frustrating.

I never really got to a point where I really had actual readers on my blog, but I suppose that wasn't really the point, either. I would like to have them, and especially ones who will give me feedback, which I've talked about before. I don't expect to use this blog as a means of getting money. If I could introduce people to my writing and find what I do well and that people react well too I would be more than happy. But I have time for that.

Which is the main thing I want to say. Most of my friends, whether they read my blog or not, know that I am writing it. And as I was talking to one recently about it, I realized that he viewed it as coming to a close with the end of the year. That I had wanted a year of writing, and that that year was almost over.

But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop writing, and it especially doesn't mean I'm going to stop writing on this blog.

Having something to keep me accountable on writing has been good for me. It's put me in some tough spots, and I've had to slowly learn to manage my time better, but more than anything, it's done exactly what I wanted it to do - it's kept me writing. And if I just drop it, I don't know if that will continue.

So I don't plan to.

I don't want the blog to be a one and done kind of thing. I want to keep going. Hell, even if I publish books like I've always dreamed, I want to keep writing on this blog. Maybe someday I'll be a famous author, and this blog will be a chronicle of my journey to get there, and I'll keep writing in it so that every day fans can come and see something new, and even give me direct feedback.

Wouldn't that be the day.

A history of interests

When I was knee high to a grasshopper, just old enough to begin forming opinions and finding what kinds of things I liked and didn't like, my parents found it difficult to actually make me do that. I suppose in retrospect I can understand the difficulty, seeing as to this day I continue to be ambivalent to most things that I am introduced to. Sports, music, movies. I just didn't care about anything that my parents tried to introduce me to. It wasn't until a trip to Las Vegas (somewhat ironically, given that not a single person in my family actually enjoys being in Vegas, myself included) that we managed to find something I could actually like.

It was a dinner event, and I don't think anyone can honestly say why we decided to go to it. But it was themed as a tournament in the middle ages, with a set of knights battling it out on foot and on horseback in a variety of games and competitions to decide who was the greatest knight among them. Cliche? Sure. Over acted and clearly an act? Probably. But I was mesmerized. Utterly captured by these men in shining armor, competing to show their strength, masters of their animals, a complete lack of fear as sparks flew and metal clashed. They put food in front of me and I didn't even touch it. My dad had to get me fast food on the way out because I hadn't eaten at the dinner show.

Years later, my dad had tried to teach me to play piano. As usual, I was completely uninterested. I wasn't very into the sound at the time, I didn't want to be sitting down at this big, dull instrument, and I couldn't for the life of me remember where the hell middle C was, whatever the hell that even meant. I tried for maybe a total of two days before giving up, and my dad was short behind me. Then, while visiting some family friends a few months later, my dad came home from the store and put down an acoustic guitar in front of me. He had just seen it and decided, if I didn't like piano, maybe I would like guitar.

Unlike piano, however, there wasn't a single member of my family that knew how to play the guitar. So for that day, I messed around with it a bit, having no idea what anything on the wooden thing meant, before putting it aside, presumably to be left in the dust. It was another few months before, in a boy scout meeting, my dad was introduced to a guitar teacher that a friend of mine was under the tutelage of. The next week, so was I. And ten years later, I'm still playing guitar.

But that wasn't all that boy scouts gave me. Eventually, my family became heavily involved in boy scouts, to the point where we were some of the primary planners of troop outings. And in looking for potential trips, we found a deal with a sports team called the Stealth who played a game we had never even heard of before - Lacrosse. Out of curiosity, and being reasonably close to the event, we decided to check it out.

We knew none of the rules. We don't know any of the people. We could barely keep up with what was going on. But when the Stealth scored their first goal, it was like magic. One second I was dully watching the game, trying just to understand the basics of what was happening. The next I was on my feet, screaming my lungs out in excitement. I didn't even remember getting out of my seat. I remember sitting down afterwards, and my dad was ecstatic that we had found something else that I enjoyed.

Words

I thoroughly enjoy how, at least in the English language, there are dozens of words that mean the same thing. I know that that is something that people frequently mock the language for, and many people wish the language was simpler and easier to learn, and while on the one hand I can't disagree, on the other I can.

