By the Dragon's Tail pt 1

Tsorn slid down into the drake nest headfirst, knife extended out front, ready for anything. It was a tight squeeze, but widened as the tunnel gave way to the main pit of the den, the snug area where the drakes slept. It was cold inside, and damp; the wetness of the earth permeating into the nest's heart even though it was several feet beneath the ground. A few other tunnels ran off from the common; escape holes, cellar pits, and other necessities, but there Tsorn confirmed what he had guessed before even finding the nest.
The few cold eggs, some broken, all abandoned, partially buried in the corner told a sad story. In addition, there was a general raggedness, and an unnatural scoring on the walls. Aged about two weeks, by the weathering. The eggs looked ready to hatch about that time too. What could evict a Grek from its own nest, especially during breeding season? Tsorn asked himself. Rolling around on his belly, he turned back to the tunnel he had just come from, squirming back up towards the surface.
His head was barely out before a darting shadow swooped down on his face, with a screech. Instinctively, Tsorn threw up  his arm, catching the leathery bundle of scales and claws before it could smother him to death. "Leon, down!" He laughed, pushing the affectionate watcher away from his face. The form jumped down and around, bounding off every stone and tree in the clearing energetically.
Leon was a Spying Spiegal; one of the smallest breeds of wyrm. They were little bigger than a barnyard cat, and just as mischievous, but worse because they came with a pair of wings. He put up with it because Spiegals had the best vision of any wyrm class watcher. Even if the little beast spent half his time licking his own balls instead of watching out for predators.
"Bad, Leon! I said, 'Spy!' Now go." He chided, suppressing his amusement and taking on a commanding tone.
The Spiegal's head drooped before springing off into the trees and catapulting itself into the sky.
"What good is a Watcher who refuses to actually watch?" Tsorn grumbled to himself, making a mental note to chew out his sister Aiegal out for spoiling Leon. He was barely finished with the thought before his hackles reared. Leon cried alarm a moment too late, Tsorns diving to the side, a thick glob of viscus matter shot through where he had just been standing, saved by his hunter's instincts.
Tsorn came up with his knife postured defensively, as he assessed the threat. A deep trilling, rumbled from the bushes as a male Grek crashed through, jaws wide and claws out. Waiting until the last possible second before the Grek lunged up at him: Tsorn pulled a short tab out of the metal box fixed to his belt, and dove forward.
The bracelet screeched, emitting a sharp metallic sound, as the rings and crystals in the mechanism resonated. The Grek stumbled, his head rearing at the noise, allowing Tsorn to dive under its outstretched claws safely. None too soon, as the drake tripped and tumbled foward, a mass of teeth and claws where Tsorn had just been crouching.
Most drakes and wyrms used highly sensitive hearing in addition to their eyesight, to hunt and fly in near complete darkness. The bracelet used some resonance to interrupt that. Tsorn wasn't sure how it worked, just that it did. But drakes were infamous for their adaptability. It wouldn't work a second time, as the Grek already had begun to vocalize a similar shriek, neutralizing the ringing. Tsorn had to make the opportunity count. While the Grek was righting itself, he rushed over to where he'd lain his gear before crawling into the nest. Ignoring the pack, he grabbed Torg, his thick, six foot drake-hunting spear and turned to face the beast.
Male Suro-Wilden Barking Greckers were smaller than their partners. But this one was smaller even than average, barely bigger than a dog. Its hide was still tender and oily. But most importantly it's forehead lacked the presence of a crown; the crystalline third eye which most draconic beast began to grow after reaching adulthood. On a guess, it was one of the brood from the nest, its egg just old enough to hatch when  the nest was abandoned. Which would have put it at barely two weeks old.
The rate at which draconic breeds grew still fascinated Tsorn. Even so young it could and would kill and eat a full grown cow. Normal adolescents often single handedly fought off full grown bears and packs of wolves as they learned to hunt. If they had a brood to learn from.
The Grek spat again; this time Tsorn didn't dodge fast enough. The projectile exploded, even as it barely caught the edge of his jacket. Luckily its momentum carried most of it past him, leaving only a scalding remnant burning into his shoulder.
He knew better than to try to brush it off, instead he rolling into the dirt, grabbing a handful of mud and pressed it into the mucus. Scrapping away the excess or at least trying to cool it down quicker. Aside from that, treatment would have to wait, because the Grek wasn't. The beast was already charging. Momentarily exposed while neutralizing the goo on his arm, all Tsorn could do was whistled shrilly.
Leon thundered down into the Grek's face screeching and clawing, to the drake's surprise.
As it recoiled in shock, Tsorn brought Torg around and thrust. He caught the drake in the ribs, too low to hit the heart, but enough to piece its liver and probably stomach. It was as good as dead, but still too enraged to know it yet. The Grek twisted and tried to charge, but Tsorn dropped, putting the butt of the spear into the ground, so any charge would only push the weapon deeper. As the weapon caught on bone the Grek lurched suddenly to a stop swinging on the lever of the brace, to the side, where it collapsed, scrabbling helplessly.
There, they all held; the tension of the few seconds tumbling into a sudden exhaustion for everyone. Leon hopped and glided to Tsorn's side chirping with worry. Tsorn petted him reassuringly, pulling off his coat gingerly. The mucus wasn't poisonous, just scaldingly hot. It burned him where the jacket had laid against the skin, it was already inflamed. It wasn't a dangerous wound, there would be time to tend it later, and there were more important things to deal with at the moment.
Carefully he circled the prone drake, whose hind legs still clawed uselessly at the ground. It was trying to stand despite the spear. Every time it tried to get its legs under it, it turned against the pole, which by its own charge had been well rooted in the earth, pushing it back into the prone position. Each attempt only weakened the Grek, which now that Tsorn had the time to observe, was dangerously malnourished. Never having been taught how to hunt by its mother, the adolescent drake probably survived by eating carion and underbrush. It broke Tsorns heart to see the an emperor of the wild brought so low.
"Sorry, old boy," Tsorn said to the dying drake regretfully, "I-- Just, sorry."
Having made his way behind it, where it couldn't swipe at him, even if it had the strength, Tsorn stepped in, sinking his hunting knife deep quickly and accurately; ending the Grek's pain. When he was sure the drake was truly dead, he hastily pulled the knife free and began working out the spear; knowing the scent of blood would soon attract more dangerous game.
I should have brought Buckie. Tsorn thought bitterly, Buckie would have seen the juvenile coming from a mile off, we could have avoided this mess entirely. Damn my pride.
It took Tsorn a few moments later to pick out the two week old trail he was looking for, that brought him to the den in the first place. Following it, he hefted his pack and whistled for Leon to go and scout ahead. For all the good it will do. Might as well be walking blind. But I swear, I'll bring back a Celestial Crown if it kills me.

