Randomly inspired by a friend's Facebook status, which contained the first line of this poem.
---
Life Waits Not For You
Hot enough to take a cold shower.
Bored enough to waste a night hour.
The rain falls, the clouds tower
Death arrives with a pretty pink flower.
"Who are you?" I ask with an angry glower,
But even afore he speaks, I shudder.
This is he who has an eternal bower...
He says: "I bring your endless slumber."
Indignant, I cry, "My bill's not due!
There's nothing tying me to you.
I'm healthy, clean-living, enemy-free
What sort of death can you pin on me?"
The implacable reaper raises his voice:
"Your death's one of spirit, this end is your choice.
You've spent your life in search of escape
Why stay in a world you seem to so hate?"
Deaf to my pleas, his scythe makes my end.
All my life I killed time; now time takes revenge.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Monday, June 28, 2010
Backstory; or, what's your character doing in this dungeon when he could be farming for a living?
Writing character backstories is great practice for writing in general. The character sheet is background research, which you use to answer a few prompts:
1) How did your character acquire his skills?
2) How does your character behave under ordinary circumstances?
3) Why is your character adventuring, given the high mortality rate?
As long as those questions are answered, getting the backstory to the DM before the campaign begins is more important than writing a high-quality backstory--another reason why it's good practice for me. You can go into as much depth as you like on any of the prompts, and naturally backstory length varies widely. A good one can be a paragraph or twenty pages, but the shortest are more likely to be uninformative, the longest unreadable. The DM's got enough work; saddling him with a novel-length character description, or forcing him to build your character's identity himself, is inconsiderate.
Here are a couple of backstories that I've written in the last week. The first is a work in progress, both because I want to make it longer and because the character is in an ongoing campaign. The second was a thought experiment.
--------------------
Sharran was born the scion of a noble family, descended from celestials in the service of Heironeous, and thus naturally devout followers of that god. The lion's share of the familly served in the capacity of Heironeus' clerics and paladins, and it was expected that Sharran would follow the same route. But Sharran was quite unlike his relatives. His short, wiry frame and scrambling approach to life contrasted sharply with the contemplative and courtly habits of his tall, graceful siblings. Rumors that Sharran was illegitimate added to a general atmosphere of unease concerning the young heir, which served to isolate him.
Sharran objected to the righteous fervor and militaristic demeanor of the Tarciels, which he believed insulated them from the rest of the world and subjected them to an unhealthy stasis. When it came time for him to choose his path, he wanted nothing more than to shake things up. As he was presented with the ceremonial sword and shield that represented the choice between clergy and the knighthood, inspiration descended upon Sharran. Taking an ordinary stick that laid nearby, he dealt a mighty blow that broke the sword and shattered the shield. Then he strode out the door and out of the city, for good.
It has been many years since that day. Sharran has come to the understanding that Fharlanghn the Dweller, god of roads, is the source of his powers. But he still does not fully understand how he came to be a druid of the traveling deity. For one thing, he cannot find companionship with animals, a central tenet of druidic teachings. Perhaps it's a parting shot from his family and their Outsider blood; but then, how is he to progress towards enlightenment? (How ironic that the blood of angels should be such an impediment.) How can he reconcile his philosophy of change with the druid's focus on balance? Sharran travels in search of answers. But he may have to put his personal dilemmas on hold in the face of a plague that threatens all.
--------------------
Jenaya grew up on the streets of Skyfane City, carving out a life for herself outside the law. And she was good...very good. She came to view crime as an art form, from the skillful choice of mark to the evasion of the Man afterwards. Her devotion to the art form soon exceeded her devotion to crime--though she was hardly averse to breaking the law. She began to take on higher-profile targets, letting her whimsy dictate her choices. The day after breaking up a crime ring before the law arrived, she would thieve a priceless treasure from a well-guarded aristocrat. The only constant was the fox mask she left wherever she did her daring work. Rumors spread about the Fox--a man with mastery of illusion magic, a sorceress with great powers of seduction, a quickling with an uncommon interest in human affairs. Jenaya let the rumors take hold, even added some of her own--and quietly laughed whenever she heard them on the street.
Even so, someone had the wherewithal to track her down. She woke up one night to find herself surrounded by hard-looking folk. A man, their apparent leader, sat at the foot of her bed. He introduced himself as an enforcer of the Nightsong Guild, a powerful player wherever there was play to be had. Jenaya had been stepping on more than a few toes, and so come to the enforcers' attention. The man offered her a mutually beneficial arrangement. Membership in the Nightsong Guild would give Jenaya greater resources with which to pursue her antics, and legitimacy in the underworld of civilization. In return, the guild would benefit from the notoriety of the Fox, and occasionally ask her services for particular tasks--and take a cut of the Fox's prizes, as well. She could refuse, of course, but then she would risk making the guild her enemy--and they had amply demonstrated their ability to track her down.
Jenaya accepted. Privately, though, she saw an opportunity to outdo all her previous work. How would it do to trick the underworld's most famous tricksters? As she trained in the team tactics that characterized the Nightsong Guild, she also began her preparations. She gathered information about the guild's leaders, its network of operations, its allies and enemies and triply turncoat traitors. And she began scheming to take down the guild from the inside.
But she was found out before she could set her plans in motion, and the entire guild was mobilized against her. She escaped by the skin of her teeth, and now she's on the run. The Nightsong Guild even took the unprecedented step of releasing information on the Fox to the law--betraying the underworld's cardinal rule. With nothing left to Jenaya but her devotion to trickery, she constantly heightens her skills in order to avoid the authorities by day and the assassins by night.
--------------------
Critiques welcome.
1) How did your character acquire his skills?
2) How does your character behave under ordinary circumstances?
3) Why is your character adventuring, given the high mortality rate?
As long as those questions are answered, getting the backstory to the DM before the campaign begins is more important than writing a high-quality backstory--another reason why it's good practice for me. You can go into as much depth as you like on any of the prompts, and naturally backstory length varies widely. A good one can be a paragraph or twenty pages, but the shortest are more likely to be uninformative, the longest unreadable. The DM's got enough work; saddling him with a novel-length character description, or forcing him to build your character's identity himself, is inconsiderate.
