Re: I am a write . . .

Wow, can I just say: Wow. I am sorry. That first post, so many years ago, was awful. I'm pretty sure I was on a sugar high when I wrote it. Honestly, that whole year is a little foggy. But still there is no proper apology for a post written that badly.
Which brings me to another point: I apologize in advance, because I am horrible in that regard. Grammar rules and spelling have never been my forte. I struggle with it daily, and there will undoubtably be future slip ups. And for that I give you my humblest and most heartfelt condolences to all the writing enthusiasts and proud grammar-nazis' out there. I will try to take measures to ensure something like that doesn't happen again.

That said, let me restate what I think past me was trying to say:

I am a writer. A flawed one, which is painfully evident. But if you haven't met me: I am awesome. Take the word of the people who do, I get told it almost daily. I am not usually the smartest person in a crowded room, but I do occasionally have moments under the sun. I've been known to be profound and insightful, even inspirational occasionally. But that is not my natural state. On average I'm just the class clown. A goof. I don't know what it was that inspired me to become a writer, or what compels me to write year after year despite not being great at it, but I've gotten quite good for someone of my caliber. Because of that, I often surprise myself. Scenes I've created will suddenly click, character's I've molded will suddenly pop, and worlds I've inspired will suddenly turn on me and refuse I exist. Just kidding. Just a bit of an atheist joke.
But really, when I'm writing, usually the longer I spend working on a particular idea, the more forced it feels. While on other other hand, characters will sometimes spring from my stories wholly unplanned and steal the show. Characters with intriguing motivations, deep emotions and convicting plots. And somehow I will end having learned from my characters. Which is awesome, after all isn't that why I write? Isn't that why all people crave a good story? We ache for meaning from the depths of our soul, but as a writer, sometimes I get fixed on the idea that I'm the one molding. And I wake up and find a story which I wrote which fundamentally challenges me and my preconceptions. Funny that.
I mean, all characters have to be inherently flawed. It is necessary to move the plot forward. The character drives for meaning or resolution while struggling with his own weakness. And that story compels us because we too struggle like that. A compelling character reflects the reader. Even if its the villain, maybe even especially if its the villain. Art reflects life. As it should. And vice versa, because stories tell us how to live, and why. It helps us make sense of our confused own psyche. But often times I forget, its as much a therapy for me as it is a pulpit. I don't mean to say that I write so that I can preach, although that is in a way true. I try to write what I've found is true. About life, and relationships, and about the self. And I never claim to have all the answers, but it is these moments which remind me, the answers are rarely as difficult as I think they are. I find truth in front of when I write because often times, I ignore it because its hard or too close to see.
THAT - is what I think I meant for this blog when I started it. To help myself see and record the simple truths, those small often neglected nuggets, so I can't keep ignoring them forever. And if a few people enjoy reading the idiotic hijinks along the way, all the better.

Journal:
A timid heart is a prison in itself. While A man in chains may find ways to push the limits of his boundaries and free his soul, a free man may be more bound by the confinement of his own fear than any chain. 

Ant hills and all that . . .

Isn't it funny how sometimes the things we struggle with for days, usually turns out to have a ridiculously simple answer. Like coming to a river and getting all flustered because you can't decide whether you should build a raft or a bridge. Then someone points out it's only knee deep. The whole time you were just too afraid to get wet to even look at how deep the water was. You could have waded across in the first minute, but the answer was too simple for you to see.
That's pretty much how my life is characterized. Like all the time.
I take small problems and I blow them out of proportion. I have to write a new scene, so I do all this research, make three drafts, and stay up all night pounding out a rough idea, while making maps, cultural cues and even inventing a few words for my fake language when I could have blown through the scene and been half-way through the next chapter if I had actually sat down and WROTE.
I spend a saddening amount of time richening the world with details that will probably never make it into the final product, polishing characters that will probably be cut, and setting up complex rabbit trails designed to excite and confuse the reader only to later decide, "that's not the direction I want to go."
Case in point; last year for NaNoWriMo, as always, I set aside North of the Sword (the tentative name of my main project), to explore other other projects that I've been intrigued by. I spent 15 of the 30 days, pounding away at a furious +2k words a day only in the end to realize every single word was worthless because none of it matched to the story I was trying to tell. (long story short, I was continuing from a previous year's NaNo project, and the tone/setting/characters/pacing were all inharmoniously different.) I spent dozens of hours planning schemes for my characters; plotting and executing twists and double-crosses because I wanted to try for an espionage genre mash-up; which didn't mesh at all with the adventure/western feel I had in the first half of the story I was continuing from. I scrapped the project (side-lined, not deleted), and quit NaNo early, but it took me a few weeks to recover from the resulting depression. And yes, my failures in writing can lead to some very real emotional kickback. It's the price for vesting myself in an artistically driven project.
But the whole dilemma happened because I tried to make the new half something that it wasn't, I was too focused on experimenting with aspects of the story instead of doing the simple (right) thing and just continuing the story. I tried to be a multi-genre genius, and ended up wasting a whole month of prime writing momentum and popping a painful bubble of pride. In short: I am my own worst enemy. And I don't see myself wising up any time soon. Sorry.

