Tag: writers

Exactly Where I Want to Live

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

I would live in a comfortable cabin in the middle of a sparse but lush forest with no neighbors within shouting distance and located exactly one hour away from the nearest town. I would also have electricity and a hot tub.

Those who read my musings on my city of the future may be aware that when a daily prompt asks me what I want, I go whole hog with exactly what I want. Will I ever get it? Probably not, but my imagination doesn’t have to agree with reality. I want a cozy cabin, I want peace and quiet, and I want to huddle up on my couch and watch my big-screen TV while the birds chirp outside. And when I need to go shopping, I want the store to be an hour’s drive away.

Fantasizing about an idyllic, Arcadian existence is all fun and dandy, but actually living it is a different case entirely. Loafing around on a tropical island is fine until you need to take a shower and have no soap and shampoo. Or towels and washcloths. Or plumbing. Not to mention the bugs and the heat and the storms. Yes, I admit it, I like modern amenities as much as I like nature. So, I would live close to nature, but not too close, thank you very much.

Civilization strove for millennia to invent the modern conveniences we currently enjoy, and some of them were invented for very good reason. Who am I to throw aside all that hard work?

Okay, maybe I could go without the hot tub …

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

Do I Need Time?

Do you need time?

Asking whether I need time isn’t a question I can easily answer. Do I want time? Yes, I want time. To stop it in its tracks for as long as I desire and do all the things I want to do in life … that would be wonderful. But I can’t. Because we all only have a set amount of time, and we can’t get any more, regardless of whether we need it.

Maybe what can be said, then, is that we have enough time if we don’t spend it on frivolous, short-term trifles that don’t make a difference in the grand scheme of things. We are given the time we have. It’s clocked in at birth and clocks out at death. I don’t need time, but rather, maybe I should think harder on how to use the bundle of time I still have.

So, I guess what I’m saying is, no, I don’t need time. I need wisdom to use time rightly. Not an easy thing to live up to.

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

Kid at Heart

What does it mean to be a kid at heart?

Probably not screaming when you don’t get dessert and walking into the house with mud covering your shoes.

“Kid at heart” is one of those curious expressions we use and don’t give much thought to. There’s a general consensus that everyone knows what it means, but do we really know what it actually means? Kids are selfish, loud, noisy, sometimes smelly, and generally very expensive. They are also seen as innocent, full of potential, and the future of civilization. Which may or may not be true (especially that part about innocence).

So, what does it mean to be a “kid at heart?” Perhaps it simply means to not let go of youthful vigor and enthusiasm. To not be jaded, as kids so rarely are, and to see the world as something fresh and new every day, as kids so often do. Kids are as flawed as adults, so I don’t think we should see childhood as a perfect little utopia long lost, but rather as a time when we were willing to have a little more joy in our lives and a little more willingness to learn.

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

Quotes Courtesy of Charles Dickens

In honor of of one of the greatest writers of our, and any time, here are some choice quotes from the works of Charles Dickens. Some advice, some funny observations, maybe even a little wisdom.

The most important thing in life is to stop saying, ‘I wish’ and start saying, ‘I will’. Consider nothing impossible, then treat possibilities as probabilities.”

David Copperfield

“There are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”

Oliver Twist

“Trifles make the sum of life.”

Great Expectations

“There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat.”

The Pickwick Papers

 “Love, though said to be afflicted with blindness, is a vigilant watchman.”

Our Mutual Friend

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

The Trickster’s Lament preview #2

Another glimpse of my novel-in-progress.

Don’t you just hate it when a plan falls apart? A simple museum heist has gone completely off the rails for Hermes. The trickster god better think fast.

—

I didn’t wait for more gunfire and sprinted out of their line of sight into a nearby gift shop. I vaulted the cashier’s desk and winded through the shelves of merchandise. As I did so, I felt a sudden and intense accumulation of magic behind me, a growing pressure that was followed by a violent rush of wind. The sensation swiftly changed from that of a strong gust to the feeling of barbed-wire digging into me. I dropped to the floor.

The clamor of the spell demolished the shop. Books, toys, mugs, and pens were caught up and eviscerated by a wind storm condensed into a narrow room-wide blade of fast-moving air. Metal shrieked as the spell sliced apart shelving. It traveled to the end of the room before it dissipated, leaving a deep gash in the wall.

Wind magic is hard. Controlling it with any degree of precision, let alone focusing it into a cutting edge, is notorious among mages for its difficulty. Most would-be practitioners either give up or lose limbs. These mercenaries were no amateurs. They also obviously had no interest in witnesses.

