Creation

Although when talking about it, I frequently explain that I write stories, in my mind I more commonly think of it as creating a story. A world. Characters and situations. Perhaps with my current skill level it is only writing, but my goal is to create them, if that makes sense. I won't be satisfied simply to have someone read my stories. I want them to have the world of my stories appear in their mind, to feel as though they are on a journey with my characters, standing next to them and experiencing the events that they are living through with them.

A creator is what I want to be in a lot of ways. Creating is perhaps my favorite thing to do in life. Not just in writing, but in most everything that I do. I have had the fortune of being able to experience a wide variety of things in my life, from places to experiences to the chance to gain new skills. And the things that I have enjoyed the most, the things that I think about most frequently, and the things that I want to go back to are always the things that let me create. Writing. Music. Lutherie. Flameworking. Silversmithing. And though I have yet to try it, I have always wanted to and am sure that I would love blacksmithing, as I have mentioned before.

I'm not sure when I really realized that I love creating, as I understand it now. It may not have been all that long ago. And while I normally say that I'm not a creative person, I know that's not entirely true. Just the fact that this blog exists at all is proof otherwise. The real problem is that I'm not as creative as I want to be. I'm very good at taking a set of instructions and following them. Given time and patience (which I don't always have), I can take an image placed in front of me and replicate it. But when asked to make something from scratch, well... That's where problems start to come in.

I'm not much of an artist is all. I'm much better at function over form, which has its advantages at times, but isn't really enough. Having something beautiful in my hands, that I can point at and say "I made this" is one of the coolest, most prideful feelings I have ever experienced. And then being able to pass that thing that I created off to someone else, and seeing them using it or taking it with them places... I can't even begin to describe the swelling I feel in my chest.

I've built worlds. I've built songs. I've built instruments. I've built glass structures and jewelry. And I love all of those things. I would gladly go back and do any of them time and time again. But my writing - my worlds - are the only ones that I couldn't remake. I couldn't make the same ones over and over again. I want them to be different and unique in some way. New worlds with new people and new troubles. And as hard as that is for me to do, it is also the most appealing because of that. I willingly choose the most difficult in that way.

You know. Because I'm an idiot.

Git gud

I've always considered myself to be a jack of all trades, master of none. I generally have a pretty high base for my skill level in most things - art not included - but a pretty low skill ceiling by comparison. So while to beginners I may seem like I am far above them when things start out, by the time they've committed any effort to something, they've far surpassed where I stand. It's a pretty frustrating feeling, watching the people around you surpass you quickly and easily while you struggle behind. People that never seemed like someone who would be able to surpass you, even.

I asked a friend of mine to help me figure out how to get better at playing Super Smash Bros today, seeing as he's spent so much time learning the game that he's completely surpassed the rest of us in his skill level. It's somewhat belittling asking him for help with that, seeing as he's easily the least skillful one of my friends - and as rude as that sounds, he would agree with that in a heartbeat. To be honest, I didn't get much out of it. Trying to move up in skill at something is something that I just don't seem to understand. It's like there's something about upper level things that just doesn't click in my head. Like there's an impassable fog in my mind that refuses to fade.

It's probably most noticeable to me in relation to video games, as there is a visual and numerical value to the lack of skill, but I find it applies in most places as well. My writing included. I have been writing everyday for what is closing in on half of a year, and I feel like I haven't advanced much in my skill as a writer. I feel like I haven't really figured out what I'm doing wrong, or what I'm doing right, or where I can improve or focus. I look at my words, and I just can't make out what the value is in them.

It's hard for me to really explain what it is that happens when I try to break through my skill ceilings, which is admittedly probably part of the problem. It's like ramming my head against a brick wall, which may be able to give after you hit it enough times under normal circumstances, except that it's backed by another wall made of iron. And it doesn't help that I'm a very angry and bitter person. I'm the kind of person who starts to throw controllers when I get angry at a game, and I'm the kind of person who will get mad at a game pretty quickly. Which, unfortunately, translates into a lot of other aspects of my life.

I just wish I knew how to get better at things. I know the idea is practice, practice, practice. And I have tried to practice repeatedly. And in some things, it works. I'm good at exercising. I can get strong. I can get fast. I can't really get accurate, but my muscles are incredibly good at remembering things. My mind, however... Not as much.

Collection of knights

The three knights gathered around their campfire, resting after a long day of riding hard in order to cover the ground that they had lost after their last skirmish. It was less than an hour after sunset, but they were exhausted, yet could not sleep. There was still adrenaline pumping through their blood after the long day, so while their horses slept peacefully only a few feet away, they continued to stare into the fire, as though it held some kind of secrets that they could no longer live without. They were a strange collection of knights, for they had no owner. They maintained their own codes of chivalry, and traveled together from land to land, doing what work needed to be done, and never asking for anything in return, oftentimes leaving before anything could even be offered to them.

They sat in a row on a log facing the flames. On the left, dressed in blue, was the female of the bunch. She was graceful and swift in every movement, even as they rested breathless and pained. She flowed like the water rushing through a river, and under her helmet she hid a pale, sharp face with deep blue eyes and well maintained blonde hair. Were she not to have taken up her mantle as a knight, she could easily have had any man she wanted from any kingdom, and a life of ease and untold comfort. But she was strong of both will and mind, and sought for strength of body as well, and she trained hard to become what she was. Her two companions felt not lust or love for her as other men had. There was only respect in their hearts and in their eyes, and she felt at ease amongst them.

In the center sat a tall, but thinner man, dressed in oranges and reds, and his armor reflected the light of the flames to bring him brightness, as though he were the last vestibule of the sun. He was harsh and strong in his judgement, and when he spoke, his tongue was sharp as a knife. He could cut down even kings with his words, putting them in their place without the need of his sword. And when he drew his sword, he was just as quick and sharp. He was not a strong man, but he was a quick thinker, and he had an eye for precision. His combat was reflective of that, striking at the vital points of his foes until they simply fell apart.

And on the right, much shorter and stouter than his companions sat the third knight, his armor trimmed with purple furs from a far off land which had long since been abandoned and forgotten. He was the last of his people, and he was looked down on as alien and strange. Yet none could deny the fortitude or strength of his character and body. He could lift both of his partners on his back and continue to fight on, hacking and chopping at his foes until there was naught a bit left of them. It was a terror to behold, but when you knew that he was on your side, you could not help but feel safe.

Conversation

I've never been good at making conversation. You could say I'm just not good at small talk, or that I'm not good at being around people, and you'd be right. But the way I always put it is that I'm not good at words - which sounds really silly and stupid coming from a writer, I guess. But it's more so that I'm not good at the spoken word. I can't really think fast enough to have a normal conversation - much less a debate, though that's not really the point. I repeat questions back at people all the time, both to buy myself time to think and to make sure that I understood their words correctly. And even then, the most common word I say in conversation is "Uh."

I don't think particularly quickly, which is pretty funny when I consider my speed to be better one of my better skills. A lot of my speed comes from muscle memory, much like most things in my life are. However, muscle memory really doesn't do you anything when it comes to speaking. You may be able to make the sounds, and have some vague understanding of what you want to say, but without consciously thinking about it, you're not going to make it very far. You need to decide what words to use. And I'm not good at that.

That's why when I'm writing, a spend a decent amount of time looking away from what I'm typing, my fingers twitching over the keyboard, trying to think of the next word. Be it this blog, or a novel, or a casual or business email. I just have to spend a chunk of time looking over my words, mulling over them, making sure that I'm saying the things I want to say, the way I want to say them. Though I don't do much editing, the way I write these blog posts is similar - stopping all the time, just trying to think of the word that comes next. But if you try and do that, face-to-face with each other, it doesn't work out so well.

I don't have go to topics, either. The "how about that weather?" question comes from that kind of idea - having a point at which you always start conversations, so as to never have to worry about what to say to someone when you run into them for the first time. I don't think there's anyone who really starts off with talking about the weather, unless of course there really is something going on. Sudden and abrupt rain, for instance, is an excellent example.