Journal expert:
Courage is not a mountain. It is not a lion or a storm. There is no courage in victory or ambition. Courage is not a shout; it is a whisper. So faint it may be drowned out by the splash of a single raindrop.

Waiting for a clear sky. . .

Writing is hard. Like really hard. For me at least. Writing a story from beginning to end, containing the proper balance of characters, development, tension and resolution; it takes a grandios vision. You must know what you want, and plot each point along the way with an iron dedication. If your attention or conviction wavers, if you lose the thought, if you change your mind, you wake to find yourself in strange waters, without compass or current or provisions. Its terrifying.

More times than I can count, I have grasped themes of powerful worth. Moments that people could frame their lives around. The ideas which I write for with the potential to inspire and transform lives. But when it comes time for execution, I get lost in the waves, I loose my heading, or a storm steals me from my route.

For four years I have worked on a single book. Over that time it has transformed from that etherial inkling I began with, to a solid work of art which everyday I try to wrap my head around. But it had grown so much now, that I cannot get my mind around my own work. My book, in a very real way has out grown me. I find myself struggling to keep up, fighting to in a real sense, to become worthy of my own art. It is frustrating, and inspiring.

When I look inside of myself I see the potential to be a great writer. Not in a prideful way. But there are clear days, when I read something I've written and it's good. Really good. Those are the moments which keep me going.

But those days are few. They are vastly outmeasured by the clouded days, the foggy days, the days I couldn't see my own hand in front of my face. I hammer through, knowing what part of the story I've generally have to finish pace wise, but unable to see whether what I'm writing is good or crap. But I struggle through knowing the horizon is somewhere, knowing I'll meet landfall or I'll crash into the shoals; either way then I'll be done.

But for now, its foggy sailing from here on. 

Journal excerpt:

People tend to hold on to the things they consider precious; rightly so. The world is often characterized by lose and destruction so it truly follows that anything we consider important we would shelter from destruction.

But with the desire to protect also comes the danger to hold too tightly to that thing. It is like holding onto an egg. Grip it too tightly to yourself and you could crush it yourself; destroying the very thing you tried to protect. Thus there must be a balance to the things we protect, diligence and vigilance with gentleness and objectivity.   

Paying in pennies. . .

So its been years since I posted any form of blog (or even tried). Call it lack of persistence, call it a lack of edifying things to say. I bet no ever thought I'd run out of things to say. But since I'm trying to take this whole writing thing "seriously" I figured I have to take another crack at it. So here we go.

Since often I begin these posts without knowing where I'm going, I decided every time I need a post and lack content I'll post something from one of my journals. There's plenty there after all even if most of it isn't cohesive. My 'first' post is a prime example:

In all of creation, what two forms were made for each other.

To the sower and my soul, to these I dedicated thee. My words and my wisdom.

To my source, that of my wisdom and my gifts, my words, my world. May I never forget that which I pay most dearly to learn or that which I have already paid.

To my soul, that inspiration may one day reach your ears and to the day I shoulder all your cares.

And to tomorrow which holds such promise of life. Pride with such sorant words be left in the past fulfilled with glory and terry no more in the shadow of despair. 

I would have 'joiced at the use of my energy in a more noble and worthy vessel by the knower plans all in perfect time, so may my pen exchange blessing in the name of the Father, the Son and thy Spirit.

Amen.

A poem I wrote, some five or six years ago. I have never been much of a poet as is directly obvious and I barely remember what I was writing about, but there it is, for your viewing pleasure (as much as to help me get into the habit of posting). To anyone offended at the poor quality of it: You and me both. But this is it in its original form because it wouldn't be right any other way.