Here are a couple of backstories that I've written in the last week. The first is a work in progress, both because I want to make it longer and because the character is in an ongoing campaign. The second was a thought experiment.
--------------------
Sharran was born the scion of a noble family, descended from celestials in the service of Heironeous, and thus naturally devout followers of that god. The lion's share of the familly served in the capacity of Heironeus' clerics and paladins, and it was expected that Sharran would follow the same route. But Sharran was quite unlike his relatives. His short, wiry frame and scrambling approach to life contrasted sharply with the contemplative and courtly habits of his tall, graceful siblings. Rumors that Sharran was illegitimate added to a general atmosphere of unease concerning the young heir, which served to isolate him.
Sharran objected to the righteous fervor and militaristic demeanor of the Tarciels, which he believed insulated them from the rest of the world and subjected them to an unhealthy stasis. When it came time for him to choose his path, he wanted nothing more than to shake things up. As he was presented with the ceremonial sword and shield that represented the choice between clergy and the knighthood, inspiration descended upon Sharran. Taking an ordinary stick that laid nearby, he dealt a mighty blow that broke the sword and shattered the shield. Then he strode out the door and out of the city, for good.
It has been many years since that day. Sharran has come to the understanding that Fharlanghn the Dweller, god of roads, is the source of his powers. But he still does not fully understand how he came to be a druid of the traveling deity. For one thing, he cannot find companionship with animals, a central tenet of druidic teachings. Perhaps it's a parting shot from his family and their Outsider blood; but then, how is he to progress towards enlightenment? (How ironic that the blood of angels should be such an impediment.) How can he reconcile his philosophy of change with the druid's focus on balance? Sharran travels in search of answers. But he may have to put his personal dilemmas on hold in the face of a plague that threatens all.
--------------------
Jenaya grew up on the streets of Skyfane City, carving out a life for herself outside the law. And she was good...very good. She came to view crime as an art form, from the skillful choice of mark to the evasion of the Man afterwards. Her devotion to the art form soon exceeded her devotion to crime--though she was hardly averse to breaking the law. She began to take on higher-profile targets, letting her whimsy dictate her choices. The day after breaking up a crime ring before the law arrived, she would thieve a priceless treasure from a well-guarded aristocrat. The only constant was the fox mask she left wherever she did her daring work. Rumors spread about the Fox--a man with mastery of illusion magic, a sorceress with great powers of seduction, a quickling with an uncommon interest in human affairs. Jenaya let the rumors take hold, even added some of her own--and quietly laughed whenever she heard them on the street.
Even so, someone had the wherewithal to track her down. She woke up one night to find herself surrounded by hard-looking folk. A man, their apparent leader, sat at the foot of her bed. He introduced himself as an enforcer of the Nightsong Guild, a powerful player wherever there was play to be had. Jenaya had been stepping on more than a few toes, and so come to the enforcers' attention. The man offered her a mutually beneficial arrangement. Membership in the Nightsong Guild would give Jenaya greater resources with which to pursue her antics, and legitimacy in the underworld of civilization. In return, the guild would benefit from the notoriety of the Fox, and occasionally ask her services for particular tasks--and take a cut of the Fox's prizes, as well. She could refuse, of course, but then she would risk making the guild her enemy--and they had amply demonstrated their ability to track her down.
Jenaya accepted. Privately, though, she saw an opportunity to outdo all her previous work. How would it do to trick the underworld's most famous tricksters? As she trained in the team tactics that characterized the Nightsong Guild, she also began her preparations. She gathered information about the guild's leaders, its network of operations, its allies and enemies and triply turncoat traitors. And she began scheming to take down the guild from the inside.
But she was found out before she could set her plans in motion, and the entire guild was mobilized against her. She escaped by the skin of her teeth, and now she's on the run. The Nightsong Guild even took the unprecedented step of releasing information on the Fox to the law--betraying the underworld's cardinal rule. With nothing left to Jenaya but her devotion to trickery, she constantly heightens her skills in order to avoid the authorities by day and the assassins by night.
--------------------
Critiques welcome.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Begin!
While Stumbling through the Intertubes a while back, I came upon a little website called WeBook, and was intrigued. The premise is simple: someone pays a little money to put up the first page of his story, other people (and editors) rate the story, and if they like it, they ask for more—first a chapter, then the whole book. The website makes a game out of this process, by letting raters know afterwards what other raters and editors thought of the book. This system encourages people to try for the ‘right’ rating, the one other people and editors gave, to demonstrate their knowledge of literature—though undoubtedly some take pride in idiosyncratic ratings, a display of unusual taste. Occasionally, the website will mix things up a little: they’ll add the first page of one published work, to see if readers can spot the black sheep. The first time this happened to me, the Verne entry was obvious. It’s unfair to the authors, since published works usually undergo extensive editing, but the difference is plain to see.
All this got me to thinking about how writers begin stories. To some extent, it’s obvious—hook the reader, hook the reader, what every writing instructor has told his students for centuries. And some authors make this objective crassly obvious. Take, for example, the systematic opening murders of Dan Brown and Lee Child novels, the Law & Order style of starting with a dead body; or another staple, the birth of a child on a dark and stormy night intruded on by mysterious forces.
But many good books aren’t so blatant about it. A Navy commander is interrupted in post-battle repair work to report to his superior (all right, so he’s on a spaceship, but still). Another man waits in prison to return to his ordinary life. Two witches have a trivial squabble, a ranch manager is briefly mistaken for a stable boy, and an old man visits his wife’s grave. These books have clearly defined opening scenes, but identifying what draws the reader in isn’t easy. This is popular literature, mind—I’m not even going to try applying this paradigm to something like The Sound and the Fury or The Silmarillion or other books that plainly weren’t written to appeal to readers.
