Jibbooms and Bobstays

Anticipation

2011-11-11T10:15:00.001-08:00

"Did the mail come yet?"

"Did I get a rejection?"

Such have been my questions each day—whether spoken aloud or not, and in varied forms of expression—ever since October 28th, the day on which I could begin to expect an answer on the latest submission of my novel (and also, coincidentally, the feast of St. Simon and of St. Jude, who is the patron saint of the impossible, but I digress). I daresay I shall continue in such manner until December 28th, a significant date almost solely because it means I may then query concerning my novel; or resubmit, assuming my submission was not received. But hopefully by that time I shall not have waited six months in vain.

Four and a half months seems a long time indeed to wait and already I begin to grow impatient. A quick acceptance would of course be the best, but I have remarked before that a quick rejection is next best. When the time draws out, I begin to wonder: have they not had time to read my submission yet? Have they looked at it and are considering it? Or did they even receive it?

For the moment my future as an author hangs still in the balance.

Writing and Not Writing

2011-10-29T11:23:00.000-07:00

I always thought it would be good to have a job in which I might exercise my writing skills, but it never occurred to me to consider the drawbacks: namely that I would have less time and energy for the writing I actually wanted to do. One can only spend so much time writing after all. At least this is true if one does not mean to seal himself off from the world as a recluse, never seeing any face other than his own and that only if he were by chance to possess a mirror.

It is writing such as this that suffers most: that which seems least rewarding, as I cast my words out into the vast void of the internet, never knowing whom they might touch.

Stories still creep and crawl in the background, waiting under the damp earth for the spring water to coax them forth into life. That moment draws near with the dawn of National Novel Writing Month, that gloriously crazy month of November. Already the seed bursts with the first touch of water, waiting for the first day of the month to begin its hard struggle upward.

The Creative Crisis

2011-08-18T09:10:00.000-07:00

"Let me explain. I have reached what we in a world somewhat different from your own simple round of duties, describe as the creative crisis. It may be described as the crisis at which you want to create something and can't. In most distinguished artists it lasts for a lifetime. It is then called the artistic temperament." -the Poet, "The Surprise" by G. K. Chesterton

This artistic temperament has often manifested itself in the artist as a struggle with depression. I have often wondered why it is that great artists wrestle with such darkness, and in pondering this question, I have reached one thought that I believe sheds light upon the answer.

In creating a work of art—whether it be a painting of the meeting of dear friends, or a poem that speaks of love's pain, or a novel that traces an epic journey, or a play that explores the nature of surprise, or any other form of art—the artist pours forth more of himself than anyone can ever understand who is not an artist. In any other vocation where one is called to give of himself, he receives some return. For instance, a woman who enters a religious order and devotes her life to serving the poor as a sister sees that through her efforts they receive the care they need and the love for which they have longed, and that is fulfillment enough for her. But the artist sees no such reward. It is true that on occasion he may see the popularity of his works or hear some acclaim for his work, but the majority of his time is spent striving away in solitude to create something beautiful, not for himself, but for others, not knowing whether it will ever be cared for, or appreciated, or even whether he shall be able to communicate the brilliant vision at which he aims in his dark labors. This is a task too great for man. Is it any wonder then that the artist should battle so against despondency?

And yet, this task too great for man, is also our common vocation: to give and not to count the cost, even as did our Saviour who died upon the cross. As Christians we are called to deny ourselves, to take up our crosses, and follow Him. This is the path of the artist. So perhaps in a sense we are all called to be artists.

Those, however, who tread that self-giving path—the artist's road—must struggle more forcefully with that deep need to be heard, to be recognized, to be loved.

This is at odds with the way our modern society treats art. When art is regarded as a commercial venture and the artist is valued only insofar as he can produce revenue, it undermines the selfless nature of his vocation. I cannot help but wonder if in the days of old when the troubadours wandered about for the sake of their art, they were happier. I rather fancy that if artists did not need to be so concerned with earning money from their art but instead gave it freely, that they would be happier; and even perhaps that all would be happier then. Perhaps it is a vision too great for this world, but great vision must ever strive for the highest beauty.

