Sweet treat
Singing Agathe
Sometimes, on my birthday, I like to get a little bit sad and a little bit lonely.

A gift in memory
And I give to you now, one morning, heavy with expectant rain that will never come, rich in silence though the sun has already laid claim to the horizon as seen through the old, skeletal forest. To the west, the haze in the air has erased the line between water and sky, and it seems as if the shore is drifting towards a great, blue-gray nothingness.

We pass by a field of trillium in bloom, unperturbed by the great drops of dew that have collected along their greenery. The birds chirp infrequently, but each song rings out as alien to a city boy's ears. The dirt roads that have long since been paved over still guide my feet. This once was a town without a name, and in the soft morning where I am all alone, it has no name again.

Snippet: Temporalysis
The Dime
"We're just like ghosts, you see," she said, taking another drink of what Kiera assumed by the smell to be an intoxicant. "We've been recycled through the timeline so often that we've all potency. All vitality. But for whatever reason, it won't let us go."

"It?" Keira asked, resisting the urge to grab the bottle from her hands and toss it into the river.

"Time itself," she responded with a grin, seemingly happy to continue to confuse Keira.

"Time is a force. It isn't capable of making decisions," Keira tried to reason, but it only made the other woman chuckle.

"Time is just a series of decisions! Time is a decision made self-aware!" One more long pull on the bottle. "And it decided that it wanted to keep us around, as empty shells. Unable to make an impact, doomed to only watch the endless permutations that she puts us all through. Temporal ghosts."

"But you're interacting with me," Keira returned. "You're having an impact on me, and that's going to change my decisions. I'm going to do things now that I might not have done if we hadn't spoken."

The look she gave Keira then was filled with eons more sorrow than comprehensible. "No, you won't. That's the trick of it all, something we've seen a thousand times over. Either circumstance will somehow wipe all relevance of this interaction from your mind, or lend support to any actions you take because of it. We'll have accomplished nothing. Again. For the thousandth time. And Mother will continue to refine and tweak her precious continuum, hoping to wrangle time into the outcome she wants, and we'll be talking to some slightly different you again before we know it."

Long Overdue
I did not reach my goal for Camp NaNoWriMo in April. I am rather disappointed in myself. I was off to a very solid start and then... it died. A few days in which I simply could not find the time or the words then turned into a death of momentum, and stillness. It has translated even beyond April, for we are well into May now, when I should have returned to this journal for every day musings and the capture of wisps of authorship.

There are reasons I could give for the failure. The adoption process is moving forward quite quickly now, and we are in the stage where at any moment, we could make a match and be planning for a child as a reality, not a possibility. Integrating Salvador into our home has changed schedules and attitudes, particularly mine. Work is still very good, but incredibly busy - whereas in some past jobs, I could usually carve out a little time for the simple administrative tasks of life, I find that I am constantly at task when I am in the office.

All of these are not excuses, though. All of these are facts of life, things that I have to adjust to, things that I had hoped my goal for the year would help me adapt around so that I could still create in the best way I know how. I recognize this as a failure, but the trick is not letting myself off the hook even still. Get back to the task, get back to the writing. So you took a month off? So what? Every day I write is still better than a day when I don't.

The Dime
Things may be sparse here for a while, as I work on Camp NaNoWriMo's April challenge. I am keeping it all in a google doc, similar to the NaNoWriMo of Nov 2012. Here's hoping I can pull this off again.

Another maudlin entry
Singing Agathe
The clouds move quickly, hiding the sun that we so bitterly fought for. (I laugh derisively at my own conceit - as if we truly shed blood to cast back the winter. We merely hang on for the ride while forces greater than us wage the war, with us as the unwanted tag-along prize). With the leaves still bare, I feel as if I can see three, four, five times the sky as I used to. The clouds tower over me, rushing by like giants who cannot be bothered, and I curl a little further into myself.

Not that things would be much better if they evaporated into the sky, and I was faced with the earnest, insistent face of the sun. It would poke and prod at me, force me to question the worth of my day, my intention, my life goal. It would be an inferiority of a different sort, brought on not by indifference, but by challenge. Neither is a journey that I can take at the moment.

I don't know how to get better. I don't know how to cast aside this oppressive veil that attempts to hide me from the world - or it from me. I don't know why my heart begins to race sometimes, and my limbs start to bounce, and I suddenly can't DO anything, because what if...? Biochemical or psychological or just plain foul mood, I feel plagued by being other than myself for too long.

And the trouble is, there are too many times when I can brush it aside. At least, that's the perspective from this side of the looking glass. The moments that are bright, when the clouds can't ignore me and the sun can't shame me, those are the moments when I know I can get through this. I have the strength when I don't need it. Snake biting it's own tail. Cycle myself away from myself.

Preparing for Ashenmuir
Had to buckle down on something for Camp NaNoWriMo in April. I settled on Ashenmuir, because it's a piece where I don't know where the story is going to go, and so I won't feel trapped in trying to get there. I've explored the world and the tale in the past, and it has brought up some very interesting things - but Ashenmuir is so much more about atmosphere and mood than the actual narrative itself. I am excited, provided I can just continue to push forward.

When I last attempted NaNoWriMo in November 2012, I ended up in creating a piece that is very rich and ready to be reworked into a brilliant piece. Inspiration, interlocking details, the world itself developed as I pushed myself to write. So again, I hope that Ashenmuir will be something that blossoms in the challenge, rather than bogs me down like last April's attempt.

30,000 words. It sounds intimidating. But much like my new year's resolution, I have to learn to write again instead of worrying about writing perfectly. The typing of my fingers needs to be music once more.

And Ashenmuir is very much a story I want to share with the world. I have pity for the little girl, but so much more for Oberik. She has peace, and he will only find awful things out there in the woods.

Snippet: Fool
The Dime
Phillipe knocked on the door to the chambers that his father had given over to the Dauphin's retinue. As prompted as ever, Loussan answered the door, his pert and eternally put-out face somehow made all the more sour by the trials of the road.
Read more...Collapse )

Snippet: Bogeymen
The Question
The children of royalty and nobility had bogeymen crafted of fantasy and instruction. These were mythical creatures that lived under beds or in closets, who helped shaped the next generation of rulers into the sort of citizen who obeyed the laws of good behavior. As beasts of the imagined shadow, the bogeymen followed certain rules, could be warded against, and eventually faded into the daylight of adulthood.

For the children of the poor, the children in the Nagma or the Saltcatcher districts, there was no luxury of bogeymen who were made up. The creatures that preyed on them in the night were all too real, all too persistent, and all too human.
Tags: ,

The Dime
a wheel spins so fast
it appears at rest
still and unmoving
with details blurred to a homogenous geometry

in these frantic details lost
perhaps is the cypher of panic
expansion and retreat
and of the sharp thread
between biochemical and psychokinetic

the turmoil becomes unbearably hot
but no one seems to notice
because it appears at rest
and it has worn such grooves from its spastic patterns
that perhaps escape is now impossible

we used to dream of stars
now we lay under them
and only wait to fall asleep


Log in