"T"ea is for Toby . . .

There is an old buddhist proverb which goes something like this: A haughty young scholar comes to an old zen master looking for instruction. On his first day the scholar pesters his instructor for wisdom, about politics, economics and various other subjects, even going to bait the older man with boasts of his own accomplishments in philosophy, and politics. The Zen master taking it all in stride not answering, only continuing to sip on his tea. Eventually growing frustrated, the scholar gets angry at the Buddhist and demands that he respond.
The old Zen master stretches out his hand and offers the younger man a seat. Handing him a cup he begins to pour tea. Quickly the tea overflows the edge and burns the scholar's finger. Jumping up, he shouts at the old monk, accusing him of overflowing the cup intentionally.
The Zen master, speaking slowly and quietly says, "You are like the teacup. You have not taken time to drink, yet you demand more. Drink first, then refill your cup."

Or something like that...

This is one of my favorite stories. I've heard it told a variety of different ways, but each time it strikes me anew. The nuance and the layers of the allegory remind me that a short story can be just as powerful as a long winded epic.
The metaphor can be applied to so many different areas of life, and even just life in general. It is not a complicated story and not hard to understand, yet it is a reminder to the well educated as well as to the everyday plebeian.
Wisdom comes from a place of humility. It takes time to ruminate, and even if we learn, doing nothing with them wastes the lesson. Knowing that the Bible tells us to be loving does not impart any sort of benefits by itself. But by loving, those benefits manifest themselves. Knowing that prayer is powerful is not the same thing as being a powerful prayer. Knowing that God honors the humble is useless unless we humble ourselves.