What path is left then for the true artist who heeds not the wages of his trade, but creates for love alone?

Aware of his own brokenness, he must either throw himself upon the mercy of the world in all humility, willing to give until it hurts and embrace that pain out of love for his work and for those whose hearts he hopes to touch. Or else, faced with too great a sacrifice, he must withdraw in black bitterness as a recluse.

For the artist's path is the life of a servant. Thus, for the sake of his art, he must become as the least of all, not merely giving his life in service those around him, but pouring out all that he has and is to serve the whole world.

"We are actors, you and I."

2011-08-14T11:20:00.000-07:00

To play a part and play it well is a task so inherently satisfying and fulfilling that the two hours of glory can make all the days of stress and rehearsals and the months of preparation worth it. I wonder sometimes how that can be. What is it that makes the dramatic arts so compelling that the actor will give up so much of himself, sacrificing so much time and effort—perhaps until his entire soul cries out in agony that this is too much—in order to produce a single performance? It is a strange thing: this way of the actor.

There are others who have put this far better than I and I daresay my thoughts have been much affected by what I have heard or read, even if I cannot credit all. At least I can say that my thoughts come partly from Kevin O'Brien of Theater of the Word, and partly perhaps from G.K. Chesterton, and partly too from J.R.R. Tolkien, and many others of which I may not even be aware.

It is in a sense an act of creation—or a participation in creation, what Tolkien called subcreation—or what one might call the incarnational aspect. For we actors embody what is beyond ourselves.

That I think is the thought—out of all the many thoughts surrounding this subject—that I would center upon. When an actor stands up to play his part, there may come a time when he realizes that what he is attempting to do is something so great that his ability may not match his vision, and he knows that he may well fail. That possibility of failure broods within, creating a vacuum of emptiness in which he might turn away or embrace its pain—like Christ in the garden—surrendering himself to a greater will than his own.

It is that risk that has often brought such great victories. One may speak of it as genius, or skill, but when cast in the brilliant light of faith, it is the witness of faith: an act of trust.

That risk brings a strange awareness: a feeling that at any moment we might fall. This feeling of discomfort is one from which every man in his right mind would wish to flee at once by instinct, and it is only the rational mind that restrains him. One might say that this is a necessary part of acting. I would have to add that it is a necessary part of life. For this is where humility comes in. It is pride that would have us do nothing except that which we knew we could do perfectly, relying only upon our own strength; humility is willing to take the risks, and to submit all to a greater good.

For we act not for ourselves only. If we did we should soon lose all desire for it. We cannot help it—whether we know it or not—that this embrasure of the life of an actor is for God inasmuch as whatever we do for the least of His brethren we do for Him. For an actor cannot escape that his life is one of service. No matter how much he may gain from it in fame or money or glory or pleasure, he cannot escape the fact that he acts for others to see, that he may communicate to them some beauty, some truth.

What we act may have profound influence upon us, as it did for Saint Genesius, bringing about his conversion to Christianity. And it is he whom I quoted as he spoke in the play "The Comedian" for the title of this post. Although I take this quote slightly out of context, I think it rings true: we are all actors, you and I. Even if we were never to set foot on a stage, everything we do is an act, and therefore because we act, we are actors.

Of Friendship

2011-06-10T08:32:00.001-07:00

The topic of friends and the nature of friendship is one that has often occupied by mind, a fact exacerbated perhaps by facebook, which will call the faintest acquantaince a "friend". It is a subject that I think is much in many people's minds, though perhaps not in the same excruciating (pun intended) detail as in mine own, and because of that I would like to share some thoughts, though for a scanty readership.