Perhaps this is simply because I am a writer. I spend so much time thinking about words that I have a different outlook on them then other people. That there are so many different words with the same meaning but ever so slightly different definitions, giving them different connotations that ever so slightly change the mood of a scene, I can't help but love those words.

I'm no good at implementing them. Lord knows that, and if you've read any of my blogposts, you probably know that. Hell, even just reading this very blogpost about those words that I love so much, you can tell that I'm no good at using them in any degree. The word counter I use, that judges me every day on the reading level of my writing, reminds me quite frequently that my writing level is far below my age.

But all that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate the strange grace that such a confounding, ungraceful language provides. Sure, it sounds terrible at times, and people butcher the language every other time they open their mouths whether they mean to or not, but there are a rare few who are truly incredible at using the english language, and I think everyone who knows anything about the english language can name someone who does so. They are so skilled at their craft, and they express it so frequently, that they can't help but go down in history for having done so.

On one hand, I do wish that I could be like these people. To express myself on various levels in a single sentiment is the stuff of dreams for me. On the other hand, I don't want people reading my works and attempting to see into the deeper levels of it. Is it a problem to be taking a different story from something than the author intended? Not necessarily. But I would say it is a problem to be reading into something and trying to believe that that was the intent of the story.

That is the biggest downside to our language. The ability for people to miss the point because the words and understanding of those words is not precise enough to get across the intended meaning. But I believe that that downside is well worth all the upsides.

Storyless

In the world of video games, with roughly forty years of history and thousands of games to look at, there are a small number of stand out classics. Games whose names are etched into the annals of history, who stand the test of time, and who are referred to as much as three decades later as the building blocks for modern gaming, and who we should look back to as an example of what to do and what not to do. These games aren't perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but they did so many things right, that their faults can be pushed to the side and forgotten with relative ease.

Perhaps the best example one can possibly give of this is the Mario series, and specifically Super Mario Brothers on the NES. An absolute classic that every gamer is well familiarized with, and whose simple gameplay and mechanics still make for a solid game today. For some people it can be brutally difficult. For others it is so simple that they feel the need to find ways to make it harder. Personally, I can't get past the third stage, no matter which third stage I go to, and I've never so much as approached one of the castle levels. But that doesn't mean I don't recognize what it did for gaming, nor that I dislike it in anyway.

But one thing that I find interesting about it, and many other classic games, is its utter lack of a story. Today, many games, movies, and books are criticized for having a lack of a story, or a poorly constructed one, and there are some people (myself included) who will not tolerate something if it does not have a story to draw them in.

And Super Mario Bros story? Have the plumber go save the princess from the giant evil turtle. She's not in the castle? Keep going until you find the right one.

Not only does it not make any sense from a storytelling perspective, it is so bizarrely simple it hardly constitutes a story. And yet nearly every major Mario game has essentially followed this format to a T, with very few and very minor exceptions. And yet these games are universally adored and admired, and are often the first ones pointed to when someone asks about what makes gaming good.

They're hardly works of art. The music is well made. The gameplay is the biggest selling point. But the story is nearly nonexistent. And no one seems to mind when humungous games like last year's Destiny are shot to hell and back for their lack of story, despite many fan's absolutely adoring the gameplay, setting, atmosphere, music, and presentation. All things that Mario is well known for.

Yet down the line, Destiny will more than likely be lost to time, while Mario will continue to be a home name. Perhaps it is because Mario did not try to have a story like Destiny did, or because Mario understands fun so well. But could you imagine reading it as a book? Or watching it as a movie?

Actually, strike that last one. That happened. And it was terrible.

Inspiration

From time to time I think about a comment I once read from someone about their writing. I remember them saying that they travelled everywhere with a notepad and pencil for the express purpose of writing down conversations that they overheard other people having. Just hearing people talk about things would give them ideas for conversations for their own characters, and they wanted to make sure that they didn't lose any of that.