(I can hear the Tolkien fans screaming bloody murder right now. Relax, I’m one of you. I loved Silmarillion. But it wasn’t written to sell. It’s essentially a snapshot of Middle-Earth’s history—something that continuously evolved throughout Tolkien’s lifetime. I can guarantee you that J.R.R. didn’t write the Old Testament-style opening to win readers over; in fact, reading his son Christopher’s notes in Unfinished Tales, readers are turned off by the intro. And, really—d’you think any diehard Tolkien fan would put down the book because of the beginning?)
One common element lingers, though: depth. Why did WeBook’s Verne entry stick out like the Mona Lisa on a wall of graffiti? Okay, the use of archaisms like “compeers” and “nation of shopkeepers” did most of the work. But in a book about three men deciding to launch themselves to the Moon, Verne starts out describing the American post-Revolutionary state of military affairs, and particularly artillery affairs, in loving detail. You can tell where he’s going with this, of course. However, the introduction leaves the impression of a larger world working behind the scenes of the story.
Each of the books I looked at did much the same thing. Events occur against a backdrop. The job of the introduction is to place the story within that framework. This is where the formula of Dan Brown fails: for all the gruesome shock value of his introductions, they don’t connect the reader to the story’s world in any way. Some novels go to the other extreme and end up making text of context. It’s hard to find an example to condemn, though: the dystopia Brave New World is direct in its worldbuilding, and Asimov certainly takes every opportunity to return to psychohistorical reasoning in Foundation, but this is entirely justifiable.
The best way to create an impression of depth is probably just to write a deep story. There’s a reason why the first words the author writes aren’t usually the first words of the book, and essay writers often leave the intro for last. My recommendation to WeBook authors: though you only need to submit a page, it should be just the tip of the iceberg.
All this got me to thinking about how writers begin stories. To some extent, it’s obvious—hook the reader, hook the reader, what every writing instructor has told his students for centuries. And some authors make this objective crassly obvious. Take, for example, the systematic opening murders of Dan Brown and Lee Child novels, the Law & Order style of starting with a dead body; or another staple, the birth of a child on a dark and stormy night intruded on by mysterious forces.
But many good books aren’t so blatant about it. A Navy commander is interrupted in post-battle repair work to report to his superior (all right, so he’s on a spaceship, but still). Another man waits in prison to return to his ordinary life. Two witches have a trivial squabble, a ranch manager is briefly mistaken for a stable boy, and an old man visits his wife’s grave. These books have clearly defined opening scenes, but identifying what draws the reader in isn’t easy. This is popular literature, mind—I’m not even going to try applying this paradigm to something like The Sound and the Fury or The Silmarillion or other books that plainly weren’t written to appeal to readers.
(I can hear the Tolkien fans screaming bloody murder right now. Relax, I’m one of you. I loved Silmarillion. But it wasn’t written to sell. It’s essentially a snapshot of Middle-Earth’s history—something that continuously evolved throughout Tolkien’s lifetime. I can guarantee you that J.R.R. didn’t write the Old Testament-style opening to win readers over; in fact, reading his son Christopher’s notes in Unfinished Tales, readers are turned off by the intro. And, really—d’you think any diehard Tolkien fan would put down the book because of the beginning?)
One common element lingers, though: depth. Why did WeBook’s Verne entry stick out like the Mona Lisa on a wall of graffiti? Okay, the use of archaisms like “compeers” and “nation of shopkeepers” did most of the work. But in a book about three men deciding to launch themselves to the Moon, Verne starts out describing the American post-Revolutionary state of military affairs, and particularly artillery affairs, in loving detail. You can tell where he’s going with this, of course. However, the introduction leaves the impression of a larger world working behind the scenes of the story.
Each of the books I looked at did much the same thing. Events occur against a backdrop. The job of the introduction is to place the story within that framework. This is where the formula of Dan Brown fails: for all the gruesome shock value of his introductions, they don’t connect the reader to the story’s world in any way. Some novels go to the other extreme and end up making text of context. It’s hard to find an example to condemn, though: the dystopia Brave New World is direct in its worldbuilding, and Asimov certainly takes every opportunity to return to psychohistorical reasoning in Foundation, but this is entirely justifiable.
The best way to create an impression of depth is probably just to write a deep story. There’s a reason why the first words the author writes aren’t usually the first words of the book, and essay writers often leave the intro for last. My recommendation to WeBook authors: though you only need to submit a page, it should be just the tip of the iceberg.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
D&D: F1rst P0st1!111!!
Hmph. This isn’t exactly how I wanted to start off my regular schedule, by being late. But having no Internet poses a serious obstacle to posting. I might have to make the timing more flexible: Monday-Tuesday, Wednesday-Thursday, Friday-Saturday, or something like that.
Anyway, I can’t imagine how I managed to avoid writing about D&D for a full year, but I did. I got into tabletops via D20 Modern, with a group of high school buds holding occasional RL sessions. After we split up for college, the campaign died—well, it would be more accurate to say we took the brain-dead vegetable off life support. We turned to live chat campaigning and the D&D 3.5 system, but gaming occurs in fits and starts, and nobody can seem to find an open time and commit to it. Currently we’re on indefinite hiatus.
I had considerably more success once I noticed the Play-by-Post forum on the Giant in the Playground website, which I previously frequented for the Order of the Stick webcomic. PbP lacks some of the ambience of face-to-face gaming, but the upsides of flexible time commitment are tremendous. It’s the same reason I play most of my chess on the Facebook client: I don’t have to block out an hour for a chess game (or several for a D&D session), and can instead parcel out my time as it becomes available. In this system I’ve become involved in several campaigns, and I’m having a lot of fun. Progress is slow, of course; that’s the other drawback of play-by-post, the same way a chess game takes days to complete on Facebook. But that means I get more time to think, develop character ideas, and write.
D&D really stimulates my creativity. Lots of it ends up directed at the game itself, of course, but there’s spillover in other areas as well. My previous fantasy posts came not long after I began playing, and it’s no coincidence. It’s another source of regular writing, though hardly one I can claim is improving my productivity. Of course, if I wanted to get really involved in D&D as a creative endeavor I’d DM a campaign, but at that point I have to wonder about how the workload scales. Putting a lot of effort and ingenuity into that sort of project beats doing nothing, but it’s hardly a state of affairs I could maintain for any length of time—and campaigns take months or years.