It is easy to profess to be a Christian, but living the lifestyle that the Bible proscribes is not. In fact, its incredibly hard. Impossible in fact. But it is not the result which God asks for. He does not demand that we be humble, or loving, or powerful prayers. He demands that we try.

Journal:
Languid, the bright eye hung over the world, her silvery glow watching down on the affairs of men. Always watching, searching for the long lost love, stolen in her youth, near the very dawn of time. 
Bathed his the light of the moon, Taro lifted his face in prayer, taking it as an omen that the moon's face would shine so brightly tonight of all nights. Asking for guidance, before slipping out into the empty street, he set out in search of his own lost love, hoping it was not too late. 

A shadow on the mind . . .

As a writer I spend a good amount of time thinking observing, thinking about, and paraphrasing human behavior.  But certain traits seem to come up more often than others. The things which drive us, like love, fear, ambition, or grace come up often in cultural references. Fear and love are by far the most common. Something about the depth of these reactions in us tend to bring out in us potential that we normally don't utilize. Its as if they are still wired deep down into that primal side of us that touches on the live or die scale. Fear can be a great thing at times. Love can be a curse. It all depends on the object in question. Our ideas of these emotions can be so clinical at times; after all science says they're just chemicals in the brain. 

Except life is rarely as clean as science would have us believe. Many times, fear in my life is more than a simple knee jerk reflex. I think that's how most people see it. This is easily justifiable, though I believe fear is not merely the impulse to run away from confrontation than love is the urge to kiss someone you love.
Ask someone, what is love, and they will not describe the psych-text book definition. It will be personal, nostalgic, even emotional in and of itself. These emotions are hard to categorize, because its not just a state of mine or merely a release of prescribed chemicals into the body and brain. It is a living thing. Creatures with a health and desire and a hunger all their own. Anyone in a successful relationship will agree love takes nurturing, attention, dedication, and its fruit can enrich your life and empower you beyond yourself. Fear is the same. Though being unwanted makes it more akin to a cancer; feeding off our lives, our doubts and our hopes. 

Few people could tell you when exactly when fear spawned in their life. Few, if any, remember back that far. At best guess it was a very early age,  if not programmed since the absolute beginning. Simple at first, but growing with every life experience, every pain. It takes every worry and compounds it; it whispers to avoid, to refrain, to distance. Lurking in the back of everyone's mind, feeding, growing, strangling.

Yes, fear is a living thing. In all reality, it's actually a part of you. At any given point, I believe that anyone of any age, creed, or culture, can look inside of themselves and find that bit of greedy hesitation living inside of them. Fear is simple really; the base part of you which, rationally or irrationally grips your heart at times of decision. Whether it's picking an outfit for school/work, diving into the swimming pool, riding your bike down a steep incline, or trying to talk to that one redhead. It screams at you, demanding your attention, insisting that all the worse things that could happen, will happen. 

From a scientific perspective, fear is the combination of knowing your limits and impulse for self preservation, but horribly twisted beyond usefulness. It uses the power of the imagination to torture you with nearly impossible situations. And never just one; countless versions, often pushing the limits of reason.

In a spiritual sense I believe fear is more than chemicals, I believe it is an act of war. On humanity, and through them, on Christ. I believe in spirits; in angels and demons, and maybe others. I believe there are things out there that we can't understand or accept if we did see them. And I believe the Bible when it says a large number of them are our enemies. Whispering in our ears. Preying on our insecurities. Sound like something else?

Ever instance of fear I can think of in my life, it holds me back. It has never helped me once. And there are many, many instances to choose from. Because I am a coward and a large portion of my early life was characterized by fear. I still can't swim well because I feared drowning. I have problems making friends and approaching women because I fear rejection. I didn't ride a roller-coaster until I was sixteen because I feared going fast. I stay away from high places because . . . heights. Bugs. Muscle fatigue. Cold weather. Lint. The list goes on and on; you name a source, I'm probably afraid of it. And I know that everyone has similar feelings to one degree or another.

