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Look forward to seeing and hearing from you!! 🙂
There was once a camp counselor who loved training her children. She was an undergrad in physical therapy, albeit ironically because she was on the heavy-set side; but she always enjoyed teaching the kids at camp every year how to move their bodies in a way that was safe and fun. She’d worked at this particular camp every single summer since she’d graduated high school, so many years ago.
This year was a little different. This year, they’d gotten a new counselor. This young man was about the same age as herself, but he was the most attractive thing the counselor (we’ll call her Jamie.) had ever seen. He had striking black hair and glittering green eyes, he had broad shoulders and thick biceps. He was a walking dream.
Jamie was pretty certain that this young man (We’ll call him Trent.) and herself would have fairly evenly nothing in common. But as the days began to pass of the month-long summer camp, they began to talk and find that they had a lot in common.
It came to be that Trent confessed his love to her beneath the awning of the cafeteria during a sudden rainstorm after all the kids had trundled into their cots. And so, they began a hesitant relationship.
A week passed, then two, and the camp was drawing to a close. There was a softball tournament coming up as the final activity of the camp, and the whole grounds were excited. Jamie was in charge of teaching the little girls how to throw and catch the softballs. Trent was working with the boys.
They’d spent so much time together since that fateful night beneath the cafeteria awning that neither had slept much, and some of their duties had been shirked in lieu of spending time together. However, they didn’t know much about each other.
The truth was, Jamie had a big secret.
And that big secret was that at a certain point during the year, though it was never exactly the same, her face turned absolutely grotesque. Her ears would wind up, her nose screw and bubble, her eyebrows turned downward. She became what most people would call a part-of-the-year goblin. Her hair, normally a plain brown, would turn a drastic red that would curl past her hip and tangle atrociously. She likened herself to an ugly troll-doll.
So when it came that she had exhausted herself so thoroughly in spending time with Trent, she found herself beginning to change a little earlier than she’d expect.
Of course the camp knew about her condition, and it was no surprise to them. Nor to many of the children who had attended many years as well.
However, Jamie absolutely did NOT want to let Trent in on this awful secret.
She began to fear that Trent loved everything about her that he saw on the surface. Maybe in all that time they’d spoken, they’d not touched the very inward parts of what made them who they were; so they loved the thought of one another.
When it came to the softball game, Jamie hadn’t seen Trent for days. This was quite unusual and Trent was afraid that she had gotten sick or worse–that she wasn’t feeling their relationship. They’d seen each other every single day for hours, would spend hours into the night talking. So to go without even three or four days was alarming to Trent, who was beginning to invest serious thought into what they would do after the camp ended.
Jamie was terrified that if he saw her the way she was, he’d run screaming. That he’d find her grotesque and never wish to speak to her again. Trent was terrified that he’d said something wrong, or let her in too much and she found something displeasing.
On the one side of the field stood Jamie in her troll-esque appearance, on the other stood the striking prince. The boys and the girls were playing a competition against one another for a final cup.
At first, Trent thought she’d shirked her responsibility off on another camp counselor to stay away from him. His eyesight, you see, was pretty awful.
But as the game progressed and much head tilting had occurred, he began to realize the truth.
Half-time came about and he marched across that rustic baseball diamond and took her face in his hands and kissed her, before all of the counselors and children, who let up a whooping cry.
When they ended the kiss, he was very upset. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, frustrated.
And she told him she’d been afraid of what he’d think.
He faltered a moment, remembering his fear as well. He cracked a smile and shook his head, “From now on, I want to see all of you, always. I want to see the bad, the good, the funny, the sad, the happy, the ugly.” He ran a timid hand over his scalp and grinned sheepishly, “Because that’s the only way to love someone, isn’t it?”
This is a scene from the Book I’ve been writing, mentioned in previous posts. This is not a fan-fiction. These are original characters in an original story from the mind of myself. Please do not recreate or distribute without permission.
Permission is easily attainable by messaging me here: firstname.lastname@example.org
The human species often retains the remnants of an infantile object permanence; particularly upon visiting a member of a family unit or a space of significance. We expect that when we leave that place or those people, they will enter a pocket of existence undeterred by the axial rotations of a carbon stone orbiting a dying star, unfractured by the endless replication of chromosomes. We expect that when they open their doors to us even years later, they will be just standing from that chair they had just rested in upon telling you goodbye. Often this is characterized by your grandmother marveling at your growth, her house still smelling of the sugar cookies she baked with you five years ago as if they were baked just hours prior. But the pocket of existence is always in our minds: the telomeres shrink, the soccer field is levelled on behalf of enterprise. The sun ceases to rise.
The significant injury of loss is caused by the shattering of this object permanence: you realize all along that those people, that place was never in that bubble of existence. It was all a self-comforting illusion your neurons created to maintain the semblance of reality. A combination of neurotransmitters and stress hormones release; constricting the muscles in your chest and building that ball of sorrow in your throat. The tears flow.