There are things I'm better at talking about, of course. Particularly, I'm good at talking about writing, fitness, gaming, and relationships - which, when listed together like that, sounds really bizarre. Which I suppose is pretty fitting of my character. The last of those in particular is something most people are not good at talking about. But not only am I ok with it, I have given advice all too many times. Good advice, if I do say so myself. Advice that isn't followed very often, and thus leads to poor events and circumstances.

But even then, I have to be comfortable with someone to talk about those things. Kind of the curse of being an introvert. Which will make it really awkward, I bet, when the magical day comes that I publish a book, and have to talk to people about it. But at least then I'll have the book to fall back on.

Lost in thought

Matthew slipped his legs over the edge of the twenty-story building roof, sliding down into a seated position, his heavy armor clanking down around him as he sat. He rested the tip of his sword on the - what was the word? Concrete, that was it - beside him, resting his arm around the hilt and using it as a rest. Only a few months ago, he never would have dreamed of committing such a blasphemy, but much had changed since then. After all that time, he still didn't fully understand what had happened.

They told him that this was his same world, but Matthew had a hard time believing that. They looked at him like he was insane, but they had a hard time doubting what he could do. He felt the same way about them. These were men and women who wielded crossbows without strings, bows, or bolts. They fired hot fire in the shape of arrows. He knew what they were like. How the bolts burned, and how they sliced through your skin and muscle and bone like a knife through bread. It had punctured his armor without effort. Torn through his shoulder. It was a wound that, by all rights, should have ended with him without an arm. But those men, with their weapons like that, could heal those wounds as well. Almost instantaneously.

It was like magic. And what they could do was terrifying enough as it was. But what they had done already was scarier than anything else he could have imagined.

He could see the wonders of what must have been their world. The magnificent buildings that they had built and forged, unlike anything that was possible in his own world. The one he sat on now was small compared to the rest. Virtually nothing compared to the buildings that stretched as far and as high as the eye could see. He was but a smudge of dirt among them.

But they were broken. Shattered. Torn to pieces, threatening to fall on the people below them and crush them, forcing the lives from their breaths. But it would have to fight with the people themselves. They were the ones who had destroyed these. Who had torn those holes in the walls miles above the surface of the earth, just so that they could throw people out of them to their deaths.

These people scared Matthew. Their world scared him. They told him it had been thousands of years since he had been born. That their ancestors had talked fondly about the time and people that he had lived amongst, like they were telling fairy tales. That they looked back on his time as a starting point of sorts. But if this was what his life and his livelihood had started...

Where had he gone wrong?

Free Write 6

I suffered a lot while I was in college, which I think is a sentiment that most people tend to disagree with. It wasn't that I was getting bullied, or was being overloaded with work. I just felt like this step in my life that I was taking - this step that everyone valued so heavily - was a step in the wrong direction. I didn't feel like college was going to help me accomplish any of my goals, and like I was just pushing my life off another few years by going to it. It made me depressed, which is probably a sentiment that came through in a lot of my writing while I was there. I was overjoyed the day that I left, which was not an easy decision to make, but it was a decision that I spent a lot of time mulling over, and I still do think about it frequently.

Getting a job after that felt like the right thing to do, and I maintain that it was. A year might not seem all that long to some people, but it's three times as long as it took me to realize that college was not the place for me, so the fact that I still think this way probably says something. But working has a lot of its own tension and problems, and lately I've been finding them a bit overwhelming. I think part of it is the kind of job I took, and especially the hours - I am not by any means a morning person, so the fact that I have to rise well before the sun is not my favorite. But working in retail can really grate on you after a while, and I'm starting to really feel that. I only planned to stay where I am for a year, and now that I'm getting somewhat close to that marker, I definitely intend to keep to it.

But the next step scares me a bit. I'm not entirely sure what I want to do with myself next. Honestly, the thing that seems most appealing to me is to go back to the "job" I had before this one - my dad had me working at his company, basically being the office bitch. And honestly? I miss that. I never thought I would, but I do. I felt like I was learning new things everyday, always having to learn new stuff about computer programs that some other people might take for granted. While I did have a certain amount of time limit, it was nothing compared to the limits I have to work with at my current job, and I almost always finished well in advance of those limits. I felt like I could work at my own pace. And sure, the fact that I ended up having a lot of free time was a bonus, but despite what you might think, that really isn't the part that I miss. In fact, during that free time I often wished that I had more work to do. I needed to take breaks from the work from time to time, just to let my eyes and back rest, but I did not need the sometimes hours of off time that I would end up with.

I think time really is the factor in all of the things that I deal with. It's what I think the most about. And I am by no means a good user of my time. I wouldn't be writing this as late as I am if I was. But it's the thing that worries me, and the thing that drives me.

I've got a lot of stuff coming up in my life, and it concerns me with my writing. I'm worried about how much time I will have. I really need sleep, and making time for that is hard, especially knowing how long it takes me to pass out. I can only hope that all the things I have to do will give me some much needed creative fuel. Because lord, have I been running low on that.

Phoenix

Mors climbed the final ascension of the mountain, using all of the energy he had just to put one foot in front of the other and slowly push to gain height. The hike up the mountain had taken two days, with very little sleep, and frequent near death experiences. It wasn't that there were overly many wild animals there that threatened his life, but the path was unmarked, with very loose ground and thin walkways around the steeper, unclimbable bits. It was a constant struggle to find foot and hand holds that would last longer than only a few seconds.

But the peak was becoming visible now, though it was still a long ways off. It was enough motivation to keep Mors walking, despite the pain in his legs and the blisters on his feet. He was traveling lightly, a jug of water on one hip, a pouch of food on the other, and a long wooden rod on his back. The rod he was able to use when crossing large gaps in the path to carry himself from one side to the other. He was a talented acrobat back in his home, though when he had traveled to this land, he had found that had become and entirely different beast.

The air at the top of the mountain was thin, but fresher than anything he had ever experienced before. It was as though he had broken through a barrier as he summited, the fresh new air filling his lungs and invigorating him. It was only a matter of moments after he had come to stand at what could only be described as the top of the world when a burst of flame descended from the sky and landed in front of him.

From the flames came the distinctive shape of a massive bird, orange and red feathers blending into the flames surrounding it, eyes to match. It towered above Mors, looking down at him, no distinct emotion visible in its eyes, a presence about it heavy in the air, as if trying to speak with him. Mors stared back at it, as though he were looking into a void. It was asking something of him, he could tell. But he wasn't sure what it was.

Without a word, Mors reached out to the phoenix, his hand falling gently on the feathered head. And the very moment it did, the bird caught flame once more. An intense, burning inferno of flames, from which Mors could not remove his hand. He could only watch as the flames engulfed his hand, and the bird inside of them turned to ash. As the ashes fell to the ground, the fire was pulled into Mors' hand, like a whirlpool sinking down into him. The heat burned inside him, and he couldn't help but stare down at his hand. It had been engulfed in the flames for a number of minutes, and yet it was unburnt.

And from the ashes emerged a small chick, with red and orange feathers, that looked up at him curiously. He scooped the bird into his hands, placed it gingerly on his shoulder, and without a word or second thought, began his descent back down the mountain. This was the first of many stops along his journey. And he had a feeling that, despite it all, it would be the easiest.

Captain

It was quiet in the infirmary as wounds were tended to and bandages were changed out. More than twenty four hours had passed since the end of the battle, and everyone was still recovering. There were no prisoners of war. Those who had been left behind had been injured, crippled, and dismembered, and when the medics had come to recover them from the field, they had already ended their life, rather than be taken. So they had been piled and burned, their ashes taken by the night time wind, and the only ones left were the victors.

Maria stood in the doorway of the infirmary, one hand clutched to her chest, the other hanging limply by her side, wrapped in bandages that were stained with blood from the inside. The wounds she had suffered in the battle after the loss of her shield had opened during the night. Her fingers were pushed against her leg to minimize the shaking in her wrist. She had parried blades with her bare hand, tearing it apart and lowing most of the feeling and control in it. But it had saved her life.

She looked over the men whom she had led into battle. She knew them each by name, she knew where they had come from, and she knew about the families that they had waiting for them at home. She had trained many of them for a long time, taught them how to fight and survive. She had warned them about what might happen on the field of battle. How it was important to keep their heads about them, to keep their eyes open, and to do whatever it took to live.