What comes first to mind is a quote that a friend reminded me was from The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis:

In each of my friends there is something that only some other friend can fully bring out. By myself I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets. Now that Charles is dead, I shall never again see Ronald's reaction to a specifically Caroline joke. Far from having more of Ronald, having him 'to myself' now that Charles is away, I have less of Ronald. Hence true Friendship is the least jealous of loves. Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend. They can then say, as the blessed souls say in Dante, 'Here comes one who will augment our loves.'

That is something that resonates very deeply with me. For I have been privileged to know a great many wonderful people and can only marvel at each and every one. Some I have known more deeply and for those I am most grateful. I cannot help but have a sort of regret for those I have not known so well, even though I know that as a finite being I cannot know everyone fully, and that this is natural. Some perhaps have wanted to know me better and I have been too busy to take the time to allow them to, or to let my walls be broken down enough that they may see who I truly am. There are others whom I would have liked to know better, but seemed to prefer the company of others. The web of friendships is truly a strange thing.

I remember as a child I used to be so frustrated with those who only wanted to sit around and talk, and was determined that when I became an adult I would never be that way—or, similarly, that I would never grow up, if that was what it meant to be grown up. Yet I have come now to appreciate conversation. For this is how we reach out to others: how we bridge that gap between us. And often, as a dear friend of mine once said, it is an act of rescue.

I tend to prefer one-on-one conversations because that is when I get to know people best: because that is when they are most willing to be themselves. That is where their beauty truly shines forth.

If people are willing to be themselves in a group of people, they must be willing to be seen without all their defences of pride built up, and few are that humble. I know I certainly am not. There is still a beauty to the interactions between friends illustrated by the quote I began by referencing, but there is another side as well, a side that applies to the complete opposite: the relations of one friend to another.

There is something so fascinating to me in the fact that on any important subject I may talk to countless people and the conversation will never turn out the same way, not only because of all the possible tangents, but because people are so different. Even those who hold the same belief look at it from wholly different angles. This is why we can learn so much from each other. It is also why suicide is such a tragedy. For if we lose anyone, we lose all we might have learned from him. So too why it hurts us so much to lose a friend, even if we should have countless others, for we know that no one can ever replace that one. Even so much as a lost conversation burns with the pain that only can the knowledge of a treasure forever lost.

Gem of a Thousand Facets

2011-05-11T07:33:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder at what I write here, casting out where any may read it, but it occurred to me that the reason I dare to write about almost anything is because what is most precious to me remains hidden in the depths of my heart even as I attempt to write about it. For, in truth, I can never write fully about any experience. Anything I have done I can look at in a thousand different ways and all of those ways are equally necessary in order to understand the reality of it. When I write of something it is merely to take one facet, revealing the barest glimpse of that gem.

Like with any item of art or beauty, though, the purpose of that gem is only made manifest in terms of the one who beholds it. Similarly, words cast into purposed form stand to draw forth thoughts, which cause one to probe ever deeper into things, and to look at life anew, with that wonder spoken of both by Chesterton and by Blessed Pope John Paul II.

To think, to speak, to question and to comment: these are the things that encourage the revealing of further facets. Yes, this is an appeal of sorts cast out into the void of unknowing where readers may or may not drift, for I have reached the point at which, when I am writing for others besides myself, I want to know that I am actually writing for others besides myself, in order to continue doing so, and perhaps to return to writing more often. The future of the gem may well be in your hands....

Jack-of-all-trades

2011-04-12T13:41:00.000-07:00

I have said many times before that I wanted to be jack-of-all-trades if only because I did not want to take the time to master any particular trade to the exclusion of all others. However, of late I have actually earned that desired title to a certain extent, at least as regards the theatre business.

For I have been playwright, director, actor, costumer, set and lighting designer, producer, publicist, stage manager and whatever else it takes to produce a play. It has been an interesting task indeed trying to play all of the various parts, sometimes at the same time, and I have learned a great deal in the process, both about what I can and can't do.

I can for instance write a play that pleases, a fact to which the rehearsals and particularly the dress rehearsal performance attest.