And yet the moment Hazel saw him standing in the door, it was as if he’d never entered the pocket of existence that throttled his body into the lightless abyss between the stars. His hair had never turned to that ashy brown, his eyes never faded, his breathing had never faltered. He stood as certain as any of the universe’s foundational laws: that a body with significant mass will attract objects to it, that oxygen bumping into volatile elements will certainly ignite.
The embers of his hair flickered light against the door frame, his large arms crossed over his chest. Hazel’s breath hitched, and the sensation of an oncoming train roared through her chest, rattling her ribcage as she stared openly at him, jaw sliding ajar.
Within a moment, the illusion was shattered. The initial grief of his passing collapsed around her, and she could clearly hear the crack as reality splintered like glass around her. The sharp edges sliced through her proverbial armor, leaving her spiraling through space like the pod they’d shuttled his body with.
He didn’t smile, and his red eyes didn’t dance in pleasant humor. His eyebrows were drawn in a serious countenance and creases at the corner of his eyes displayed a weariness she’d never seen him wear. The endless nights of tears filtered through her mind’s eye; the dead appetite, the screaming, the labor pains of a birth she should have never experienced alone, the painful gift that burned through her veins and left her without breath if she hadn’t a cautious grip on her own abilities.
“I don’t think I need to introduce you two,” Niv’adde murmured beneath his breath, leaning back against the counter.
Hazel swallowed, leveling her steely gaze at the man. He met her gaze as he always had, with a strength of a thousand horses. “Merrikh.”
Just a little bit earlier yesterday, Christian Mihai, author and blogger extraordinaire, posted in his blog, sharing a little bit of his world with us.
I was going to reblog it because it really resonated with me, but I figured I’d go a little further and just kinda discuss the beauty of To Whom it May Concern.
If you don’t know about Christian Mihai, he’s a twenty-six year old who has tailored six short-stories and two novels (one of which is sitting on my kindle waiting to be read. I’ll get there, I promise!!) He’s a shameless advertisement plugger, youtuber, and has this voice in his daily blogs: he has that way of writing that penetrates your soul. His biography says he was born in Romania and can’t draw a straight line (me neither, Chris, me neither…)
I’ve met a few authors here on WordPress. I’ve read beautiful prose that brings tears to my eyes, giggled with cat memes, bounced up and down in excitement at shared titles in writing playlists, and discussed how to handle those characters that sneak up on you.
I’ll talk about those later. And surely, all of these encounters have struck me in a certain way. No ifs or buts, I feel blessed to have met and shared some of your world with you in these small interactions.
So here’s my and statement:
Christian Mihai, I get you. I never thought of it that way before.
To Whom it May Concern (link above, if you haven’t read it yet.) is an 870 word exploration into Mihai’s philosophy on life and writing that really struck me. Now, I’ve read his other blog posts, such as the one about Atlas , that also struck a chord with me. (Who can’t respect a quote from Ayn Rand?)
Anywho, if you haven’t read his stuff, please do. He’s a gem.
This was my favorite part.
Every once in a while someone asks me for writing advice. “How do I write a good story? What makes good writing good?”
There is only one answer.
Find the thing you’re afraid of the most, rummage through your brain until it hurts, and write about it.
Because in all those years that’s what I did. I wrote about what I had and lost, about what I never had, and about all that I was certain I’d never have.
And I wrote until all my wounds healed. Now I’m working on inflicting myself new ones.
As much as art is a constructive process, in which we play God, at the same time is also a destructive process, in which we break pieces of our soul and throw them on paper.
I kinda relate to this a lot.
If you ask my mother, I was writing before I knew letters, and would present to her these squiggle tales in such detail, read aloud in my mickey mouse voice.
I’d always wanted to write.
It really wasn’t until I lost large and very important things in my life that my writing began to be filled with substance. Before shit hit the fan, my writing was empty.
So while my methods certainly may not be the same, I can’t help but empathize with Chris.
I’d like to add to the suggestion that writing is a constructive process, because while writing breaks down our psyche for the readers in sometimes unknowingly (to them) intimate ways, and builds worlds and allows us to “play God,” as he wrote, writing can also act as the construction of scar tissue.
Food for thought.
If you agree or disagree, let me know in the comments. And visit Christian Mihai’s blog, read his books. The link to his page was hyperlinked above. If you’d like to discuss his quote, comment on the original post, also linked above.
Thank you all for your support 🙂
***battle buddies will not resume this week. University is kicking my you-know-what. I’ll return next week with some more lovely merrikh.****
So, I’ve been meaning to talk to you guys for awhile now about inspiration and my muses. I’ve created and (accidentally) destroyed two or three different drafts of discussions and I’m deciding I should just combine them.