D&D lends itself to a goodly number of theoretical discussions as well, and I plan to talk about those. Class balance (or rather, the lack thereof), party genders, the alignment system, integrating magic into a campaign world—all these are topics that I can discuss at length. So I probably will, since it means another update gets done on time. We’ll see how it goes.
Anyway, I can’t imagine how I managed to avoid writing about D&D for a full year, but I did. I got into tabletops via D20 Modern, with a group of high school buds holding occasional RL sessions. After we split up for college, the campaign died—well, it would be more accurate to say we took the brain-dead vegetable off life support. We turned to live chat campaigning and the D&D 3.5 system, but gaming occurs in fits and starts, and nobody can seem to find an open time and commit to it. Currently we’re on indefinite hiatus.
I had considerably more success once I noticed the Play-by-Post forum on the Giant in the Playground website, which I previously frequented for the Order of the Stick webcomic. PbP lacks some of the ambience of face-to-face gaming, but the upsides of flexible time commitment are tremendous. It’s the same reason I play most of my chess on the Facebook client: I don’t have to block out an hour for a chess game (or several for a D&D session), and can instead parcel out my time as it becomes available. In this system I’ve become involved in several campaigns, and I’m having a lot of fun. Progress is slow, of course; that’s the other drawback of play-by-post, the same way a chess game takes days to complete on Facebook. But that means I get more time to think, develop character ideas, and write.
D&D really stimulates my creativity. Lots of it ends up directed at the game itself, of course, but there’s spillover in other areas as well. My previous fantasy posts came not long after I began playing, and it’s no coincidence. It’s another source of regular writing, though hardly one I can claim is improving my productivity. Of course, if I wanted to get really involved in D&D as a creative endeavor I’d DM a campaign, but at that point I have to wonder about how the workload scales. Putting a lot of effort and ingenuity into that sort of project beats doing nothing, but it’s hardly a state of affairs I could maintain for any length of time—and campaigns take months or years.
D&D lends itself to a goodly number of theoretical discussions as well, and I plan to talk about those. Class balance (or rather, the lack thereof), party genders, the alignment system, integrating magic into a campaign world—all these are topics that I can discuss at length. So I probably will, since it means another update gets done on time. We’ll see how it goes.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Time to Write
You know how RL shenanigans often prevent people from updating their blogs? Well, in my strange world, RL issues are requiring me to start posting regularly.
I am a lazy bum. Doubt me? I was supposed to write this post six weeks ago. Indeed, dear reader, you would be inundated with fascinating blog posts, if only I would write them. (I’m modest, too!) Until I do something about this character flaw, I will be essentially unable to get on with my life the way I want to. Sure, there are ways and ways to take the easy ride through life, but they don’t go anywhere interesting. Whatever fantasy stories may say, an interesting life has to be worked for. That lesson has been hitting me upside the head for four and a half years, as activity after activity went under the heading of “Used to do that, didn’t put in the effort to get anywhere, eventually stopped.” When academics went on that list, even I could see there was a problem.
I am also a poor writer. I can turn out a good finished product (readers of my aborted attempt at fantasy storytelling may disagree), but it takes me an inordinate amount of time to get there. This is, to an extent, a reflection of the laziness problem: if I spend hours of writing time arguing on Facebook, nothing gets done. But it’s also a problem in itself.
I have trouble writing without first setting everything out in my head. Every word I set down has been mentally examined to the point where it should sue for sexual harassment. Typing and retyping is standard operating procedure for writers, but I try to juggle all the revision before I write. When this becomes difficult—say, the writing being juggled is a 10-page essay on the moral fiber of the United States—I get lost and end up distracting myself with food and fun as an escape from my confusion. Dr. Keith Hjortshoj, director of Cornell's Writing in the Majors program, describes this pattern of behavior in his book Understanding Writing Blocks:
I was lucky enough to be able to meet with Dr. Hjortshoj once to discuss my own writing difficulties. He told me bluntly, “You have to write crap.” Because when I focus on writing well, the keyboard is silent while I endlessly ponder how to proceed, and when I finally complete a sentence or two, I engage in notwriting to get away from pondering. Let a spiral staircase represent progress achieved through the cycles of writing and revision: I have been trying to pull myself straight up, rather than walking step by step. If I instead allow myself to write poorly, I can produce more with less effort, and then revise to improve the quality.
Writing on this blog will hopefully help me kill two birds with one stone. In setting a regular update schedule, and keeping to it, I discipline myself. In putting together reasonably lengthy posts, I practice the processes of writing.
So, I am committing to a Monday-Wednesday-Saturday update schedule. Drop by, read what I write, berate me for not writing…wait, I forgot, I probably don’t have a readership. Well, I’ll be berating myself, so that’s all right. Stay tuned!
I am a lazy bum. Doubt me? I was supposed to write this post six weeks ago. Indeed, dear reader, you would be inundated with fascinating blog posts, if only I would write them. (I’m modest, too!) Until I do something about this character flaw, I will be essentially unable to get on with my life the way I want to. Sure, there are ways and ways to take the easy ride through life, but they don’t go anywhere interesting. Whatever fantasy stories may say, an interesting life has to be worked for. That lesson has been hitting me upside the head for four and a half years, as activity after activity went under the heading of “Used to do that, didn’t put in the effort to get anywhere, eventually stopped.” When academics went on that list, even I could see there was a problem.
I am also a poor writer. I can turn out a good finished product (readers of my aborted attempt at fantasy storytelling may disagree), but it takes me an inordinate amount of time to get there. This is, to an extent, a reflection of the laziness problem: if I spend hours of writing time arguing on Facebook, nothing gets done. But it’s also a problem in itself.