I can't, however, get into the character of the villain and act as director at one and the same time.

Nor can I do everything to the perfect standard I would set myself.

Yet I can work words and lighting and costumes and a castle backdrop into a tale of loyalty that bears sharing, bringing my own small contribution to art and culture. Where that contribution shall lead has yet to be seen, but of that I need not be concerned. For it is not in my hands. I can but do my part—or parts.

The Nearly Almost Next Best Thing

2011-02-12T07:22:00.000-08:00

There is one thing held high in the mind of a writer as an ideal long awaited and one day to be obtained, pursued with endless perseverance and a hope that will not be quenched. For this is necessary to the aim of the writer, which is to share his work with the world. That thing of which I speak is the word of acceptance: the contract.

The next best thing is to receive a request for revision and resubmission, giving the writer hope that his work was appreciated and might be considered publishable. He knows already that his work is not perfect, and if he has been given suggestions for improvement and invited to rewrite accordingly, he will delve in with renewed enthusiasm and discerning eye, ready to bring his work one step closer to perfection. He knows too that he has received a chance that comes to very few.

The almost next best thing is to receive a personal rejection—one written by hand and signed by the editor in charge of submissions—with suggestions for improvement and even other possible markets that might be interested in the work. This is the one that says that the work was read and well-received, and that the editor cared enough to take the time to comment, even if he was not able to accept it for publication. This is also rare in the modern day where the editor has a mountainous slush pile to wade through and insufficient time, especially in a big publishing house.

The nearly almost next best thing then is to receive a swift rejection, even if it is only a form letter signed by the editor. These form letters can even be encouraging to some extent, recognizing that just because it is a rejection, it does not mean the work lacks merit. It is well to note that it is difficult for a new writer to begin his career.

I could go on, of course, but since yesterday placed me firmly in the latter category, I may as well stop there.

I am ready now for the next step: the return to the research stage. I must consider once more the relative merits of the various publishing options, choosing again which risk to attempt, trying to guess which road holds the most likelihood for success.

If it were not for the sake of my distinct lack of funds, I would be tempted to go with the self-publishing route, for I am fairly certain that there are other readers besides myself who seek such a tale and hence I would find no difficulty in finding a readership base—after all, who does not like a good fantasy pirate tale? Also it would give me the opportunity to travel about in pirate garb and promote it.

Yet that is not possible with my current paltry resources, so unless I decide to commandeer a ship, pick up a crew, and then pillage, plunder, loot and otherwise gather a suitable treasure, I must hold for the moment to the traditional publishing route.

Then it will be time again to await what oft seems akin to a miracle...

The Manuscript

2011-02-08T15:43:00.000-08:00

The other day I received at last my postcard returned with one word scrawled across the back—"Arrived"—and an initial. That one insignificant word spoke more than it contained, carrying with it one of the great joys of a writer: knowing that the precious manuscript has safely reached its intended destination, the hands of a publishing company.

This was no mere dashed-off work of a month as some novels ar

e, but the work of several years and several revisions. Begun with a dear writer friend of mine as a round story, it soon stalled. Enthralled by it, I continued the work on my own until it grew far beyond its paltry beginnings, although lacking still cohesive plot and substance. Years more I poured into it in ragged rhythm: a time of revisions and a time of critiques, a time of rest and a time of rewriting. Until at last the time came that it was ready to send off.

I sent it first to a small publisher—Twilight Times Books—with whom I had spoken through an online writers' conference. When I had the opportunity to pitch my manuscript the publisher, she asked me to submit the whole manuscript, and so I did, waiting for a response as I continued with other projects. At last—three months or so later—I received my rejection, for she had decided that it did not fit with her current line of books.

The work began all over again: first a further polishing, and then the work of researching publishers, and more polishing before at last I deemed it ready

to send off again. This time I decided I would aim high, sending it to one of the foremost publishers of fantasy. My decision meant also that I could not submit electronically as I had become accustomed to doing, but rather by mail, as did all writers of old.