And she had been more aware of all of that than any of them. She had seen countless battles throughout her life, and throughout her climb through the ranks to get to her position as captain and commander. She had survived. She had won. And she had passed on everything she had learned onto her men so that they might do the same.

But looking over the men as they lay in cottages, some only slightly and temporarily injured, others having to deal with long term effects, she couldn't help but feel responsible for what had befallen them. She had taken them into that battle. She had doomed them to their injuries and fates. Some of them, she felt as though she had killed.

A hand rested gently on her shoulder, and she looked to her right to see her right hand, a man named Ricard. "Maria," he said gently. He had been a soldier for a long time, much longer than she. But he had no interest in leading. He wanted only to advise. "It's hard. But remember. The ones here you kept alive. Focus on that."

She nodded slowly, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard. "I'll try," she whispered.

"Good. Now go get that hand rewrapped, before it's too late."

Beyond the grave

Arwen was quiet as she rode into the distant graveyard, her bodyguard sitting across from her, her hand fiddling with the edge of her skirt. She wasn't supposed to be out this far from the castle. They both knew that. If her father, the King, were to find out that her guard had permitted this trip, the knight's head would be served to him on a silver platter, dead eyes wide open, staring blankly into the sky. It had happened before. But somehow she had talked him into it, saying that as long as they did not speak of the journey, no one would learn about it. She needed to visit a particular grave. The one of her ancestor, the great King Ram, who had begun a long standing period of prosperity in her family and kingdom.

As the carriage came to a stop, she silently rose from her seat and descended out into the graveyard. There was no noise, save for the clack of the knight's metal armor as he walked behind her - no wind in the trees, the horses quietly resting, as if the solemnity of the grounds was casting a spell over them. To some, that silence would have been unnerving and uncomfortable, but to Arwen it was restful. It put her heart and mind at ease, where they were normally on edge and panicked at every moment, fearful that her father might come around the corner and punish her for something that she didn't even realize that she was doing.

It was a short walk to King Ram's grave. It was not the first time she had visited it, nor would it likely be the last. She knew the spot well, and as she knelt before it, she could swear she could feel a presence reaching out from it to comfort her - to assure her that things would be ok. She bent her head down, her eyes closed, and prayed to the old, great king that he would watch over them from the land beyond, to ensure his promise that he would keep his land safe. There were days that she feared their future was not protected. Not with her father as king.

The silence was broken by the guttural, drowning gasp of her bodyguard. She jumped, neck practically snapping as she turned to see the blade piercing through an opening in her guard's armor, blood spilling out. She didn't have time to watch him die. She ran as hard as she could.

She wasn't familiar with the rest of the graveyard, and she knew that she couldn't just hide in the carriage. It didn't take long for her to get lost, and as she tried to find her way, she could see the bandits' that had assaulted her guard coming for her. She didn't know what they wanted from her. Presumably just her life, as useless as it may be to them.She backed herself into a corner, cowering, and covered her eyes. She didn't want to see them drop down on her.

But the sound of a killing blow did not come from her body. She looked up, scared, to see her knight standing above her, the bodies of the bandits discarded and thrown aside, blood pooling beneath them. The blood from the knight's wound stained his armor, but was no longer flowing from a wound. It had only been a matter of minutes at most, but he seemed to have already recovered.

"I am sorry, sir knight," she said, afraid of her own voice. "I thought you were dead, and I ran. But you saved me."

The knight gently scooped her up in his arms, which caught her off guard. She had never been treated this way before. She was not sure how to take it. "It is a bit of a story," he said, voice low. "I will explain on the way. But suffice to say, I am not your knight."

Confused, Arwen searched his face. The features were the same. Surely it was the same man whom she had arrived with. But his eyes were much paler than they had been before. As though the life had been drained from them already. "Who are you, then?" she asked timidly.

"A friend, to be sure," he responded. "Though an unlikely one at that. I am Sir Allone."

She knew that name. It was written on King Ram's tombstone, and in all of the history books. It was his knight. The greatest knight of them all, Great Sir Allone. But he had died with his king, serving to the last.

Tree of Life

The deeply wooded forest broke open quite suddenly and abruptly to a massive clearing, the open space a solid twenty feet encircling a singular tree that stood towering above the others. It's leaves seemed to sparkle in the sunlight that shone down on the tree, as if putting a spotlight on one of God's greatest creations. The wood was hard and thick, and when pried loose revealed thick and flowing sap that sprung forth unendingly. Beneath the ground, its roots spread for miles, reaching out and touching the roots of all the trees that surrounded it in the forest, as if both drawing from them and giving them energy in return.

Birds rested on its branches only momentarily, not because they found it unsuitable, but because as they rested in its shade they became near instantly reinvigorated, feeling the need to take wing once more and fly off to explore the vast world that they lived in. Animals roamed and played in its grove, regardless of age, as though they were reminded of what it was like to be a babe once again, to play all day and sleep all night and enjoy the world and its natural majesty without a care in the world.

It was rare that a human found their way to this mystical tree, to place their hand upon it, whether it be intentionally or merely to take a rest. But when they did, they found that they had a new look at life. Visions of the world rushed through their minds as they rested their hands on the bark. They grew to appreciate the wild and plantlife around them, to understand its purpose and the things that it might want out of life. It let them see how they could be helpful to the life and lives around them, and how in return those lives could help them. How being one with the world would serve only  to benefit them.

And silently, deeply, throughout the world the trees roots continued to grow ever onward. It touched the deepest oceans and the tallest mountains, and felt the lives of those who lived amongst those places. It pushed onwards, encouraging everything it touched to do the same, to live to its fullest and to get as much as it could out of life.

And on rare occasions, when the sun sank low, and the waters were calm, and the world was going to sleep, you might be able to spot the light of the stars reflecting off of the silvery surface of a fruit, hanging on the highest branches of the tree, ready to fall and drop down to the ground. And when they touched the ground and split open, and its aroma was caught by the low blowing winds and carried over the lands and waters, happiness and love would slip into the hearts and minds of the creatures of the earth. And in the morning they would mate, and soon the world would be filled with new life once more, to go forth and continue the legacy of the planet and their parents.

Twists

One of the things people talk about most frequently when it comes to their favorite stories is the big twist, or the many twists, or how the twists twist your expectations in twisted ways that twist your mind. There's something about something unexpected happening that changes the entire course of the story that grabs our attention and latches onto our minds, making it hard to think about anything else that happened in the story. Which is funny, because we only know that it's a twist because of the other things that took place in the story, because knowing the other events is what makes the twist that pulls the story in a different direction so shocking and memorable.

But twists have to be very carefully planned, which I don't think really occurs to a lot of people. That's why some stories are amazing because of how many twists they have, while others are terrible for the exact same reason. In essence, for twists in a story to work, a number of things have to occur with them. First of all, you have to look at the two sides of the twist as though they are two separate stories. As though they were written as such, and then fused together like two pieces of glass being melted and pushed together under the flame until they are seamlessly put together. And both of those stories have to be of a certain quality on their own. If one is significantly better than the other, than that fusion will only emphasize the difference, and make one piece worse by comparison.

Secondly, the transition from one story to the next must be done smoothly. I mean, there are a number of ways you can do it. Whether your twist is abrupt, long built up, well hinted at or out of nowhere, it really depends on your story. But the transition needs to make some resemblance of sense. It has to show how your stories are connected, or if you're going for more of a mystery, make your audience want to know how or why it occurred, rather than how or why you thought it was a good idea. There needs to be some level of mesh that makes it so your stories add to each other.

And that last sentiment is the most important. Your stories, when mashed together, need to add to each other. The changes that occur have to give some kind of meaning to the other events that have already been transpiring, or that transpired early on. To give meaning to things that didn't before make sense, or that you didn't even realize were important. That thing from way back then was all because of this? That's the kind of feeling you want your audience to have. And I feel like in most twists, that's something that the author goes for, but without really thinking it through. It doesn't actually make sense when you put it into perspective, which is hard to see as an author when you spend so much time in the story. It's something that you either really need to step back in order to see, or have someone else see for you.