I have trouble writing without first setting everything out in my head. Every word I set down has been mentally examined to the point where it should sue for sexual harassment. Typing and retyping is standard operating procedure for writers, but I try to juggle all the revision before I write. When this becomes difficult—say, the writing being juggled is a 10-page essay on the moral fiber of the United States—I get lost and end up distracting myself with food and fun as an escape from my confusion. Dr. Keith Hjortshoj, director of Cornell's Writing in the Majors program, describes this pattern of behavior in his book Understanding Writing Blocks:
…writing blocks usually (though not always) occur in the composing phase and carry writers back into prewriting activities or diversions. Turning back often feels safer than moving ahead, which might produce bad writing as evidence of our ignorance and confusion, or create messes we can’t untangle. Better do some further reading, make further notes and outlines, or simply take a break to think about the task.
I was lucky enough to be able to meet with Dr. Hjortshoj once to discuss my own writing difficulties. He told me bluntly, “You have to write crap.” Because when I focus on writing well, the keyboard is silent while I endlessly ponder how to proceed, and when I finally complete a sentence or two, I engage in notwriting to get away from pondering. Let a spiral staircase represent progress achieved through the cycles of writing and revision: I have been trying to pull myself straight up, rather than walking step by step. If I instead allow myself to write poorly, I can produce more with less effort, and then revise to improve the quality.
Writing on this blog will hopefully help me kill two birds with one stone. In setting a regular update schedule, and keeping to it, I discipline myself. In putting together reasonably lengthy posts, I practice the processes of writing.
So, I am committing to a Monday-Wednesday-Saturday update schedule. Drop by, read what I write, berate me for not writing…wait, I forgot, I probably don’t have a readership. Well, I’ll be berating myself, so that’s all right. Stay tuned!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Fight!
So after I made a big deal out of apologizing for being a day late, this is three weeks later that I actually put anything on the blog. As expected, writing challenges don't just disappear when I make a commitment to make them disappear, but I'm working on it. Anyway, the way the writing is going, I can't exactly post in chronological order. Some scenes don't work at all, and some flow out nicely. So today I'm posting my most recent effort. Time to introduce some new characters, neh? Well, not really; but they do come up.
********************************************************
As Yuki and I circled warily, I mused that it wasn't actually all that different from work. All right, so office suits didn't carry swords into the conference room, but their verbal sparring often had the same life-and-death quality.
She moved first, reversing direction and coming in hard with a slash towards my left shoulder. I took it on my left guard and punched out with the other, pivoting towards her, but she just kept moving and ended up to my left with a clear shot at my back. I dropped into a forward roll and winced as her sword cut the air above me.
I spun as I rose, expecting a fast-approaching blade, but Yuki just stood there looking at me curiously. Not questioning my fortune, I started my own charge, hoping to get in close, where my mailed fists would be more effective than her blade. But she danced away, and I had to put up both arms to block a flurry of blows.
"Slow," Yuki taunted as she struck. "Perhaps it is my fault for expecting something. What happened to the skill of the one known as Iron Fury?" She worked my guard high, then suddenly reversed into a middle thrust.
"I'll take age and treachery over youth and skill any day," I retorted. I pivoted around the incoming sword and dropped my right hand down to keep her from shifting to a slash. The pivot ended with my back to the sword, as I reached out for a vicious backhand blow. Yuki traded for a knee to the side, and then it was her turn to fall away in a roll. I pursued, but stopped before a nigh impenetrable steel curtain, Yuki whipping her blade back and forth to keep me at bay even as she rose.
"You say that, but you don't really mean it," she pointed out. "You fight tricky, but you never used tricks to fight. You've laid on a world-weary veneer, but--"
I interrupted with my fists. We exchanged a few blows, sword on fist, then separated. Yuki was the worse off; I could feel a bruise coming up, but she was limping.
"Why'd you cut me off?" she demanded.
"After years apart, you still talk like you know me," I said. "Not to mention you still talk like it's a free action. I'm not here to listen to you. I fight, I take you to the hospital, I go. That simple." I closed in, leading with my left.
And blocking with my right, against Yuki's descending blade. I told you it was her feet, right? Against anyone else two fists beats one blade, but Yuki was already miles away from my intended attack. Not just that, either. Her grin was all the warning I had before I got a hammer blow to the side. I staggered, and she was behind me. I whirled, left arm sweeping below my right guard, but she just came in behind the block and poked my chest with her sword. I raised my arms in defeat.
"So is this what it takes to get you to listen?" Yuki inquired, breathing hard.
"Well, it helps," I replied.
"'Good," she said with some asperity. "Because 'simple' is the last word for our situation, and if it takes a blade to make you listen to an adventurer, I'll leave it there till I'm done."
"Now you're just being contrary."
"Maybe I am," she admitted, smiling. "Besides, inside's better than out for long talks." She sheathed her sword. "But then, the only reason you're not leaving right now is that you know I'm faster. And when I'm done, you'll know why that's worst for all of us."
"All of you, maybe," I retorted. "Worst for me would be--wait a second. All? You mean everyone's back? And how did you manage that little feat?" I looked quizzically at her, but faltered at her suddenly grim expression.
"Not everyone," she said quietly. "Verth never took to townie life the way you did. I found him a month ago, all right--found him with a layer of snow covering the hole in his belly. Word was he'd fallen in with the local thugs, and ran his mouth once too often for the boss." She stared into the distance. I laid my arm across her shoulders.
"The thugs?" My voice was soft.
"Dead," she said, almost without emotion. But her eyes were moist. "Took me a week to root them all out. Not sure anyone else knew who was who--got myself a couple of wanted posters by the fourth day. You know how it is."
"That I do," I sighed. "How about the others?"
"Carran never left," she answered, blinking her eyes dry. "This is his life. Couldn't pry him away from it with a crowbar. Lyran was on-again, off-again. Trying to have it both ways, I'm surprised he never got--caught. Too fond of creature comforts for his own good, the rascal," she grumbled good-naturedly. "We'd pick him up in Plesset and he'd drop out in Deringham, saying he'd never be back. Didn't have your resolve, I guess. Ephestra settled down like you, though. Hell, she was going steady when I showed up. She was more trouble than you, honestly. You don't want to come back, but she didn't want to leave. Love's harder to budge than hate."