Some people like to take their characters from certain books, and roleplay specifically with them. They do this so they can explore their characters, learn how they would talk in conversations that they might think themselves, or act in situations that they wouldn't normally encounter. Doing this fleshes out that character more in the authors mind, and gives them new ideas for things that they can do in their original story.

And of course, some people just have ideas thrust upon them. From out of nowhere, an idea pops into their mind, and they just run with it. They can't fully explain where it comes from, and perhaps it was a dream, or a memory, or a song, or something that they saw, and that sat in their mind and festered, fermented, and formed into something new until it was ready to come out.

But truth be told, I think for most writers it's a little bit of everything. I know I've had ideas for a piece of writing come from just about everywhere. Things I've heard people say, games, movies, books, songs, pictures, prompts. And a lot of the time, even though it comes from that, it ends up being something completely different and unrelated. People have told me to write one thing, and I say, "Dude, I've got this!" and what I end up writing has absolutely nothing to do with what they said and they are left scratching their heads in confusion.

But hey. That's just how things go. No one can really explain inspiration. It's just a thing that happens. You can be inspired by the strangest of things. Sometimes you are even inspired by something you hate, and whether that's to do it better or just a weird coincidence, who knows.

And if you ask me, that's the way it should be. If we could control our inspiration, then it wouldn't really be inspiration. I can't really explain why that it is, but it just wouldn't quite be the same. Because if we could control it, then it wouldn't surprise us. And if it didn't surprise us, it would just be business as usual, and that would get boring and, ironically, uninspired.

And man. I really hope that's the right use of irony.

Young love

Varina was shaking at the end of the school day, nervous but anticipating. She had been picturing what she was going to do all day. So afraid of rejection, but not entirely sure what she would do if her feelings were returned as well. But she had to confront her crush, let them know the feelings she had for them, and hope to god that those feelings were returned. She had been putting it off for long enough. It was now or never.

She had tried to keep it a secret from her best friend, Vanessa, but somehow Vanessa had learned about it. She insisted to be there when it happened, so she could see the dirty details go down. She wanted to be able to tell everyone the next day about what had happened. She was a gossiper like that, which coincidentally had been how they had met. Vanessa had been so stoked to tell someone about a new hot story that when she had come across Varina, she just started telling her about it, not worrying about who she was talking to. After that, with Varina being so confused as to what had even happened, they started talking, and had been fast friends ever since.

Reluctantly, Varina had agreed to let Vanessa watch, which she hadn't been planning on. But in the end, in a way, it actually almost made it easier for her to do what she had to. She was going to confess her feelings, and no one was going to stop her.

So the two waited after the school day ended, and slowly all of the students disappeared as they headed home. Vanessa was growing impatient, because Varina had been waiting on a bench at the south end of school, away from the parking lot, trying very hard to keep her face straight. Finally, Vanessa pulled forward from her hiding spot to confront her friend.

"Varina, no one is left. How are you suppose to ask your guy out if there's no one left here to confess to?"

Varina looked up at her, a look of fear and discomfort clear in her eyes, but she did her best to keep her face straight. "I have to say it, Vanessa."

"Yeah, of course you do! How else am I going to tell such a juicy story? But there's no one left for you to confess to! Isn't it a little late now to be telling yourself that?"

Varina shook her head stubbornly. "You don't understand, Vanessa. I have to say it."

Vanessa threw her hands up in the air. "Fine. Then just say it. No one left to hear you."

"I love you."

Vanessa sighed. "There. You said it. Next time try to say it to someone." But when Vanessa turned to look, Varina was looking straight at her. She could feel her face burn, but she wasn't sure which one of them was blushing harder.

"I did, Vanessa. I love you."

"Varina, what are you-"

But Varina's hands were on her shoulders. "I love you, Vanessa."

There was a long pause as Vanessa let that sink in.

"O-oh."