But it can't end there. We can't let it.

So the last few years I have been waging an active war on fear. Where I find it, I chase it, and I fight it. Sometimes I win and sometimes, for weeks at a time, fear wins. It has been a rewarding few years, but terrifying. And liberating. 

Throughout the Bible, we are reminded fear has no place at our table. We are reminded again and again to expel fear, to have courage, and to be bold.

Why? Because fear is the enemy of action. Fear almost always strikes at moments of decision. To those that listen to it, it cripples their ability to think or react rationally; it either keeps us from solving our own problems or from challenging our minds and bodies. Fear eats away at potential, at hope, at joy. It can take a moment of spectacular beauty and inspiration and poison it. It can take a moment to glory god and turn that moment into the enemy's win through our weakness. 

A healthy life is not devoid of fear, but rather challenges it. Never accepts things the way the are but goes the extra mile, because life is so much more enjoyable that way. So I ask you to join me. Fight back: Help me, help you, help me, by helping yourself. Kick fear in the balls and do something you're afraid to. Just be safe.

Edit: I originally wrote this post and several others a few weeks ago. But as I was about to post them, they struck a sour note. These posts were all about fear, depression and anxiety. But every time I wanted to publish I always plucked out phrases or sentences that weren't true or I wasn't wholly sure about. So for these few mosts, they aren't so much manuals for operation or any real wisdom, but some of my thoughts; dark and hopeful, more artistic than scientific; more spiritual reflection than cold hard truths. There is much and more to be said on these subjects, both by myself and from true professionals but for the sake of brevity, I kept it short. I hope you find some truth here. Amen.

Journal: 

If you give a man a cause, you must also give him a sword. Because neither has any place, without the other. Alone, they both become dangerous and hollow. 

A soul full of holes. . .

You don't know a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes. That's the old saying and as far as I'm concerned one of the most profound inspirational quotes ever. Of course as a writer it means more to me than most other people. I spend a majority of my life in my own head, walking in other shoes, living other lives, imagining inspired worlds. But at the end of the day, I am not the warrior, or the poet; the lover, or the schemer, or even the mastermind. I can only ever be me.

There's another saying which is popular among writers, anyone who's taken a serious writing class will recognize it: Write what you know. And to me, that is one of the worst, most frustrating, embittering sayings ever. And unfortunately no less profound than the other.

They are both true, and in my opinion, set at juxtaposed positions. One of course urges the listener to explore or meditate. To empathize with those different from you by stepping outside yourself and imagine yourself under another person's stress. The other tells you to lean on your own experience, to write with confidence something that you're confidant about. Not to ponder, but to preach. To be the teacher of what you know, what you're good at.

I love the first for the same reason I dislike the second. Because my life is small.

That is not to say I dislike my life, but compared to all that my mind's eye is capable of, it falls short. I will never be the conquerer. I will never stand on the soil of another world. I will never fill my lungs with air that has never seen another human. What can my life compare with that? Until of course I remember that the ordinary makes the extraordinary possible.

I grasp for perspective because I can recognize that mine is so limited. We need both. A balance. That challenging of my own mind makes me a better person. I have faced hardship, but I have never known homelessness. I've lost family, though not tragically. My loss informs my compassion for other people. But because of that gap, I cannot help but struggle to understand. I'll never know the bite of bigotry or sexism, but my taste of ignorance has given me a hatred for it. I've never been betrayed by a friend, but seeing the wreckage afterwards of those who have, has cemented my commitment to be the best friend I can to those around me.

But how do I bridge the gap? Can I ever understand the difficulties that most minorities face daily? Life is inarticulable. A feature I'll probably write about later, but there is something too dissimilar in life, that there will always be a gap. I'll never stop trying to close it, but where do you draw the line? When do we give up trying to understand each other? As for me, it will be my dying breath.