"She left, though," I cut in. "Why don't we head back to Folger's, and you can catch me up on why."
"What, you don't want to hear more about Ephestra's exploits?" she asked mischievously. "Time was you'd be jealous."
"Time gone past," I replied in kind, then sobered. "Besides, you may be chuckling now, but last night you weren't so pleasant. Not angry, either, however you tried to fake it." I fixed her with a serious stare. "You were nervous--scared, even. And that's got me more worried than when you had three feet of steel pointed at my chest."
"Yeah, but that's because you knew I wouldn't follow through," she pointed out.
"No, that wasn't it," I replied, moving suddenly. Before she could react I had her in a headlock. She yelped, reaching for her sword, but I blocked her from drawing. "Notice anything?" I asked her casually.
She sniffed. "You didn't break a sweat. But why let me think you were out of practice?"
"Because I wanted to see if you needed me, broken down as I wasn't," I replied, releasing the hold. "Besides, if you'd been going all out yourself I'd have been down at the first blow. Shall we?"
"I still would've won," she said irritably, stalking towards the road. I smiled and followed.
********************************************************
I'll also be editing the first excerpt for continuity and style whatnots.
********************************************************
As Yuki and I circled warily, I mused that it wasn't actually all that different from work. All right, so office suits didn't carry swords into the conference room, but their verbal sparring often had the same life-and-death quality.
She moved first, reversing direction and coming in hard with a slash towards my left shoulder. I took it on my left guard and punched out with the other, pivoting towards her, but she just kept moving and ended up to my left with a clear shot at my back. I dropped into a forward roll and winced as her sword cut the air above me.
I spun as I rose, expecting a fast-approaching blade, but Yuki just stood there looking at me curiously. Not questioning my fortune, I started my own charge, hoping to get in close, where my mailed fists would be more effective than her blade. But she danced away, and I had to put up both arms to block a flurry of blows.
"Slow," Yuki taunted as she struck. "Perhaps it is my fault for expecting something. What happened to the skill of the one known as Iron Fury?" She worked my guard high, then suddenly reversed into a middle thrust.
"I'll take age and treachery over youth and skill any day," I retorted. I pivoted around the incoming sword and dropped my right hand down to keep her from shifting to a slash. The pivot ended with my back to the sword, as I reached out for a vicious backhand blow. Yuki traded for a knee to the side, and then it was her turn to fall away in a roll. I pursued, but stopped before a nigh impenetrable steel curtain, Yuki whipping her blade back and forth to keep me at bay even as she rose.
"You say that, but you don't really mean it," she pointed out. "You fight tricky, but you never used tricks to fight. You've laid on a world-weary veneer, but--"
I interrupted with my fists. We exchanged a few blows, sword on fist, then separated. Yuki was the worse off; I could feel a bruise coming up, but she was limping.
"Why'd you cut me off?" she demanded.
"After years apart, you still talk like you know me," I said. "Not to mention you still talk like it's a free action. I'm not here to listen to you. I fight, I take you to the hospital, I go. That simple." I closed in, leading with my left.
And blocking with my right, against Yuki's descending blade. I told you it was her feet, right? Against anyone else two fists beats one blade, but Yuki was already miles away from my intended attack. Not just that, either. Her grin was all the warning I had before I got a hammer blow to the side. I staggered, and she was behind me. I whirled, left arm sweeping below my right guard, but she just came in behind the block and poked my chest with her sword. I raised my arms in defeat.
"So is this what it takes to get you to listen?" Yuki inquired, breathing hard.
"Well, it helps," I replied.
"'Good," she said with some asperity. "Because 'simple' is the last word for our situation, and if it takes a blade to make you listen to an adventurer, I'll leave it there till I'm done."
"Now you're just being contrary."
"Maybe I am," she admitted, smiling. "Besides, inside's better than out for long talks." She sheathed her sword. "But then, the only reason you're not leaving right now is that you know I'm faster. And when I'm done, you'll know why that's worst for all of us."
"All of you, maybe," I retorted. "Worst for me would be--wait a second. All? You mean everyone's back? And how did you manage that little feat?" I looked quizzically at her, but faltered at her suddenly grim expression.
"Not everyone," she said quietly. "Verth never took to townie life the way you did. I found him a month ago, all right--found him with a layer of snow covering the hole in his belly. Word was he'd fallen in with the local thugs, and ran his mouth once too often for the boss." She stared into the distance. I laid my arm across her shoulders.
"The thugs?" My voice was soft.
"Dead," she said, almost without emotion. But her eyes were moist. "Took me a week to root them all out. Not sure anyone else knew who was who--got myself a couple of wanted posters by the fourth day. You know how it is."
"That I do," I sighed. "How about the others?"
"Carran never left," she answered, blinking her eyes dry. "This is his life. Couldn't pry him away from it with a crowbar. Lyran was on-again, off-again. Trying to have it both ways, I'm surprised he never got--caught. Too fond of creature comforts for his own good, the rascal," she grumbled good-naturedly. "We'd pick him up in Plesset and he'd drop out in Deringham, saying he'd never be back. Didn't have your resolve, I guess. Ephestra settled down like you, though. Hell, she was going steady when I showed up. She was more trouble than you, honestly. You don't want to come back, but she didn't want to leave. Love's harder to budge than hate."
"She left, though," I cut in. "Why don't we head back to Folger's, and you can catch me up on why."
"What, you don't want to hear more about Ephestra's exploits?" she asked mischievously. "Time was you'd be jealous."
"Time gone past," I replied in kind, then sobered. "Besides, you may be chuckling now, but last night you weren't so pleasant. Not angry, either, however you tried to fake it." I fixed her with a serious stare. "You were nervous--scared, even. And that's got me more worried than when you had three feet of steel pointed at my chest."
"Yeah, but that's because you knew I wouldn't follow through," she pointed out.