Twists are hard. They're like trying to twist metal with your bare hands. It's really difficult, takes years of practice, is really impressive if you can do it, and everyone wants to be able to. But when someone tries to do it who doesn't know how? It can be pretty off putting, to put it mildly. Which is why we practice endlessly...

Scribe

It was a quiet night, illuminated solely by Haggard's singular candle, flickering ever so slightly in the frigid, windless reading hall. The only sound in the halls, so quiet it could not even echo off the walls of the nearly empty room, was the scritching and scratching of Haggard's feather pen as he copied down the transcripts that would be illuminated in the morning. It was tired, unappreciated work, and more likely than not, the book would be burned by the next king who decided that there was no need for education. The hours, weeks, months, and years of Haggard's life, thrown away in a matter of moments because a king wanted to be sure that he was higher raised than his people. It had happened before. It would happen again.

And yet Haggard could not deny his passion for the art. The careful, slow moving progress of transcribing words from one place to another, so as to give them a second home, where they could be beautiful and loved. Honing his writing skills so as to give the words the physical beauty that they so righteously deserved. He only wished that he could also be the one to give them great artistry - to give the scenes that they so vividly depicted form, and to let the readers have an image in their mind of what was happening. He knew how to space the words for the pictures, so that they would be framed by the words themselves, perfectly hugging the images of what is in the words. But to actually paint those images? He was sadly lacking.

The candle was nearly burnt out, the wick less than an inch above its holder, melted wax poured out into the metal basin around it. By collecting the wax, they would be able to form a new candle using a new wick, and save the resources. It was an invaluable method, saving the church large amounts of wealth. When they were in favor and in production, they had little to fear financially. But in the less fiscal years, when kings were jealous and the people less than zealous, any costs that could be cut would be extremely beneficial. They tried to maintain these strategies even in the good years, so that the wealth they accrued would be able to last longer.

As usual, Haggard's candle died out an hour before sunrise. He very carefully put the ink away in the dimming light, cleaned his pen, and set his drying pages in a safe place. If anything happened to the ink before it could fully dry, well... That would be many hours wasted, to put it lightly. When they were dried, he would be able to sew them together into a book, and encase it in fine leather. The materials were expensive, but necessary to make such a fine home for such fine words.

He was proud of his work. Exceedingly so, some might say. But he knew just how little they knew. And he knew that he would be doing this scribe's work until the day he died.

Webcomics

I'm a big fan of webcomics, which is pretty well backed by the fact that I read... ten? That are updated no less than twice a week each. And most of those have been going for years. I don't know what it is about webcomics, but I just love them. They're small, bite sized pieces of media that I can consume quickly and frequently, and the longer I stick with them, the deeper into the story I get, and the more cohesive and complete the story gets. Characters grow over time, and I get to watch them every step of the way. Sometimes they just make me laugh, sometimes they make me feel, and sometimes I'm not sure what the hell is going on. Every once in a while I don't want to hear the crap that the author is trying to spew. Kind of like how most people would probably feel reading this crap.

I have a massive amount of respect for those who make webcomics. It doesn't matter if it's a single dude, or a writer and an artist. To be able to so consistently make content, and to be able to constantly tell a story, or to make their readers laugh. I would love nothing more than to have that kind of talent and drive - of which I have neither. Otherwise I probably wouldn't be writing this well after I should have gone to bed.

The only problem with webcomics - and any other media of similar stature, though I can't think of any off the top of my head - is that by stretching out the content like that, it's easy to forget everything that's come before. You can recognize older characters on a gut level, because you've seen their face so many times in the past, but you forget why they were important, or specific events that they were involved in. But they don't. They remember them like they were yesterday because in their universe, it very well may have only been the day before, even though as a reader it could be weeks, or months, or years.

But that also kind of works for me. I've gone back and reread the entirety of every webcomic that I read at least once, taking in years worth of comics over the period of a few days. It's a lot to take in, but it's a really cool experience. To re-experience stories you've already seen, and to know what comes of them and what their consequences are. To revisit events that you may have completely forgotten about, and suddenly become aware of why other things happened that you were confused about because of just how long it had been. And if you're me, by the time you get back to the current day, you've forgotten many of those events again, and could go back right then and there and learn new things all over again. Not to mention by the time you get to the end, there are some comics that came out in the meantime and that you've never seen before.

I just really dig them. I think it would be awesome to get to be a part of that, though I imagine most of my writing is a bit too action packed to really fit with a limited number of still frames. But a man can dream.

Moving in

Jacob could feel his heart pounding as he drove down the highway, music on the radio turned up low so as not to wake his sleeping girlfriend. The pounding in his chest had been going non-stop for several days now. The closer he got to that day, the harder his heart pounded. He was nervous as all hell, even though he knew he had no good reason to be, and the slickness of his hands on the steering wheel certainly wasn't helping. This had been planned out for months, and they had been talking about it for years.

Moving in together. Getting their own house. Never having to rely on their parents or friends and having to worry about who saw them doing what, or judging them for what they weren't behind closed doors. Finally having privacy at all hours of the day, and not having to feel like they couldn't commit to anything because they didn't know how long it would be available or how long they would be in a single place. It had taken them a long time to be able to save up enough money to be able to live on their own. They had forgone getting married - although most of their friends considered them to be husband and wife already - just to be able to have a home of their own.

It was only a matter of hours before they reached their new place. They were moving a couple states over, as many of their friends had to avoid the raising price of living back in their old home, and the traffic was a nightmare. Having had to rent a moving van to fit everything they were taking with them wasn't helping. They had a good amount of furniture to get them started - farewell presents from friends and family back home, and welcome presents from those who had already moved. They were excited. But that didn't mean they couldn't be nervous too.

Sarah was making due by sleeping. She didn't dream very often, and especially not while traveling, and she was usually groggy enough when she woke up afterwards that she could hardly think about anything. But Jacob had to drive. To be honest, he wasn't that big a fan of driving, though he was more than willing to take the wheel when Sarah asked him to. But that meant many hours of staring at cars and concrete in front of him, and thinking. And thinking was exactly what he didn't want to be doing.

He didn't want to think about how long it might take him to become accustomed to a new place. He didn't want to think about how long it would take him to memorize all the new streets, and which stores to go to, and what aisles of those stores would have the things that he needed. He didn't want to think about all the people he was leaving behind, even if their were people already there waiting for him. And he definitely didn't want to think about what would happen if he crashed along the way.

He glanced over at the beautiful, adorable sleeping figure of his girlfriend. Yeah... She was worth it.

Of wings

The novel I wrote back in November - and that I have unfortunately not spent nearly enough time working on sense then - was based on a post I made about a year ago titled Wings, which was based on a dream I had probably about seven years ago. I can't fully describe why that dream has stuck with me for so long - it was about me being a princess, jumping out of a window, and turning into a bird. But the moment I woke up the following morning, I knew that I had to turn it into a book, and it's crossed my mind several times since then, though I've never quite known where to go with it.

Unfortunately, that's still somewhat true. I've definitely made more progress with it, seeing as I was able to pump out fifty thousand words of a story for it, but there are still a lot of questions that I haven't answered yet. I've established a world of magic - though magically which has been largely forgotten - but I still have yet to decide how that magic is really controlled. My main character is largely unaware of this magic, even though she is a wielder of it, and therefore spends most of the story just trying to learn. But the problem with learning is that, eventually, there needs to be an answer. And I haven't found one that I'm happy with yet.

I want this magic to be something that isn't easy to figure out the first time. Simply focusing on wanting to be a bird isn't enough. I don't want it to be so simple as that. I want there to be a need to focus on an emotion, though I'm not sure I want that to be all there is to it. I don't want it to be as cliche as believing in your abilities or in your friends, though as a placeholder that is what I put near where I stopped writing. Which is my problem with trying to move forward. I want to come up with this answer.

My little bird went through a lot of trauma surrounding gaining her powers, and I want there to be an overcoming of that involved in her learning. She lost nearly everything that she had, her friends, her family, her home. And multiple times, she nearly lost her life, and not only to the enemy which pursues her. She has been deeply emotionally scarred (which, on another note, is something that I need to work on. I don't feel like that's properly explored. But that's more of something to go through in editing.)

