Snippets

I haven't updated in a while but I wanted to share some things I've written recently. I haven't worked out the kinks in my novel quite yet, so instead of pulling out my hair in frustration when I get stuck, I just work on other things. 

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Assassins

“Be careful with that,” Tyce said with his grizzled, raspy voice as he stoked the fire. “The edge is coated with Oleander. Very poisonous.”

Elya’s brow furrowed as she turned the dagger over in her hands.

“Ah, I see. This is for the kill then. The King?” she asked.

Tyce nodded and stopped prodding the embers. He nudged a little closer and slid his hand to her bare knee.

“Why, yes it is. Very risky, but good money. Very good.”

Elya frowned, her expression twisted with concern.

“Don’t worry dear, I’m a professional.” He gave a wry smile and caressed her leg. 

Elya puffed. “You should hire me to do it!” She mockingly prodded the dagger at him.

Tyce gave a hearty laugh. “Who would be so foolish to hire such a lovely damsel as you to be an assassin?”

Elya returned a crisp, pointed smile as she eased the dagger towards his neck.

“The King.” She said.

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Weapons

The sword does not smile

When blade cuts and stings

The mace does not dwell

on the malice it brings

The axe cannot weep

When red stains its head

The dagger cannot profit

From alley man dead

Fear not the shiv

the arrow or sling

Fear not the claymore

fit to slay kings

Fear but the Hand

and murderous sight

For anything's a weapon

when it's held just right 

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Last Words

Walking past her room I shuddered

The cold, piercing thought uncovered

The aching weakness of my shell

As I wondered what of death she’d tell

Someone called and as I feared

Her last moment was almost near

Through door I went with pounding chest

To hear sweet things from her last breath

Looking at her lying there

I lost my tongue, I found no air

Stalked by specter, scythe in hand

Her life now falling grains of sand

Longing for words to ease my mind

I came forward and hoped to find

Whispers of meaning, of soul at peace

But I only heard my own heart beat

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The first piece is kind of my interpretation of a Jeffrey Whitmore piece with a fantasy spin to it. I'd really like to become more comfortable writing in this style, it's a lot of fun. 

I've already shared the two poems with a few friends and they've given me great feedback. I really need to try and venture aware form the familiar quatrain ABAB style rhyme scheme. It's really fun for me to try and convey ideas with this structure, it's almost like a word jigsaw puzzle that I have to assemble. I'd like to try and do something a bit more modern, though. 

What do you think? 

As I think, so shall I become...

A pretty ubiquitous theme in my blogs, posts, and videos is my desire to be a successful writer.

Writing for a living is really the only thing I can see my self doing when I imagine any future or outcome of my youth; it's just the only "career" that makes sense. I've been writing for a while now, which leads me to believe I understand a fair amount of the craft. I'm not an expert and I'm certainly not a master of the art, but I am familiar with the tropes, the plot devices, characterization, pitfalls, etc. I'm familiar with these "tools of the trade" to the point where I'm confident I can discuss it ad nauseam with anyone who'd listen.

So, if I'm so confident about my understanding of the topic and the bits and pieces that make up the craft, why am I so afraid to share what I've made?

At times I'm amazed and ashamed of how juvenile I can be at my age, and this fear of sharing what I make really tops the list. It's silly to fear criticism or reproach for the things I write and I know that, but that has not created within me any comfort or lack of fear. I understand the irrationality of the urge to avoid exposure and where the fear resides, but none of this diminishes the fear itself. It's irrational, that's just how fear works.

Really, the crutch of my problems are pretty contingent upon a few core fears:

1. What if I pour my heart into in something, share it, and have it thrown back at me because people don't like it.
2. What if I'm told that I should strongly consider pursuing another career, that even my best is a far cry from "good writing."

I feel almost silly after writing them down. I fully understand the flaws in this kind of thinking and the circular, self-fulfilling logic they create. For starters, no matter my audience, not matter my content, someone wont like it. That is something I need to learn to deal with, because it's okay if someone just doesn't like my work.

Secondly, and really the more frightening of the two, is the very real possibility that for all my trying and wanting, I really could just be terrible at writing. I have a relatively tough skin about most things, I'm not stranger to harsh words, but hearing that I'm not cut out for this, or that in spite of it all it's just not something I should pursue would crush me.

Again, I understand that these are irrational. I don't think someone is going to tell me my work is shit or that I should reconsider my career choices - but the fear is still real, and it's preventing me from trying.

I'm a big fan of conditioned psychology, so I feel that the only real solution here is to immerse myself in an environment where these fears have a really good chance of occurring so that I can experience them and understand that they won't in fact "crush me." I just have to accept that the only way I can grow as a writer is with criticism, failure, and hard work. If someone doesn't tell me what I write is shit once in a while, I'm not going to know what works and what doesn't.

So, I'm going to give it a shot. I don't think I have a large audience here, and I like that for now, but I'm going to put up a lot of what I write anyway, and in the off chance that someone reads it, I want to know what they think.