"No, that wasn't it," I replied, moving suddenly. Before she could react I had her in a headlock. She yelped, reaching for her sword, but I blocked her from drawing. "Notice anything?" I asked her casually.
She sniffed. "You didn't break a sweat. But why let me think you were out of practice?"
"Because I wanted to see if you needed me, broken down as I wasn't," I replied, releasing the hold. "Besides, if you'd been going all out yourself I'd have been down at the first blow. Shall we?"
"I still would've won," she said irritably, stalking towards the road. I smiled and followed.
********************************************************
I'll also be editing the first excerpt for continuity and style whatnots.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Ok, So It's a Day Late
As promised, the first part of my writing. I may have to rethink this--it wouldn't be fair to me or to you to release half-finished junk (for example, right after the end of this section I've skipped a good deal of what I envision to be internal dialogue because it depends on where I take the novel later). OTOH, it means I could edit the posts as I go along, which might be educational in itself.
All right, here goes.
************************************************************
“So a guy walks into a bar.” I used to laugh at those. Get a man drunk and he’ll do things he wouldn’t soberly consider for love or money. Ever hear the one about Superman luring people off the roof? But sobriety hadn't stopped me from doing unimaginable things. And love had nothing to do with it, worse luck.
So I ignored the joker and ordered my drink. Yeah, I was sober, but I didn’t want to be. And this was the only place in town that served 12% beer, so here I was. The first swallow scorched my throat going down, and I was going for actual flames when a shove from behind turned the rest of the bottle into glass shards and foamy splatter. I turned around to let the shover have a piece of my mind, and perhaps a few hours’ rest. Like a drunkard, remember, I thought, and let my fist come around in a massive, sloppy arc that it never completed.
Yuki stood there, one hand on her hip like the other was meant to be, only it was busy crushing my wrist. “Really, John, I knew you must have deteriorated, but this is pathetic,” she said with a hint of accent. “It makes me wonder if I shouldn’t just break this and leave you to fester.”
I’d prefer if you didn’t—break it, anyway,” I managed with some semblance of politeness. “Be hard to work one-handed.” If she was here, then so was the rest of the gang.
“Relax, John,” she said scornfully, seeing my eyes dart. “They're busy trawling--you know the drill. I wouldn’t need backup anyway, the state you’re in.” I didn’t dispute the point, even if she had mistaken my punch for the real thing. “On the other hand,” she added, “I’m not here to drown myself in alcohol either, like you are. I’ve got better things to do than dwell on the bad old days, and now you do too.”
“Yeah, I have a job.” I freed my wrist. She let me. “I make an honest 9-to-5 living now, and I don't need--"
"Trouble," Yuki interrupted, sneering. "You used to live for trouble, John. You've got the scars to prove it. Are you so scared of acquiring more that you'd hide behind a desk and a mug of beer? Have your fists gone soft? Or is it that you're too good for us, with your steady pay and comfortable lifestyle?" She looked up at me, face hard. "I guess we don't need a man getting fat in the belly and the purse. We'll just be about our merry way, and let you be about your job." She made it seem a dirty word.
I knew she was goading me, but I was never famed for my patience. "Do you want to see if I've gone soft? Take this outside, and we can have ourselves a philosophical discussion." I almost said "put up your fists," but I remembered that it was her feet I'd have to watch.
"It can wait until you've sobered up," she replied. "We're staying at Folger's Inn down Broadside Way. Tomorrow, at noon--if you still have the guts." She strode away. I didn't bother to protest that I'd had less than one drink. Watching her flowing movements, I wasn't sure I could best her, sober or not. One fight, I told myself. I have my pride. But after that, I'm done, no matter what they say or do.
************************************************************
ps. John and Yuki are just names, right now, and subject to change. I can tell you one name that won't come up as Yuki's replacement, as if it matters: Kagemoto Hoshiko. I want to use that name, but not on a character who seems so hard-headed. I might even write something just for that name, because it's so evocative to me. It translates: Star's child, origin of shadows. Sweet.
All right, here goes.
************************************************************
“So a guy walks into a bar.” I used to laugh at those. Get a man drunk and he’ll do things he wouldn’t soberly consider for love or money. Ever hear the one about Superman luring people off the roof? But sobriety hadn't stopped me from doing unimaginable things. And love had nothing to do with it, worse luck.
So I ignored the joker and ordered my drink. Yeah, I was sober, but I didn’t want to be. And this was the only place in town that served 12% beer, so here I was. The first swallow scorched my throat going down, and I was going for actual flames when a shove from behind turned the rest of the bottle into glass shards and foamy splatter. I turned around to let the shover have a piece of my mind, and perhaps a few hours’ rest. Like a drunkard, remember, I thought, and let my fist come around in a massive, sloppy arc that it never completed.
Yuki stood there, one hand on her hip like the other was meant to be, only it was busy crushing my wrist. “Really, John, I knew you must have deteriorated, but this is pathetic,” she said with a hint of accent. “It makes me wonder if I shouldn’t just break this and leave you to fester.”
I’d prefer if you didn’t—break it, anyway,” I managed with some semblance of politeness. “Be hard to work one-handed.” If she was here, then so was the rest of the gang.
“Relax, John,” she said scornfully, seeing my eyes dart. “They're busy trawling--you know the drill. I wouldn’t need backup anyway, the state you’re in.” I didn’t dispute the point, even if she had mistaken my punch for the real thing. “On the other hand,” she added, “I’m not here to drown myself in alcohol either, like you are. I’ve got better things to do than dwell on the bad old days, and now you do too.”
“Yeah, I have a job.” I freed my wrist. She let me. “I make an honest 9-to-5 living now, and I don't need--"
"Trouble," Yuki interrupted, sneering. "You used to live for trouble, John. You've got the scars to prove it. Are you so scared of acquiring more that you'd hide behind a desk and a mug of beer? Have your fists gone soft? Or is it that you're too good for us, with your steady pay and comfortable lifestyle?" She looked up at me, face hard. "I guess we don't need a man getting fat in the belly and the purse. We'll just be about our merry way, and let you be about your job." She made it seem a dirty word.