This is the main problem I've been facing since I stopped writing in November. I know other things that I want to have happen in this story, and more or less where it will end up. But I'm not the kind of person to keep writing past a missing scene. I know some people can write out of order, but I've tried to do that, and it just messes me up. I really want to know how magic works in this world. How it is controlled. And perhaps it is different for each person, depending on what it is that they can do. So how does one fly? How does one compress their body, make it light, and become a bird that fits in their hand? And how does one make it not cliche? Because good lord, it could not be more so as it is now.

Of swords

I have a fascination with swords, I don't know if anyone's noticed. Making them, fighting with them, caring for them, and breaking them. If it's got anything to do with swords, I'm totally into it. So it probably shouldn't surprise anyone that most of my characters use swords in one capacity or another, and that the character I want to talk about today is heavily focused around them.

To be honest, I don't know much about this character's personality or background. I haven't yet decided what kind of world they live in, or why they can do what they do, or even really what they're going to use their abilities for. But what I do know is that they are exceedingly proficient at fighting with swords. You can put any kind of sword in their hands, tell them to fight with it in any kind of way, and they'll be able to do it, and probably better than most other people can. But that's not really the strength that defines them.

Rather, it's their arsenal. They don't carry weapons around with them. They're not armed unless they are actually in a fight. Similar to a video game character, they have an entire inventory of weapons at their disposal, which are always readily available to them. They can pull these swords out from the ether, appearing and disappearing from thin air, always ready to fight in any style with any sword, able to respond to the situation at hand. Of course, if he's caught by a blow while transitioning between swords, he'd be screwed. He can't simply change one into another. The first would have to be completely rescinded into his inventory before he can pull out the next.

Which then raises the question of just how long it takes to change weapons. Is it something he can only do tactically, making space in the fight tog vie himself time to switch out? Or does it take only a moment or two, so that a quick and well placed strike is the only thing that would be able to pierce his defense? And then you begin to question the use of two swords at once. After all, if he can fight in all styles, one would assume that he could fight while dual wielding - double the weapons equals double the power, after all.

And assuming dual wielding is a possibility, what about the use of a shield? Sword and board is a very legitimate and well used fighting style, capable of giving a fighter very well rounded approach to a fight. But would it be one that he would be any good at? After all, his specification is that he's good at using swords. Would the shield make him feel uncomfortable? Off balance? Clunky? It's a very rigid and blocky defense, after all, and could easily affect the fluidity one would require to swing a sword.

There's a lot of back and forths to consider with the character, and they're some that I very much so would like to explore. Would help to have a setting, though.

Weakness

I've talked before about making your characters strong, and how you don't want to go overboard with it or risk having a character that never faces a threat throughout his journey. There needs to be a certain amount of weakness of one kind or another to them, in a sense, and preferably a kind that can at least partially be overcome. After all, it's called character growth for a reason - they don't grow if they start at the end, but they also don't grow if they end where they started.

And as much as I hate to say it, I think there's a lot of people out there who kind of forget about that last part. Both as readers and as writers, they seem to think that to make a character realistic, they have to put weakness on their character, and that that weakness must remain when the story ends. It's not about characters growing past their weaknesses to these people, but rather that they can succeed despite their weakness. And there is certainly something to that, it's hard to deny. To see someone succeed against the odds is an incredible thing to witness, but it takes a lot of hard work, dedication, and finding ways to work around that weakness. Which, in it's own way, is growing and finding strength.

It's a game of give and take, as it is with most things. At the most very basic level, it's having strength but no intelligence, or vice versa. If you can't bend someone's bones, then bend their will kinds of things. But there are much more subtle kinds of weakness as well. A poor control of one's anger or sadness. Bad hearing or poor depth perception. Perhaps they have a hard time remembering faces or directions. All small things that, when used well and consistently, can be a much heavier hindrance on one's quest than you might initially believe.

And then there are the larger problems. Things like mental or physical disabilities, missing or malfunctioning limbs, and whether or not they can even speak the language of the people around them. What race, age, class, or gender they are, and how the people around them respond to that. And you can pile these problems and weaknesses onto a person endlessly, but at what point will you eventually find that they no longer have the capacity to overcome these endless weaknesses?

Much like strength, I find that this is the part people forget. They go overboard with their weaknesses, just as they do with their strengths, and the story goes from overcoming with to dealing with. And in a way I suppose that does in fact make it more realistic for some people. And perhaps that is the kind of story that they would like to read. But if you ask me, it certainly isn't one I would want to read. After all, I read stories to escape from the weaknesses of my own life. Not to be reminded of them.

Texts

Mike's head was pounding when he woke up in the morning. He had been drinking way too much the night before. It was a miracle he had even made it back home - one that he could only attribute to the good will of his childhood friend, Linda. She was more than likely the one who had made sure he had gotten home in one way or another, be that by carrying him or calling him a taxi. She had been drinking with him as well, but she was much better at holding her liquor. It was kind of convenient - at least on Mike's end.

His eyes glanced almost ashamedly at the pillow next to him on his bed. It was empty - no surprise there. He blindly wished more often than he would like to admit that Linda would be too drunk to leave when she dragged his sorry ass into bed, and that she would be there when he awoke. She was beautiful. She was smart. She was funny. She was a great drinker. They had been friends for years - and he had loved her for just as long. He could only pray that one day he would work up the courage to say something about it to her. Although he highly doubted she would return the sentiment - she could do far better.

Icy cold water splashed on his face, sending a shock through his system and making him gasp for air. He didn't remember how he had gotten to the shower, but at least he had left his clothes behind in the process. He wasn't sure if it was the sleepiness or the hangover that had made him forget getting there. Probably both.

After his shower, he sat down at the counter with a bowl of cereal. Almost immediately, his phone went off. Probably a text from Linda, asking how he was handling the hangover. Without looking, he opened his phone and tabbed over into the most recent messages and glanced at it as he began to eat. The spoon never reached his mouth.

Linda: ...unless you liked it?

What the hell did that mean? He quickly started to scroll back.

Linda: o my god

Linda: i can't believe i

Linda: please pretend that never happened

Linda: i'm so sorry

Linda: i swear, i didnt mean to send that

Linda: o my god, i cant believe i sent that last night. what the hell was i thinking. i didnt think i drank that much

The last new message was from hours earlier than the rest. The others must have come while he was in the shower. But the last - or rather, first - was from late the night before. And it was a single picture. A picture of Linda, naked as the day she was born, looking a little drunk but more magnificent in her birthday suit than Mike could have ever imagined. Posing for the camera, looking sexier than Mike could possibly imagine. He could feel his entire face going red, but he couldn't stop looking. It was more than he could have ever dreamed.

Wait. Did she ask if he had liked it?

Lava

The heat of the hellhole this dragon called home was intense, and the heavy armor that Sir Neran was wearing only made that heat hotter. But going up against a dragon, he knew that there were only three things that the dragon could do to attack him. The dragon could bite him, smash him with its paw or tail, or burn him to death. The armor would help with two of the three. It was better than having protection against none of them.

There was fire and lava spewing out of every nook and cranny in the rocks, lighting the area up like midday. He and the dragon stood on the only solid patch of stone, staring each other down, daring the other to make the first move. There wouldn't be much room for maneuvering - at least for Neran. The dragon, on the other hand, could not only fly, but was unharmed by the lava. It could, and would, freely bathe in the molten rock for hours on end. And when it came out, the magma would slowly cool until it formed the powerful armor that protected it.

The dragon roared angrily, its voice shaking loose boulders in the walls, knocking them free and calling more flames and lava into the room. It would only be a matter of time before the remaining floor was covered in the deadly liquid and Neran would be wiped from existence. He would have to kill the dragon before then, or flee. Preferably both, and in that order. If he could defeat the dragon, and bring its soul back to the kingdom, they could use its power to end the endless winter.

Its head snapped forward, jaw opening and closing in an instant. Neran had no time to react, and yet he struck out, his blade catching the roof of the dragon's mouth in the short window it was open. The cut caused the dragon's head to jerk to the side, the snap of its jaw to just barely miss Neran's head. He stood unwavering, watching the dragon's every movement. He had trained long and hard to have the instincts and reflexes it would take to cut down a dragon. This would be his first - and preferably only - test of that training.