So… Let’s talk about my muse, shall we?
My Writing Muse
My writing muse is literally my OC. He’s a fiery (literally… and, of course, stereotypically…) and brooding individual that really (ahaha) fires up my world… Which makes me seem a little crazy but bear with me.
So I’ve been writing The Book since middle school. Long before Celldweller dyed his hair red and published his album, End of an Empire. But let’s be fair… he looks like Merrikh. sans hair flip. sans… well… actually… he’s pretty close to how I’ve always envisioned Merrikh. Merrikh just has more tanned skin… and fancy ears. Cuz… he’s an alien.
He’s the first-mate of the spaceship–but really in name only. He’s just best buddies with the captain and actually manages the “boiler” room of the ship. (more…)
There are a lot of times I do things that I wish you didn’t see; because they’re not things you’re supposed to do.
So I’m going to lay it out for you as well as I can so when you’re older you’ll read this and say, “Huh. Guess she really did think of us all the time like she said she did.”
Yeah. I do think of you. All. The. Time.
Once you find your passions, stick to them. You’ll have more than one, usually, or you’ll have one thing that you’re absolutely obsessed with. Stick with it. Whether it’s you have a love for medicine, film, flying airplanes, science, caring for animals. Whether you’ll love archery or fencing. The world is your oyster, girls. We live in a magnificent time where “woman power” is a real thing. Take advantage of the opportunities that will be open to you that weren’t available to me at your age. (more…)
***This is a continuation of the Battle Buddies fan fiction. If you have not read parts One and Two, I highly recommend it. However, part One was mostly a short, irregardless piece–Part Two leads into this piece. Again, I do not own these characters or setting. This is based upon the game Rune Factory 4 and is a Dylas x Frey pairing. Please comment, like, and follow if you enjoyed~***
The insect was as large as a small car. Every swipe of his sword yielded no breach to the iron-hard husk. Dylas grunted, and flung his magic attack forward at it. Frey finished with the gate and hurled herself into a flurry of spear-cuts, her body moving faster than his eye could make out. When she’d finished with her rampage, she hoisted the large shield over her face just in time to deflect the brunt of a push that sent her skidding through the dirt at the slam of the insect’s hull flinging itself at her.
The sound of iron rang through the air, and Dylas jumped into action again, hurling himself at the monster. Aim for the head, aim for the head. He twisted around the backside of the monster and took a running start at a stalactmite, launching himself into the air above the bug. He hoisted his carrot over his head and threw it downward, catching the bug between husk and skull. The insect flung itself about, squealing in its atrocious voice, throwing its assailant off. Dylas was lucky to have a tight grasp on the hilt of his carrot, and landed a few feet away with sword still in hand.
This had given Frey enough time to resituate herself, and she flung into action as she had just moments before. This time, after her flurry of spear-thrusts, she flung her sword arm out with a fling of earth magic that cut a line of green from the insect’s neck.
Just a little more…
They’d been in this same room for at least an hour, taking their turns at the single large insect. Their arms were growing weary, sweat ran into Dylas’ eyes; it was only a matter of time before they were injured and would need to use the escape spell Frey had learned when she had first come to Selphia. Dylas took his turn at the insect, slashing and hacking at the soft parts of the insect’s armor, chest heaving and legs shaking. (more…)
Check out this insightful post by Charles Yallowitz, author of Legends of Windemere. I need to really work on this in my own character relationships.
Cassidy and Lloyd differ from most of my other stories because they aren’t part of an ensemble cast. They’re a duet with neither character having a true claim to the main protagonist role. Some chapters have Cassidy doing more than Lloyd and others have her along for the ride. Typically, we have a main hero and a sidekick, but these two didn’t turn out that way.
I have to admit that writing a duo makes scenes easier to keep track of. In Legends of Windemere, I have 6 champions and Fizzle at least. In the Bedlam Series, I have only the two at minimum, which might be another reason why I find these books a lot more refreshing than the others. Less juggling in that respect. Yet, it’s also hard to make sure they stay on equal footing. A sidekick is easy to push into…
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So, the semester comes to a close, another six months of a young life at a new place with new people. Endless piles of homework that make the future seem abysmal at best. A few interesting animes, some switching in mmorpgs, some brutal battles in and for relationships… And I haven’t written anything but
mostly half-intended smut. And some editing of The Book.
You’d think that with so much going on, I’d have more fuel for my fires, but there are a few problems with that idealology:
- I have a boyfriend
- I have a boyfriend
- I have full time
- I have a part to full time job
So, writing has been pretty much a no-go, no-time, no-want, no-fuel.
And after a few weeks of recuperation from the grind, I think I’m ready to write again.
But first, let’s take a look at what I’ve done… (more…)