Journal:
"There's us and there's them; there's the have's and the have not's. We're just fighting for a little closing of the gaps. Equal footing; that's it."
"But Joan, there are always going to be differences. Here, there, today, tomorrow and forever. Fighting isn't going to change the nature of the world. Its always been this way since the beginning of time!"
"But it doesn't have to be! Just because it hasn't, doesn't mean it won't. Ten thousand years it has been, and maybe another ten thousand years more, but maybe one day, ONE DAY, just maybe, people will learn to share freely, but only if we keep trying: Keep fighting! If we don't, you're right it will never happen. But as long as we keep trying, there's hope ONE day!"
"The nature of something MEANS it can't BE changed. People will always be like this. The difference is that you think a leopard can change its spots and I don't."
"No, the difference between us is that you can't imagine a world difference from this one. You can't imagine men and woman being equal or where race means nothing more than heritage, or where resources are given freely to anyone who is in need. You can't imagine a better world. Can't or won't."
"Oh, I can imagine it. But vision doesn't change natures."

Rocks fall, everyone dies...

 A lot of my stories spawned from a kind of wish fulfillment, in that I am usually lost in a daydream of some sort, imagining an adventure. And if my brain invents a scenario that really captures my imagination, I take it further and develop its own story.

Because of that, many of the stories that I imagine have plenty of action and fights in them. But when it comes to actually writing that scene, it usually presents a slue of its own problems; pacing, imagery, dynamic twists. They are all need complicated interpretation and explanation to tell you what you would normally just absorb in real life. When writing fight scenes there are much more considerations to control than one first thinks. No one ever just punches someone else in the face, even something so simple is intricately complex in a prosaic narrative.

For instance: If you were to watch two people just duke it out, you would need very little explained. There are so many minutia that the brain picks up and interprets without having to be told. The air between two people explains a context even if neither say anything. Were they two strangers? Friends having a tiff? One feeling betrayed and the other guilty? Both defensive. Are either martially trained? Are they fighting to blow off steam, hurt, or even kill each other? Everything is automatically noted by the audience. The reactions in the postures and body language would tell a whole story.

But for writers, we must assume the audience is blind, deaf, and sadly even dumb. Context, tone, atmosphere, speed, intensity, desperation. If a tooth is broken, you have to explain that. Does spattering visceral matter blind someone? If at the same time as the fight, a person across the room grabs their phone to call the police; you have to mention it somewhere.
It becomes a juggle to fit all of the pertinent details on the page without losing the tension or confusing the reader. And that's with all the stuff that you're intentionally putting in there. But there is always the need for situational cues and setting description. Minor events and chain-reactions often become lost in the tug-of-war in the struggle to follow a chronological step-by-step. Even the most talented writer can sometimes forget to mention the fight moving or scenery settling, like residence clearing the area or by-standers (the important ones anyways) reactions.
Unfortunately additional details clutter up the action. But all that information has to fit in somewhere. Do you stop the whole fight to explain the broader context? Do you make every odd sentence a violent one and every even one situational? Do the fighters halt their combat just so the audience can see what happened to the protagonist's date while they got into a brawl? Where does the line for detail verse drama go?
Sentence structure, and paragraph length are absolutely essential to pacing; which fight scenes live and die by. Someone like myself who strives to wholly immerse their audience in the urgency of the fight, stretch ourselves to examine every single word, sentence by sentence and paragraph by paragraph, to fit in those context clues. But that over-analysis often kills word-count momentum(that is to say total book completion); it's easy to lose the pace of an overall story-arch when we get caught in a fight scene.
In writing it's often necessary to budget: Words per sentence and sentences per paragraph, paragraphs per scene, et cetera. But for fight scenes, those budgets become stringently cheap. Mentioning the color of a shirt, or tears in cloth, or every bead of sweat becomes impossible. You begin having to cut details that seem indispensable. And it becomes tempting to sacrifice the tension in the fight to mention that the world goes on around them. Or even worse the temptation to pretend like the whole world stops while the fight goes on. Both of which are false. 