Shotgun

Andre and Matt stood in adjacent stalls at the firing range, which they had rented out for a couple hours for themselves. Andre had brought his break shotgun, which popped open from the back and shot out the empty shells into his chest to be replaced by fresh ones, while Matt had a pump action, allowing him to load in new shells from the side. There really was no advantage to one or the other, though the pump had considerably less recoil - Andre just liked what he liked, and Matt liked what he liked. The skeet launcher was set to throw two clay pigeons at a time, with a maximum load of twenty pigeons, allowing the duo ten rounds before having to step back and reload the launcher. They set up the pigeons in a specific order, so that each launch would have an orange and a green. Andre aimed orange, and Matt green.

Setting up the launcher took a few minutes of careful placement, and so the two would talk as they took turns loading it up.

"How's that Liz chick?" Andre asked as Matt took his turn loading up.

Matt chuckled. "She's pretty out there, man," he commented. "I haven't told her yet about Skeet Sundays. She just knows I'm out with you. I have a feeling she won't approve."

"The hell are you dating her for then?"

"I dunno, man. I mean, she's hot. And she has her moments. She just has some weird thing against guns."

"I don't know if you've noticed, man, but we spend a good deal of time around guns. Pretty comfortable with them. You'd probably get pretty fucking mad if she took your shotgun, eh?" Matt couldn't argue that. "She finds out, she wants to take it away? What are you gonna do then? Gonna be a good little boy and sit down while she takes your toys from you?"

"You know I ain't gonna just sit back and let that happen, man. Besides, like you're one to talk about girls. When was the last time you went on a date?"

Andre chuckled. "You don't know, man. You never ask."

Matt looked up at Andre, one eyebrow raised skeptically. "You saying you got a girl you haven't told me about?"

"Beat me next round, maybe I'll tell you."

Matt laughed at that. "Alright, bro. You're on now. But I call the shots."

Andre laughed back. "If you think that'll help your chances, then please. Show me you're a big boy and don't need no woman to tell you what to do."

Openings

It is funny how varied the opinions of writers may be. While one may tell you that beginning a story is the hardest part, another may tell you that ending a story is far harder. One will write in a coffee shop, fueled by caffeine, with gentle acoustic music playing in the background, while another will tell you that the only way to go is in a lunge chair out in the backyard with a steady supply of wine by your side. And some will try to tell you that their way is the only way to go about it, while others will tell you to find your own path, because no two people will ever write in the same way.

But I would say that there is one universal truth to writing, and I would venture to guess that while not all writers might think of it if you asked them, if you presented this answer to them, they'd all agree. The truth is that every part of writing is hard. Knowing the rules is hard, and knowing when to break them is hard. Starting a story is just as hard as ending it, but also as hard as connecting that start to that end. Getting out the words that you want without losing anything along the way...

The hardest part of writing is writing.

And I think that's why so many people say that the hardest part is starting. Not because the opening itself is so hard, but because taking the first step is. It's hard to sit down and start writing. I know that pretty damn well by now. I've started over 300 times by now. Go ahead, count. I'll wait.

But making that opening can be pretty damn hard. Once you get a few lines down, then the logical next few start to come out, and eventually sentence after sentence is coming through your fingertips, and it may not sound all that good, but at least you're getting it down, because it's just the first draft and you can do it all again later, and you can polish it, and you can get rid of the turds that came about every other word, and you can eliminate all the long, drawn out, nonsensical sentences that probably should have ended two or three lines back.

That's kinda what happens in the opening though. Especially in your first draft, and when it's your first time with a particular story. You don't entirely know where it's going, so you don't entirely know where to start. But you have to get started, because if you don't, then you'll never figure out the details that actually tell you where you should have started. It's a scary, intimidating thought, one that probably makes you never want to start, but it's a thought you can't simply skip over because it's important. No matter how passionate you are about a story, it will never get as good as you want it to be unless you start it.

I've started plenty of stories where before the first sentence was even done I wanted to give up on them. They sounded like utter garbage. I'd say at least a third if not half of the posts on this very blog have been like that. But, clearly, I stuck with them anyway. And sometimes they were garbage. But sometimes they turned out a lot better than expected. And there have been plenty of stories that I've read that were just like that. I hated the first sentence, but I kept going and ended up loving the book.

The opening is important. It's what gets everything going. But you can't base everything off of the opening. You'd have a pretty short story if you did.