After the spell ran its course, I pushed myself to my feet and leapt up and over the pile of shredded debris. My foot caught on a piece of ripped cardboard, and I tripped. Four pops of a gun sounded behind me. One of the bullets caught me in the shin. As I regained my footing, centuries of discipline helped me to force the shock of pain to the fringes of my awareness. Another bullet did the proverbial whistle past my ear and kicked up a bit of plaster a few feet away.

Exiting the shop, I reached the second-floor rotunda overlooking the lobby. Speed was essential, so, without stopping, I rolled forward, defying the pain in my leg. I shapeshifted as I came out of the roll, landing as a tortoise whose inertia and smooth underside skidded me along the tile floor like a misshapen hockey puck. Shots aimed at human head height whizzed over me.

I came to a rest and peeked out of my shell. Three men exited the gift shop and proceeded cautiously, two of them with guns raised. Before they could spot me, I changed into a fly and circled behind them. Strong hands swiftly grabbed the pair of gunmen by the napes of their neck and slammed their heads together.

The mage spun around at the sound of my attack. He was dressed like the others – black body armor and balaclava, night vision goggles – but he carried no gun except a sidearm at his hip. His hands were stretched out with palms forward. He was furiously chanting to focus his magic. Not fast enough.

I swung one of the unconscious mercs into a wide arc. At the apex of the throw, I let go. The merc flew gracelessly into the mage. The man saw it and nimbly hopped aside, dodging entirely.

But I followed through the toss and kept spinning. I gripped the second merc with both hands and hurled him as hard as I could. It was a beautiful hit. Both bodies were lifted off the floor and traveled a perfectly horizontal trajectory into a wall.

With luck and medical attention, they would keep all their ribs intact.

More footsteps echoed in the museum’s open space. This was becoming annoying. I didn’t have the inclination to play soldier, and I was running out of time. I had to find Bast. She was still somewhere in the museum, and she had my prize in her hands. Catching up with her was my one and only priority. These thugs were a distraction, at best.

I gritted my teeth. She had better still be here.

—

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

The Trickster’s Lament preview

Yes, indeed, I have been working on my second book all this time! And now that it is nearing completion, I’m happy to share a sneak peak of The Trickster’s Lament, continuation of the Greek god Hermes’ adventures in the modern world and sequel to A God Walks Up to the Bar.

—

In my long life, I’ve awakened to many unpleasant sensations. The awareness that I was drowning swiftly found its place as among the worst.

Consciousness returned slowly. My muddled mind tried to take stock of my surroundings, but failed to comprehend. And so, I obeyed my body’s first instinct, which was to open my mouth and take a deep breath. For that, I received a mouthful of water straight down my windpipe. I choked. The spasm triggered another reflexive breath and more water filled my lungs.

My eyelids snapped open, and I looked around in pain and mounting panic. I rotated my body down to look at the murky blackness beneath my feet, then upward toward the white sun splintered into fragments by the water’s rippling surface. I made frantically for that light, swinging my arms in wide strokes that strained my half-drowned body. Black dots skewered my vision, and every movement was agony. I was dying.

I couldn’t actually die from drowning, of course. One would think that would be an advantage. But my body wasn’t immune to harm, merely to death. I could feel the water in my lungs cutting off the flow of oxygen to my brain. I could feel my heartbeat slow as vital organs succumbed. I could feel every second of my body’s suffering. No, I wouldn’t die. I’d just be reduced to a limbo state, a piece of litter drifting along the currents.

I retched and vomited. A current pushed the warm mess back into my face. A painful twitch in my throat forced me to take another breath. The same water I’d ejected was sucked back in.

I felt a tinge of envy for mortals. Such a uniquely morbid sensation, dying but not being able to die. Feeling the blood in your veins pool and thicken into sludge, and your clogged respiratory system desperately tried to pump out water faster than it was taking it in. My skull felt like it was cracking apart as my brain functions collapsed. Pure animal instinct was all that kept me moving.

Dying, but unable to die. Lucky me.

Eyes bulging out of my head and white-hot pain searing every cell in my body, I broke the surface. Water and vomit erupted from my mouth in a geyser. For the next few moments, I just floated on the waves. My body needed time to heal itself and return to proper working order. My vision gradually cleared of fluttering black flecks, and my thoughts readjusted into more complex patterns than “Oh, dear Hera, I need to breathe.” While I waited for my strength to return, I looked about and saw only rolling waves and a pale sun winking from a cloud-streaked sky. No land was visible. I was alone in the Atlantic.