There is such satisfaction in gazing upon a printed manuscript waiting to be sent off to the publisher, and in hefting its nearly eight-pound weight. It is the joy of accomplishment—of a work well done.

It means a great deal more to a writer's heart to send off such a weighty manuscript, understanding with a twinge that the pride and joy of his efforts is soon to face its test of worthiness. Only the writer who has poured so much time and so much of himself into his work can know the depth of meaning in that sending-off and the risk he takes—that leap of faith.

And yet I found that my heart was strangely unmoved. It rested solely in a peace that cared not whether the leap of faith had been in vain insofar as the world judges; it was enough to have done it, accomplishing thereby the duty of the moment.

There have been times when I was much discouraged by my lack of success in publishing and in the feedback I received from others, but now no longer. My worth as a writer stands unshaken—for it is built on the solid ground of my own hard work and perseverance, and a confidence in the skill given me. Let the tempests of the world blow as they will, the waves of discouragement wash against my rocky fastness, I will stand firm, letting my words shine like a beacon of light in this dark world, trusting that they will find their suited place and time where they will touch the hearts they are meant to touch.

St. Francis de Sales, patron of writers, pray for us!

Veritas Vos Liberabit

2011-01-13T16:51:00.000-08:00

Of late I have begun to reflect more deeply upon where I am and the ways that have led me here, discerning my present and future path, and so it seems fitting to take up my writing here again after my long silence. I might write about all that happened within those two years and more, but my words about all those experiences would never satisfy me, and so perhaps it is better to speak of them only vaguely, as in poetry when few words conjure up deeper meanings and thoughts than can mere prose.

Those two years were so full—blessedly full.

The first autumn of those two years began with a journey to a foreign country, which some have called our fifty-first state: that land of Canucks and hockey and Tim Hortons and people who say "Eh?" and whose politeness stands in stark contrast to our own sometimes lack thereof. My destination was a remote town in the middle of Ontario, so small that it needed no stoplight, its greatest boast the lake on whose shore it lay, and yet not too small to have two Catholic Churches, one more modern and one more traditional, originally built by the Irish and the Polish respectively. Yet it was for none of these reasons that I came, but for a college scarcely eight years old, attracting students from as far away as England with her motto of Veritas Vos Liberabit: Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Academy, known to most affectionately as The Academy. It was good to find myself among like-minded people, making friends and winning a name for myself on account of my oddities and became the leader in many interesting escapades, the latter soon so common that one of the professors' comments upon seeing myself and my comrades said only: "I'm not even going to ask." There was work, too, of course, both chores and studies. These, however, I never allowed to impinge upon other things, always finding time for walks through the snow across the causeway to the island either by myself or with a friend, and reading some work of Chesterton when I needed a good laugh, and writing a novel during National Novel Writing Month, and playing pranks, and so many things.... So many epic memories remain entwined there. There was the time we were told to come to the Biblical Literature review class or be chiastic so I put a chiasm on myself and stood outside the window where the teacher could see me. And there was the time we dressed as savages, painting ourselves with charcoal, and captured a fellow student who we proceeded to threaten with roasting in our bonfire in savage language. And Easter spent at Madonna House. And the time we played ping-pong in Latin class. And the time I found my mattress in a tree, part of a prank war that escalated between me and another student, ending at last in a truce of friendship. And writing all of my notes in Tengwar. And the time I left a pickle jar by a door because of the sign that said "Please leave door a jar". And the pilgrimage on foot to the church in Wilno. And soccer games in the high school soccer fields. And the brawl on the docks of the lake in which all ended up in the lake in their clothes. And the April Fool's Day chiasm of pranks left for the teachers. I have so many stories I could go on and on, but I should only dull my audience and render myself more lonesome for the dear old Academy. Always, though, there was one bright thread around which everything else was woven: time spent before the altar in the church of St. Hedwig where the candles gleamed, gazing at the stained glass window of Christ's Agony in the Garden and below it a great painting of the Last Supper and below that the tabernacle. There, especially in Mass, I encountered daily the reality of the school's motto: Veritas Vos Liberabit.