I knew she was goading me, but I was never famed for my patience. "Do you want to see if I've gone soft? Take this outside, and we can have ourselves a philosophical discussion." I almost said "put up your fists," but I remembered that it was her feet I'd have to watch.
"It can wait until you've sobered up," she replied. "We're staying at Folger's Inn down Broadside Way. Tomorrow, at noon--if you still have the guts." She strode away. I didn't bother to protest that I'd had less than one drink. Watching her flowing movements, I wasn't sure I could best her, sober or not. One fight, I told myself. I have my pride. But after that, I'm done, no matter what they say or do.
************************************************************
ps. John and Yuki are just names, right now, and subject to change. I can tell you one name that won't come up as Yuki's replacement, as if it matters: Kagemoto Hoshiko. I want to use that name, but not on a character who seems so hard-headed. I might even write something just for that name, because it's so evocative to me. It translates: Star's child, origin of shadows. Sweet.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Writing
Those who know me know I have a problem with writing. It's not that I write poorly, as I hope a quick sampling of this blog would show. I've never gotten a grade below A- in any English class, and a large part of that is my cumulative essay grade. (Certainly it's not my work ethic.) No, writing well is not the problem. Writing quickly is the problem. I take forever to put fingers to keyboard, far longer to put pen to paper. Every sentence is a hard-fought battle against my twin desires to rewrite the sentence (I'm doing it now, with this sentence--and yes, I often end up with long paranthetical remarks as a result of this) and to go surfing my routine websites (a smattering of webcomics, manga websites, and Facebook-related material) for the umpteenth time just to get away from the writing.
This difficulty is made infinitely more frustrating by the fact that I deeply enjoy writing. As an avid reader, it's hard for me not to fantasize about turning my own ideas into essays and stories--hence this blog, at least regarding the essays part. I look forward to filling white space with words, words that interconnect to form rich dialogue, complex analysis, (I'm freezing up again here, trying to come up with another example to fill the gap and fit the rule of three) evocative poesy, and all the other types of literature I so eagerly gobble up from the reader's end. (My brain is screaming "aagh, repetition!" I'm trying to ignore it.) I go on Facebook and read my friends' poems, stories, and essays, and I think, "I want to do that!" or even "I could do better than that!" Yet my resolve dwindles after another few (synonym for frustrating, synonym for frustrating...ah, what the heck) hours watching a white screen remain infuriatingly (yay, found a synonym!) blank--unless I fill the screen (and the time) with games or other escapes.
Much of the problem is what rests between my ears--not too little, but too much. This is not a reference to my intellect, but rather to my extraordinary dependence on mapping out everything I plan to write before writing anything at all. (I'm doing it now--gotta stop, gotta stop!) The papers I turn in for my English classes are generally my first drafts--with an inner voice driving me to perfect everything as I write it, revision often proves redundant. Yet going through the whole process of revision would still take less time than the time it takes me to produce those first drafts, more because the tension of producing quality work according to plan in one go drives me quite literally to distraction than because it's more difficult to produce quality work. Write well, write quickly, or write according to plan--I can only do two of the three at any given time.
Therefore, I'm now working on how to facilitate the interplay of planning and writing so that each helps, rather than hinders, the other. As part of this exercise, I'm writing a story. What kind of story? I had no idea when it started. I went with a bar joke and let the characters play out from there. As I write, the story takes shape--something like the result of a three-way between Watchmen, R.A. Salvatore's work, and Order of the Stick. That's if the story doesn't change, which it's guaranteed to, but so it goes. From here on out, I'll post weekly updates to the story, and I promise they will be substantial. I mean, as long as I'm producing large quantities of verbeage, why not throw it to whatever snarling Internet trolls (or possibly even reasonable people, if I'm lucky) might frequent this blog?
This difficulty is made infinitely more frustrating by the fact that I deeply enjoy writing. As an avid reader, it's hard for me not to fantasize about turning my own ideas into essays and stories--hence this blog, at least regarding the essays part. I look forward to filling white space with words, words that interconnect to form rich dialogue, complex analysis, (I'm freezing up again here, trying to come up with another example to fill the gap and fit the rule of three) evocative poesy, and all the other types of literature I so eagerly gobble up from the reader's end. (My brain is screaming "aagh, repetition!" I'm trying to ignore it.) I go on Facebook and read my friends' poems, stories, and essays, and I think, "I want to do that!" or even "I could do better than that!" Yet my resolve dwindles after another few (synonym for frustrating, synonym for frustrating...ah, what the heck) hours watching a white screen remain infuriatingly (yay, found a synonym!) blank--unless I fill the screen (and the time) with games or other escapes.
Much of the problem is what rests between my ears--not too little, but too much. This is not a reference to my intellect, but rather to my extraordinary dependence on mapping out everything I plan to write before writing anything at all. (I'm doing it now--gotta stop, gotta stop!) The papers I turn in for my English classes are generally my first drafts--with an inner voice driving me to perfect everything as I write it, revision often proves redundant. Yet going through the whole process of revision would still take less time than the time it takes me to produce those first drafts, more because the tension of producing quality work according to plan in one go drives me quite literally to distraction than because it's more difficult to produce quality work. Write well, write quickly, or write according to plan--I can only do two of the three at any given time.
Therefore, I'm now working on how to facilitate the interplay of planning and writing so that each helps, rather than hinders, the other. As part of this exercise, I'm writing a story. What kind of story? I had no idea when it started. I went with a bar joke and let the characters play out from there. As I write, the story takes shape--something like the result of a three-way between Watchmen, R.A. Salvatore's work, and Order of the Stick. That's if the story doesn't change, which it's guaranteed to, but so it goes. From here on out, I'll post weekly updates to the story, and I promise they will be substantial. I mean, as long as I'm producing large quantities of verbeage, why not throw it to whatever snarling Internet trolls (or possibly even reasonable people, if I'm lucky) might frequent this blog?
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