The dragon roared again, angrier now, and launched forward once more. Each time, Neran saw its movement before it came, and had his blade ready to cut and parry, just pushing the blow away while slowly dealing damage. But it wouldn't be enough. Not with how quickly the lava was rising, and how much faster it rained down with each increasingly irritated roar. He had to act quickly before it was too late. But he didn't have many options.

Especially not with the dragon rearing its head, preparing to burn him to a crisp. That one out of three odd was going to catch him now.

Vision

It had been several hours since the end of the battle, and there was not a living soul left on the grounds, yet fire continued to burn, smoke to billow, and the stench of iron lay heavy over the bloodied grounds. It was in this setting that Brianne stepped onto the muddy ground, witching staff held in hand, and looked passively over the carnage. She had long since foretold of these events, and having now seen the truth of her sight, it would be difficult for the king to deny her a second time. But when she went to him, she would need a message. She was not one to let others witness her process.

She clenched her cloak in one hand, pulling it tight to her side as the wind began to swirl around her. The broken land around her began to fade in her vision, the browns, reds, and grays melting together as she looked into the future. Though none would witness it, a purple eye sigil formed on her forehead, pulling visions of the future into her inner mind's eye. Her own eyes remained open, but the color faded from them, her pupils going grey as her vision of the present was temporarily lost.

She found herself standing on a similar field, painted with blood, but one man still standing in the center. It was the king, his sword stuck in the ground before him, his off hand holding his severed dominant arm, his crown bent, broken, and crooked on his head, blood running down his head and over his swelled shut eye. He looked blindly off into the distance, and Brianne slowly turned to look in the direction he was gazing.

In the distant sky, there was a small silhouette, at first hard to make out. Over time it grew larger, appearing first as a bird, but slowly growing larger and sharper. Far too large to be a bird. A dragon, it was evident. But from where? And why?

It landed hard on the ground before the king, the impact releasing a shockwave of wind that blew the king onto his back. The dragon glared down at him, but waited, as the king slowly stood and walked back to his sword, still stuck in the ground. Without a word, the king dropped his disembodied arm on the ground between them and gripped the hilt of his sword, slowly drawing it forth to point at the monster before him.

The dragon scoffed at him, slapping the sword away with his nostril. The king did not have the strength to hold on, and the sword flew uselessly away, like a leaf in the wind. But the king's eyes did not falter. He glared back at the dragon, and watched as it reached down, took his arm, and devoured it.

The dragon's mouth loomed towards the king as the vision suddenly snapped away, and Brianne was back on the deserted battlefield. This was not a good message to carry.

Encounter

Cyrus sheathed his sword as he approached the large cavern, knowing in his gut that something would be coming as he reached the center. Walls of flame or the like were to rise and block off his entrance and exit, and from the plateau of rock a dozen or so feet above, a massive monster would drop on his head, ready to feast. It had happened one too many times in this monstrous world that Cyrus had willingly, if unwittingly, thrown himself into. But he had learned much from his previous encounters. Whatever this next beast was, it would find itself facing a foe that it could not beat.

The knight's hands began to glow green as he called upon the magic that had somehow found its way into his system. It had taken time to adjust, but he was well acquainted with it now, and the gifts that it could bestow upon him - and the destruction it would rain upon his foes. With his left hand, he traced a circle in the air before him, a sigil inside of it that called upon a magical shield that silently and instantly coated the thick, steel armor that had saved him from so many blows. His right hand reached behind him, tracing another magical sigil, energy exploding out of his body through and curling up into the air around him.

The sound called the beast forward, stones from the walls breaking in to seal the entrance behind Cyrus, much as he had predicted. A massive creature, made of stone with rough and jagged edges, yet somehow with wings powerful enough to hold it in the air. Its steps rocked the cavern, before it launched up and landed a few feet away from Cyrus, facing away. It turned around slowly, clearly meaning to be threatening, but its eyes visibly widened when it saw the foe that had walked into its home.

Twin emerald dragons extended out from Cyrus' back, a sword crackling with electricity in his hand, his armor glistening with green magic. He stood with his feet planted firmly, unafraid of the gargoyle easily three times his own size, watching its movements as a predator watching its prey. The gargoyle's eyes shrunk, glaring angrily at such a small being standing unafraid. It launched forward at the knight, sharp claws ready to tear him apart.

Dragon fangs launched out first, biting into the gargoyle and tearing away its shoulders, inhuman screams following that filled the cavern. In its pause at the pain, Cyrus launched forward and pierced the monster's chest with his sword, pushing it all the way in to the hilt. A roar of pain came forth, and the gargoyle slammed his fist into the knight's face. But Cyrus didn't flinch. He didn't feel anything. The magic stopped the rock-ladden fist in its tracks without halt.

The sword ripped forward, and the fangs ripped down, and the gargoyle fell apart, the rocks that formed its body falling apart and tumbling into the depths below, followed shortly there after by the rocks that had blocked his pathway. Cyrus' magic dissipated  moments later, and he sheathed his sword once more, ready to take a short break. He still had a lot of ground to cover. And that was assuming the goal he had been given truly was the end.

Dad

My dad has this impeccable talent for spending weeks or months of his time planning trips for us to take, only to essentially improvising the entire thing once we get there. Or at least most of it. He's also, somewhat ironically, the kind of person who has to have his schedule - which, unfortunately, doesn't make that relaxing of a vacation a lot of the time. I mean, I don't mind knowing that we have things scheduled, places to be at certain times. That's the nature of trying to do things, and I like getting to go and have unique experiences. The problem is more in when that requires me to wake up.

There are times when my dad decides that it makes sense - on vacation - to make a reservation for something at 9 am. In a city that's a two hour drive from where we currently are. Now, I mean, I know I'm going to enjoy doing whatever it is that he's going to schedule for us. Our interests align quite well. It's just that I don't want to have to wake up at 5:30 to allow time for showering, breakfast, traffic, and the inevitability of us getting lost. And I do mean inevitability.

Because that's the other thing that my dad does on vacation. He thoroughly enjoys driving - which doesn't make sense, considering how much he complains about driving, but he's like that with most things - and so when we have a little time to spare, that's what he usually goes for. He just starts driving. Sometimes in circles, sometimes he'll just pick a direction on the highway and go. And if you've ever driven anywhere for any length of time in any capacity ever, then you know how poorly that's going to end. I can't begin to tell you how many close calls we've had on timing because of this.

And not even just close calls. We have definitely had to cancel plans because we were late, because Dad thought it would be a good idea to take the scenic route, which ended up being less scenic and more problematic. I mean, don't get me wrong. We've seen some beautiful sights on these excursions. But they've also so much as doubled our travel times. And then he'll complain about traffic, as if that couldn't have been avoided by just following the initially planned pathway.

He just has an amazing knack for this kind of stuff. And he doesn't think it through from the eyes of the people he's traveling with. To him it makes sense to make these kinds of early morning plans, because he knows that he's going to be up at 5 am anyway. And then it makes sense to go on random excursions that risk making us miss those plans because... I don't know. Spontaneity? Which he does seem to enjoy, since he'll start making these plans and early morning reservations at the drop of a hat. Despite how inconvenient it may be for anyone else.

But hey. He's my dad, and I've experienced some amazing stuff thanks to him. I just wish maybe he'd do it a bit later in the day most of the time.

The dunes

There wasn't so much as a breeze in the air to blow around the sands as Deran peaked one of the massive dunes. The landscape in every direction was the same dull orange and brown, and the sun was sinking below the horizon, making the sky much the same. It wasn't a particularly exciting or thrilling life, being a sand raider, but it was his life, and he was managing to get by with it. Perhaps one day he'd be lucky enough to go off and find a new home, where water and food weren't such a rare and expensive commodity. But he doubted that. 

A few running steps down the hill preceded the flick of Deran's wrist, launching out a small but thick piece of metal from the sleeve in his skin, which quickly began to unfold and expand. Deran leaped up over it as it hovered and grew in front of bim, and landed on the form of his hoverboard, rather than the slippery and dangerous sands below. He surfed down the slope of sand, watching the shifting particles for any sign of something below which he could use moving forward. 