One would think that as much as I had come to love the Academy, I would have returned the next year, but other adventures awaited. A friend and I had begun to talk about following in the footsteps of St. Francis, which resulted in our eventual decision to make a pilgrimage from my home in Oregon to St. Andrew's Cathedral in Victoria on Vancouver Island, my friend's native land. We walked about three hundred miles spread over two months, journeying from church to church, relying solely on God's providence. Looking back at it now, it is hard to see how we had so much faith—but it was like a child's faith, eagerly following in the paths of saints without knowing what he is doing. It was certainly a pilgrimage—a spiritual journey—as we began to learn what it means to have faith and to have others see that faith as far greater than it was. No few words could convey such an experience. Perhaps it was folly—but we had desired to be fools for Christ. No doubt heaven looked mercifully upon us for all that. We reached St. Andrew's Cathedral just before his feastday, and upon his feastday met a fellow pilgrim, who had journeyed back and forth across Canada many times, and only then did we feel that our pilgrimage was indeed complete, and that it had been blessed by God, even if more deeply than we could understand.

That pilgrimage had another result, too: the decline of my friend's health. This meant that we could not continue on pilgrimage again and so both returned to our homes, sharing Christmas with our families, not knowing whither we were to turn.

I fell back into my old writer's life, returning to work on a novel that was once more in need of revision, but always there was a feeling that this was only temporary while I waited for what came next. Yet little has yet presented itself clearly. I only continue my discernment, waiting upon the will of God. And in the meantime I ponder something I once read about vocation: how sometimes God speaks in the silence of one's heart.

In that silence I have begun to realize how much of a writer I am and to embrace once more the writer's life, writing no longer—as I once did—in hopes of changing the world, but only because I must write, not knowing what to do if I were not to write, weaving words together to express the ineffable. And so I take up my writing here again, sharing bits and pieces of that brilliant kaleidoscope that is life, hoping that even in the darkness all reflects the light of truth and the light of hope.

The Time Has Come...

2010-03-01T13:21:00.000-08:00

I am not the walrus, but my repetition of his words is nonetheless true: the time has come to talk of many things (although how many of the things mentioned by the walrus has yet to be determined). For the time has come for catch-up. This is entirely distinct from what is known either as ketchup or as catsup and is not some weird amalgamation thereof.

Also, now that I have lost all of my original readers, and am reduced to a readership likely consisting solely of three—me, myself, and I—it seems only fitting that I should end in an entirely random fashion.

Boots.

Announcement

2008-08-18T11:56:00.001-07:00

Originally I had some vague concept of using this blog primarily for matters concerning my writing and the writing process in general, but since I now find it so easy to speak and write about such matters and difficult to actually take the time to write, I have made a resolution to reverse this. Thus I will no longer be writing of such matters here, and nor will I speak of them (which shall probably last only as long as someone asks me about my writing, and then I will quite happily change my mind).

Furthermore, as I am now headed off to college, I have decided to use this to write about the experience of going to college in a foreign country. Which means I shall probably actually be writing here more frequently again.

For those who think that a good thing, please celebrate. For those who think not, I am still open to bribes.

I will finish with a toast: to the future! (Since it never comes.)

To answer a question...

2008-08-18T10:51:00.001-07:00

I may be able to refrain from writing a book in response, but not a blog post, as a mere response by comment seemed insufficient. Even so I have not the time to respond in much detail, though I suppose my brevity might be appreciated.

The question: "So please explain what real life is."

Real life is the term generally used in opposition to virtual life.

Now that I have answered literally, I will move on to answer the meaning of the statement, which referred rather to my usage of the word life.

To put it as simply as possible, life is experience.