—

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

Putting Stories into the World and Learning to Let Them Go

Stories are precious things, especially to those who write them.

We write stories for all sorts of reasons: to tell a message, to work through a grief or hardship, as a gift for friends and family, or simply for the sake of doing so. Regardless of why, stories are very personal things.

And we all have a vision for our stories. We see it for what we want it to be. We see it all – or so we think. And then the moment of truth comes: time to publish. It’s out there, others are reading it, and they don’t see what we saw.

That’s applicability for you. We plan and plan, but readers make the story into something else, because they see themselves in the story. We all see ourselves, and so the narrative comes into focus through the lenses of our own lives.

It’s hard to let go of what we create, and even harder to hear others’ opinions of our work. They claim to understand and comprehend the deep analogies and whatnot, and we tell ourselves, “That’s not what I meant at all!”

It’s life, I suppose. And it’s something all writers will have to deal with sooner or later. But it’s not all bad. The words of readers reveal other lenses, other views and new possibilities. To be a writer is to spend so much time locked up inside yourself. Letting your story go out into the world allows you to see beyond your own mind.

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

The Curious Art of NOT Writing the Story

I’m always thinking about writing and how to describe it to people who don’t write. It’s something that is both simple and complex to describe, because like most kinds of art, writing refuses to be boxed into simple definitions. Putting words on paper is what writing involves, but it is not what writing is.

One thing that writing is is the art of cutting away the unnecessary. Putting in too many or too few words is easy; adding just enough is hard. Authors spend their whole lives perfecting that technique.

And then my brain shifts gears and starts thinking: Can the same be said of stories in general? Everyone has at least one good story in them, but then there are those who have dozens, even hundreds of stories. Which ones do we tell, and which do we leave unsaid? In other words, which are the ones worth telling the world?

There are stories published that perhaps should not have been. On the other hand, there are also books written that will never see the light of day, maybe first attempts that authors are content to let sit in their drawer undisturbed (I’m not one of them. I published my first book, for better or for worse. You be the judge).

Some stories are complete in themselves, but get sequels that no one asked for. And some … This may be a strange thing to say, but I think that some stories can stay cozily confined within our own thoughts or just typed out on our computers and taken no further. Not every story needs to be told. But writers do need to write. It’s a hobby as well as a career.

Shifting through all the possibilities, the tons of tales that we think up, and deciding which we will commit our time to writing and which we must pass up on. That’s an art unto itself.

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

The Sound of Inspiration

What would your life be like without music?

A life without music would be dull, that’s easy enough to say. But for me, it would also be a great deal more difficult to write anything noteworthy.

It is my belief that music is the purest expression of emotions and feelings available to humankind, just as written words are the purest expression of structured ideas. How do we describe good music? Moving, exciting, stirring, heartbreaking, uplifting, thrilling, contemplative. Music makes us feel. Words can, too, of course, but where a written story might give us a good shove now and then, music slaps us in the face – in a good way. Take any scene from a movie or stage play and remove the music. What do you have left? A bunch of people yelling and prancing around, usually. But add the music, and your heart beats to a gallop, or sinks in defeat or halts in anticipation. You no longer see something silly, but an experience of deep sincerity.

So what does this have to do with my writing? Simple. I listen to music for inspiration. Lots of people do, and I’m one of them. If you’re a writer and haven’t tried music as a way to come up with new ideas and work through the details of current ones, then I highly recommend it. Music stirs up emotions into a bubbling well, and from that well I draw my inspiration to fuel my projects.

I suppose that music and words go hand in hand. Two different forms of passion that perfectly compliment each other.

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

Stories and Lies

Interesting thought for the day: All storytellers are liars.

Authors, poets, filmmakers, artists … We make things up. We show things to audiences that aren’t real.

But we’re liars who admit we’re liars. The things we tell in our stories are acknowledged as fiction. That’s why it’s called “fiction” and not “deception.”

There is an unspoken agreement between storyteller and audience: I will tell you something untrue, and you will treat it as something true until the story is ended. Audiences know that they are witnessing a fabrication, and so it is acceptable.

But stories do discuss real things – people, events, feelings, ideas, places – although the story itself isn’t true. Even if it is retelling a piece of history, it’s prefaced by the words “Based on a true story.”

Yet if it presents itself as real history, but isn’t, then it’s an actual lie.

Stories are lies that know they are lies and willingly admit it. And so they aren’t true lies, because they don’t pretend to be anything else.

Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.