What he found in its stead was a new kind of danger. In the distance, masked by the setting sun, came three other sand raiders, more than likely out for blood. For the most part, Deran was a loner, choosing to work for himself and no one else, meaning a day's short comings were manageable, and he had need to find significantly fewer supplies to get by. But it left him vulnerable to attack from other groups, who could take whatever meager supplies he had for themselves, and leave him broken and starving. That was how this had all started for him. If possible, he wished to avoid returning to such lows.

He turned hard away from the crew, knowing that they were already heading in his direction. He raced over the sands as fast as he could, but his hoverboard was old, and sorely in need for an update. To tell the truth, that was the main reason he was out searching that day. He had a backstock of food that could last him some time, but what he really needed was electronics and metals.

He slipped the bow from around his shoulder, drawing back and letting an arrow fall from the sleeve in his arm into place. He had had the surgery nearly a year ago to add the sleeve like container into his flesh, and though it had taken time to get used to, he founf the attachment nearly required for his day to day life. He knew that it would be only so much time before the group was on his back. The sooner he could stop them the better. 

Deran turned on his heels, the hoverboard continuing to carry him in the right direction as he pulled hard on the string, bringing it to meet his cheek. The twang of the bow was loud and sharp as he let go. He didn't bother making sure the arrow hit its mark, or watching it soar through the air. He was back facing forward, riding hard down the dune, praying that a single warning shot would be enough to save him. 

Free Write 5

I've been having a lot of trouble writing lately. Not in that I have trouble deciding what to write - I always do - but just that I don't want to. Like, I want to write, and I want to work on my book, but I don't want to sit down and do it. It feels like the pages are almost mocking me, which sounds stupid when I say it out loud. It feels like I've just done this too consistently for too long, sometimes. But when I even just think about taking a day off from it, I feel frustrated and angry. I hate myself for even letting the thought cross my mind. I think I'd throw a tantrum if I actually let myself go through with it.

I've been doing a lot of mobile gaming lately, which isn't really something I normally do. A week ago, Nintendo came out with their first mobile game, Miitomo, though to describe it as a game is a bit of a stretch. It's like a personalized social media - kind of. And it's about as close to social media as I'll ever get. A couple days ago, Namco Bandai released Tales of Link, their mobile tie in to their Tales of series, which I am a fan of thanks to a couple of my friends. It's interesting little thing, though to be honest, it can't hold my attention all that long. I'm not sure how long I'll keep playing it.

The one that really caught me was Kingdom Hearts: Unchained X (that X is pronounced key, by the way. It's complicated. Don't worry about it). It just came out today, and seeing as Kingdom Hearts is my favorite game series of all time, I couldn't just pass over it. Plus it actually has some plot relevance to the series, because fuck you for only wanting to play the numbered entries. But god, dude, it's actually fun. It's the first time I've ever played a mobile game that actually felt like an enjoyable gaming experience. Though it would be better if my big fat fingers weren't covering the speakers all the time, because I love the music in the KH games as well.

Speaking of music, there's actually another game that I got into just yesterday. Me and games, I know. Almost like I'm a gamer or something. It's called Amplitude, and it is a very bizarre little rhythm game that has a storyline about going into the brain of a comatose patient. If that sounds like it doesn't really make sense, well, that's because it really doesn't. It's kind of only briefly presented between stages, and half the time it's just like "Look, it's a picture of a brain. Coma!" But the gameplay is fun, and the music is pretty fitting, even if it's something I wouldn't normally listen to. I'm insane, so I tried to jump straight from beginner mode to expert. It's really hard, but I enjoy it. I honestly have more fun with these kinds of games in the harder difficulties, even if I'm not particularly good at them. I get really frustrated, too, but... Oh well.

Magic

Jennifer picked up the old and ragged book, flipping through the pages without much thought. "Such a shame," she muttered under her breath. "This isn't exactly what I would call well loved. You'd think that such important pages would be better maintained. But perhaps your old owner didn't want anyone else to take a look at your contents. He should have removed you better, in that case." She flipped her hair as she found a page she wished to stop on, scanning the words with her eyes.

She held out her open hand, the magic in the air pulling into her fingers as she prepared for an incantation. A gust billowed gently around her, blowing her hair and dress against her form in a way that she was well aware was irresistibly enchanting. She had stolen the hearts of many men in the process of casting her magic - love charms were unnecessary. She was beautiful enough as it was.

The words flew under her breath, shocking the air around her. She could feel the bolts in the air shoot back into her, and out of the corner of her eyes she could see vibrant shots of dark green staining her pitch black hair. An emerald necklace around her neck began to glow and float up away from her chest, pulling the magic into it in a more concentrated form. It filled her with vigor and youth, smoothing her skin and lips. Though she could not see it, her ordinarily grey eyes burned a vivid purple, and the spell began to take affect.

The world around her melted away, melting off of the blackness that was its canvas. For a long moment, Jennifer stood in darkness, the sound of her heartbeat the only thing to give her solid footing, and plant her to reality. But there was no tightening of her muscles, no stress or shock in her system. Only a smile that spread across her luscious lips, knowing that she now commanded forbidden magic that most could only dream of being powerful enough to tame. And she had done so on the first try.

When her new world formed around her, it was nighttime, and the air was hot and damp. Without hesitation, she stripped out of the green and brown silks of her home, unafraid of her nudity, letting the hair drooping over her shoulders be the only thing to hide her breasts. She stood in the middle of an abandoned home, which she raided to look for supplies. She found small amounts of still safe food, and a lack of clothes to replace those she had been wearing. She didn't mind.

Gently, she closed the book of magic in her hand and held it tight. This would be her key to achieving the things she desired. She smirked as she left the small home, excited to see her new opportunities, both in action and in men.

Breaking in

The atmosphere shifted abruptly, stopping Jacob in his tracks. The air had become thick and hot, yet it sent shivers down his spine, the hair on his skin standing on end and threatening to tear away from him. He felt a pair of eyes staring down on him maliciously, but he couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from, and everywhere he looked, there was nothing. As far as he could see, nothing in the world around him had changed. But he could feel it.

The fire exploded in front of him without warning, spreading along the ground with a crack and a boom like an invisible molotov landing at his feet. He leaped back in an instant, hands defensively by his head, eyes darting from side to side, desperately wishing he had some kind of weapon on him. At least then, he could feel like he could do something. As he was now, he was helpless to defend himself.

A figure stepped through the raging flames on the ground, a massive sword in his hand, dragging along the ground. As the blazes moved aside to permit him through, and the details become clear, it was the sword that drew Jacob's eye first. The blade itself was red hot from the flames, but its vivd blue inscription shone like it was from not just something else, but somewhere else entirely. It was blocky and broken, like trying to read data off of a broken computer monitor.

Looking at the face revealed that his sword was not the only thing with such a strange appearance. The skin on the left half of his face had been brutally torn away, bloody and fleshy remains revealing not muscle or bone, but more of the burning red metal, with eyes and teeth of that same, disturbing, out of place blue. He grinned wickedly at Jacob and flicked his sword through the air a single time, blowing away the flames on the ground. But his sword continued to burn.

"Who are you?" Jacob asked, the terror clear in his voice. The man said nothing, only continuing to grin as he raised his hand into the air and let it, too, burst into flames. None of this could have been real. This was not some fantasy world, Jacob thought. This was the real world. Things like this couldn't happen.

He had to be dreaming. It was the only explanation. Perhaps with a fever, too explain the hot and cold feelings. But the man's glare sent shivers down his back too cold not to be real.

"Why are you doing this?"

The man's arm snapped forward, like a major league baseball pitcher throwing a fast ball, and an orb of flames shot through the air like a bullet, directly at Jacob's chest. He didn't have the time to dodge out of the way. It hit him with full force, dissipating in an instant, but the burn in his chest and the hole in his shirt were agonizing, dropping him to his knees.

He could barely look up to see the man approaching, still grinning cockily, his head twitching slightly as if he were mad in the head, or perhaps not quite functioning correctly. He opened his mouth, and the words broke free like they had been trapped behind his disturbing teeth, loud and sharp. "You can not continue, Jacob," the man said, his lips not moving other than to be open. "And so you will not."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

But his words fell on deaf ears.