Fight scenes are similar to adrenaline highs. Sometimes they're necessary, but you get caught in the moment and lose your situational awareness. Then afterwards there's the disunion, the normal story pace feels slow in comparison. In this disjointing, transitions become invaluable for restoring the story's equilibrium. They have to pull the reader back to the story, and readjust the focus. But again, at cost of overall theme and character development. Unless of course the writer is very clever.
If he relies too much on a style focused on confrontation to pull the story along, he will give the reader a frenzied but empty feeling, which is off putting, because it often neglects story content. But on the other hand if you too few action sequences in an adventure story, the reader might feel cheated.

That may be why many modern writers stay away from action driven stories. Or why terrible books are so common. So next time you read a compelling story with an excellent fight scene; take a moment and appreciate how much effort and skill went into it.

Journal:

Adam walked down the dusky road, a small bag slung over his shoulder; necessities for living. He would not starve or freeze for a good long time. He walked at an easy pace, no where to be, no where to go; neither leaving or returning. He was dust, or wind. Driven by any force or will, because he had none. No purpose, no desire, and for the first time in his life he was absolutely free and in that moment he felt pure, uninhibited despair.

An empty mind and a full heart...

How many times have I sat down to write without a single thought of where to start? More times than I can count. But that's not saying a lot, I can't count very high. More times than most people could count, I wager. Yet time after time, day after day, chapter after chapter, I plod through, more instinct than intelligence. More grit than game. Its not an issue of skill, after all, what I lack in potential can't be taught, and what can be taught must be tempered with experience, so all I really can do is keep wading through the ocean of my imagination, paddling out pages as they come to me, and time will tell whether it is all been a waste or not.

That is not to say I start without a plan. I begin with inspiration. A song that resonates with adventure, a phrase that saddens me, a mysterious abandoned bit of rubbish my brain struggles to explain, or more often than not a dream like story which haunts me as I try to sleep. It begins days, weeks, sometimes months or years in the back of my brain, playing like some far-off song in the back of my mind, developing itself and molding itself to my psyche. Getting louder and louder until it cannot be ignored and I am force to summon it into physical world, beginning on the first page.

When I begin, there is a panic. My mind races to fill the void, and I am bombarded with the possibilities of a given story, threatened and enticed by the blank white of fresh paper. Characters and scenery dance around my head, all jostling to be first to the party. And suddenly the drought of words is drowned by the thoughts. 

Rarely is there any order to what my mind asserts first. No grand scheme, or powerful theme. Just a storm of color and emotion in raw form, desperate to be understood but too young to express themselves to me in an understandable way. They coo and cry and puke, pulling my hair and scratching my face while I guess at the best way to write them into the story. And often, I get it wrong. The characters I make don't fit best where I put them. Their personalities wouldn't do what I make them do, and I spend seven or eight rewrites trying to decipher an honest story, when I myself don't know what that looks like.

I write with my heart. Its about as stupid as it sounds, but that is the truth. It leads me down the wrong roads and costs me days of writing time. It would be easier and quicker to plan out a draft and character diagram every person, and map every decision, but whenever I do that I get the story wrong.

My dad is an engineer. He believes in diagraming, in formulas, in templates, and right answers. Every time he sees me he's got a new idea or a new strategy to make me the world's most famous writer. But what he fails to understand no matter how many times I try to explain it to him, is that people aren't machines. We don't act in predictable or simple ways. We are individual, flawed, illogical creatures, who say one thing and do another, believe things and condemn others for the same, and who don't understand the things they do themselves.

That I am that kind of person, and that is the kind of book I'm trying to write. Not a right book, or a good book, or even a popular book, but a person book. A story with its own life, for better or worse, that is truthful and authentic without being right or perfect. I write from the heart because I believe people can feel when something authentic the same why people understand when a musical note is on key or not.

Maybe one day I'll learn how to write with my heart and my head. But since I can only write with one right now, I'm going to write the most emotionally authentic story I can.

Journal:

Social upheaval is the result of two things: The failure of a past generation to foster their own legacy. And the failure of the next generation to accept the condition of the world they were born into.

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.