So what does it mean to live? Of course all of us who are not dead are living, but to really live takes more than the bare necessities of life. Perhaps it is possible for some to work constantly and feel that they are living life and living it abundantly, but if so, then I would guess it must be work that they love, and therefore less like work.

What it means to live life and live it abundantly is not something that can be put into one simple answer. For many it may mean one thing, for others another. But essentially to live is to experience. To not be bound by the constraints laid by the modern world, which would limit our creativity, but instead to wander the world, willing to take risks, willing to find different ways of dealing with important issues, willing to live not bound by this world's desires for wealth.

Perhaps I am merely an idealist. Perhaps this is not possible, at least for most in the world. Perhaps it is not even desirable for most, for there are few willing to live without the security of regularity. If that is what they wish, I will not judge them for it. But, as for me, I mean to see whether it is possible to live otherwise, to live freely in the world, and to live life abundantly.

Just because I haven't said anything in so long...

2008-07-05T15:24:00.001-07:00

Working a forty-five hour week and writing just do not go well together, and I doubt there are many writers who have tried it. Thus is my wise advice for today.

One who wanders...

2008-06-23T15:03:00.000-07:00

Lately I have been thinking a lot about life and what everything means and why things are the way they are. The inevitable result is that I inflict my thoughts now upon any who will read this.

The primary impetus was a feeling characterized by not wanting to do anything, generally referred to as depression. It is, I think, a common difficulty in our world. Yet I have absolutely no reason to be depressed, but on the contrary, have great reason not to be. So I guess it is as Mr. Gibbs said about something entirely different: "Reason's got nothing to do with it."

Writers do tend toward depression. But I think the poet Rainer Rilke explained it best: "You are looking outside of yourself and that above all you must not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody."

I started looking outside of myself. I thought if only I could do one thing or another with a friend, then I would be able to get all inspired again. I thought if only I knew what someone thought of an idea, I would be able to go with it. I thought all manner of things like that. It does not work to rely upon other people, nor upon what is outside oneself, but only upon what is inside oneself, which incidentally includes the Greatest of all.

People seem to be inherently unreliable and thus it is foolish to rely upon them. This is not to say that one ought not to rely upon his friends, but only that one ought not to rely too much upon them, or not too much upon too few of them. As Captain Tizoro keeps reminding me, "It's not a matter of knowing who to trust; it's a matter of knowing how far to trust them."

I really think we lose much wisdom when we grow older. When I was a young child, I sagely told my mother that I would never have a best friend because it was foolish to place too much trust in one person. (I remember only the occasion and not the exact words I used.) Then I met someone I thought was very much like me in every way and I went against my childhood wisdom, deciding I would have a best friend. For a time it was a pleasant idea, until we began to drift apart. Then, when we spoke, it was as if we were hundreds of miles apart, whether or not we were in actuality, and there was a great rift between us. The very thought of what I had lost was enough to fill me with sorrow for a good while, but I have learned I ought to place my trust in a better friend, the only true One.

As for the rest, it is as all else in life: all that is gained must be lost, always perhaps to gain a greater thing, but the sorrow is no less real. As Chesterton put it, "Birth is as solemn a parting as death."

Growing up especially is about loss. All things that have happened must be lost to the memories of the past, one's very way of life must be lost, and a great many of those who are close will also drift away. One never knows which of his friends will be lost and which will remain true. Even those closest of all may be lost: those in one's own family.

Yet we all have our different ways of looking at things, even the forming of friendships. Some gather a great multitude of friends all about and always have friends with whom to speak and enjoy good times, whether new or old. Some do not easily make friends and only have a few close friends, whose loss or perceived loss, will fill them with great sorrow. J.R.R. Tolkien was of the latter sort, and I must be as well. Nor is it the only thing we have in common.

But as we traverse the valley of sorrow, we must not always look backward, grieving for what we have lost, but forward. There are a great many adventures that yet await us before we shuffle off this mortal coil.