How and why

I've talked before about how part of the reason that I prefer fantasy over science fiction, at least from a writing perspective, is that there is significantly less need for explanation of what's going on. If you want something to happen, the vast majority of the time you can get away with explaining it away as magic. Scifi, on the other hand, needs in depth explanations for nearly everything - thus the science part of the title.

But that doesn't mean that you're not going to explain anything in fantasy writing. In fact, in a way, it makes the explaining that you do do that much more important. Much of the mystery in a fantasy story is based around the lack of explanation, and I need to find it. Where does the magic come from, and why is it bestowed upon who it is, and how does one control it? These are the questions that are the basis for your entire world, and if you don't have an answer for those questions, you're going to find yourself facing a massive problem.

Which is one of the problems I have been facing with the novel I wrote for Nano. I mean, it's not like I've just been blissfully ignoring the question of magic, and why it is, and how it is. It's a huge focus of the story, the main character trying to understand her own magic, and how she inherited it, and how she controls it. Her character growth is directly tied to her understanding of her magic. The problem is that when I tried to make that explanation, I just wasn't happy with what I ended up with. And while I have ideas for how I want to go forward from where I stopped, I'm not happy with how I stopped.

I don't have a problem with being cliche, up to a point. But when you're writing everything very quickly and on a time limit, you start to cut some corners and lose track of what you're doing. And when you look back on what exactly you're doing, you come to realize that you're not happy with what you did. But trying to come up with a better solution after you've already written the one can be incredibly difficult, which is why you need outside help. But when you don't like something that intensely...

Such a simple question. How? Why? You wouldn't think just by looking at it how heavily it can affect what you're writing or doing. But the more you think about it, the more important it becomes, and the more difficult it becomes to answer. And the longer you delay the answer, the harder it becomes to make that answer. But you can't just throw it out at the beginning, because the more you write, the more you learn. And the more you learn, the more you realize that some of the assumptions you made at the very beginning simply aren't true.

Secret blade

Brandon picked his sword up off the ground and heaved it into the air so that he could rest it on his shoulder. It was far too large for one to carry comfortably in one hand, but Brandon was no ordinary man. His muscles heaved and strained as he wielded the blade, yet his face gave away no sign of discomfort and effort towards the task. He had been given a challenge, which made a smile spread across his face, for he was not about to take it lightly.

Even if the man who had challenged him was clearly lesser than he. The man was small and lanky, and the blade he wielded was thin and cracked. He was barely able to hold the loft with two hands, and his eyes were dull and aged. Yet they had a strange certainty burning within them, which made the curiosity burn in Brandon's own chest. It was those eyes that made him feel a need to put everything he had into this fight. If it ended in a single instant, then that was it. But he had a feeling it would not be so simple.

The strange man stood with his sword held out in front of him, both hands wrapped firmly around the handle, the tip of the blade pointed at the space between Brandon's eyes. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, and he was clearly using all of his strength in order to hold the blade aloft. After a moment of watching, Brandon stepped in, grabbing the end of his handle with his other hand and ripping it down onto the man's head in a savage blow.

But his blade stopped very abruptly, sending a shiver down his arms and into his spine, shaking his very core and threatening to collapse him. His blade was stopped in the air six inches above the man's own sword, which had moved in an instant to stop his own. The man was showing an unknown agility, but that barely registered. Brandon's sword was being stopped by nothing.

He pulled it back, bouncing on his shoulder before steadying itself, and glared at the man, trying to read his eyes to learn what had happened. The man smiled coyly back at him, and dropped one hand from the hilt, easily holding it up now, where before it had been such a struggle. His free hand glowed for a moment as he passed it slowly over the length of his blade, an invisible force around the blade beginning to be revealed. Thick, solid energy surrounded it, the span of which demonstrated where Brandon's sword had been stopped.

A magic user. He should have known. They weren't common these days, but they were also more than legends. This changed things. Though he could hardly turn down the opportunity to have such a fight.

Very well, he thought. Bring it on.

Dungeons and Dragons

People have been recommending to me basically since I was old enough to play a game that I should play Dungeons and Dragons. And don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like the idea, or even that I don't particularly want to. The problem is more in the kind of people - at least that I know - that like to play it. And even then, not necessarily all of those people. It's just a couple, but if I were ever to want to get a group together to play it, there's no way in hell I'd be able to pull it off without one of those people getting in on it.

I wrote a little while ago about stats, and how I'm not a big fan of micromanaging them when I'm playing a game. I don't want to permanently sink points into stats that I might regret down the road, and be unable to reallocate. I'm inexperienced in these types of games, and while I've played quite a few, that doesn't necessarily mean that I know what kind of character I want to play. From a giant tank of a man who takes and deals damage like nobody's business, to a mage who dies in a single blow by the weakest foe, but can destroy an entire battlefield from a distance, I enjoy playing all kinds of characters. And a lot of times, half way through a game I'll change my mind on how I want to play.

But the kinds of people I'm talking about - who, I should point out, I'm not saying are bad people, I just really don't want to play DnD with them - have been playing for years. They know exactly what they are doing. But they know it too well. They're so used to playing the game that they're already thinking six fights ahead of where we are in a single instance, while I'm still trying to catch up to what's going on. And because of that, they're trying to plan all of the steps they need to take to get there. They know what they're going to need way down the road, but they have to decide how to get there.

That means that, while I may take a minute deciding what to do now because I'm trying to keep track of the consequences, they take five minutes deciding because they want to make sure that they are doing the exact right thing in every situation so that they can get all of the experience they need, while conserving as many resources as possible, in the most efficient way possible. And there's nothing wrong with that - when you're playing with yourself. But when you're playing with a group of five people, and each of them individually have to take a turn that may take some time because it's a very precise and elaborate game, taking as long to take your one turn as it takes everyone else to take all of their turns...

The game just takes so long. So, so long. By the time I get to take a single turn, I feel like I could have made ten times as much progress in any other game I have ever played. And if I have so much time to be thinking about what else I could be doing with my time, well... I'd rather just be doing those other things.

New Weapon

Jake couldn't help but grumble under his breath as he wiped the sweat off of his brow, careful to do so with the towel in his left hand and not the sandpaper in his right. He had already made that mistake twice - he wasn't going to make it a third. He had slipped away from school for more than a week straight. If he was going to build a new guitar, he needed to do it right, and he needed to do it sooner rather than later. He still couldn't believe that Ramses had broken the body of his old one. Dude needed to watch where he was flinging rocks during rehearsal.

He could feel the burn in his chest, aching to be let loose. It had been a long time since he hadn't had a guitar to let loose with. He longed for the feeling of the strings under his fingers, the tones mixing in his brain and in his ears like a melody of magic that pulled the fire forth and free. But he knew how badly that could backfire with a poor guitar. It made his skin burn, his ears burst. Only he knew what he needed. And if it took him a month, he would do it right. And then beat the ever loving hell out of Ramses.

He could feel the music in the wood he had chosen. Firm and flexible, with a resonation that rung through its rings even when the wood was flat and fat. A day each of carving for each face of the body, and another day for the walls. But that was just the carving itself. Rough cuts to get the shape, but assembling it in that condition, the strings would have sounded like rocks thrown against the walls of a two foot deep cave. And they already had one idiot sounding like that as it was. They didn't need two.

The sanding had taken him longer than anticipated. He had run through nearly a dozen sheets of each level of paper, which was taking him the better part of a day when he had anticipated only hours. And when he had first started to sweat, he had to move fast and careful so as to prevent it from dropping on the wood. A couple drops might not do much, but too much moisture would cause the wood to expand, ruining all of the work he had already put into it. That's what was taking so long. When he sweat too much, he had to stop and take a break. He wasn't the fittest guy in the world, and it took his body a long time to calm down - no amount of working out would have done anything about that.

At the end of the day, he lay out the pieces to analyze the appearance of his soon to be guitar. It would still take another week before he could finish, but he could go back to school in the meantime. The next step was to start gluing. It would take a while to make sure it was all connected just right, but the more important part was to let it dry. He couldn't do anything while that was happening. Hopefully in the meantime he could get a loaner. But trying to find a guitar he could play without anyone seeing him do it...

That would be harder than making one himself.