Thusly have I started out by talking about depression and gotten all the way to quoting Shakespeare. Thus is the strange working of my mind. Thus too is my offering of wisdom to the world: sift it and search for the flakes of gold, if you will, but I make no promises, leaving aside the matter of my liking of the word 'thus' and preference for archaic language and lofty statements.

I might as well end by quoting Tolkien, if only to offer as excuse for my wanderings:

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

De Rigueur

2008-06-23T11:10:00.000-07:00

Q: What's the most important thing for a novel?

A: Plot.

I could have used this a long time ago. Plot—or lack thereof—was the primary difficulty with my pirate novel, which sadly has gone through a couple of revisions and still fallen far short of my ideals. Of course once I figured out the problem, everything made since. So I already knew that the plot was the most important part when I read that post, but it is good to have the reminder.

Now I just have to do something about it...

Part II: Revision

2008-05-22T10:08:00.000-07:00

The most difficult part of creating a story—especially if one cannot write a decent first draft—is the revision. As I have begun the revision on my pirate novel again, I have found myself contemplating the difficulties rather than actually working on revision much, and thus the reason for the existence of the following:

Firstly, revision is difficult partially because it is hard to feel the same sense of urgency as one does when seeking to reach the ending. One already knows how the story turns out. It is similar to reading a book for the fiftieth time.

Secondly, it is difficult to distance oneself from the story enough to reflect upon it coolly and also feel the warm closeness to it that is necessary to keep involved in it. It is like trying to believe two contradictory things simultaneously.

Thirdly, it is difficult to judge one's own writing. There are parts that seem good, but do they belong? Or should they be cut out? Does it add to the feel of the piece? Or is it one of those humorous situations that appeal only to one's own strange sense of humor?

(This is not even to mention all the problems such as characters that seem a main part of the story and then just disappear. Or instances that are given importance, and then never mentioned again. Or contradictory happenings. And the list goes on....)

Thus the reason I search always for critiquers. In fact I wish very much for my own personal critiquer to sit nearby and give me his thoughts on whatever he reads. Perhaps when I am a published author I shall have the money to employ one, but until then I must satisfy myself with looking for volunteers, I suppose...

Part I: Writing the story

2008-05-21T09:34:00.000-07:00

Lately I have been thinking not just about things, but about how I think about things, especially as it is related to writing. I have concluded that there are certain ways I think that pose interesting difficulties in writing novels. I have read several books about writing novels and tried to follow their advice, but have always failed for one primary reason: I think in terms of deadlines.

My life consists almost entirely of deadlines. Right now I am conscious of having to leave in a little over an hour, the preparations necessary for leaving on our camping and sailing trip next Monday, and a scholarship I need to apply for by May 31st. I have great difficulty in thinking more than a few days ahead, which results in my doing everything at the last minute, as it were. I do think about matters farther in the future than say next Monday, but only in a vague sort of way; for all it matters a deadline might be in two months or two years and I will regard it in the same manner, if I regard it at all, except briefly.

Now, as this pertains to writing:

When I am writing a novel I am thinking about the next point. When I have gotten there, I think about the next point. And so on until I reach the end. I cannot plan it out ahead, having this wonderful connected and cohesive weave of storylines. My mind does not seem to work that way.

As unhelpful as this sometimes seems, there is something to be said for it. Because I do not know what is to happen, it allows all sorts of surprises to creep in. I may have a character at the beginning of a novel and think he is just a one-scene character and then find out he is one of the main characters, as in the novel I wrote for National Novel Writing Month last year.

This, however, creates a lot of work for the next step: revision.

Oscillation

2008-05-19T11:06:00.000-07:00

I seem to be writing here more and more infrequently, and I wish I could say it was due to a corresponding increase in writing elsewhere, but I am afraid that would not quite be the truth. I considered making an end to it, in order to concentrate my efforts elsewhere, but I find I never like to end things, so for the moment I shall only continue in my sporadic way.

For the moment I guess I shall post a note I wrote elsewhere:

May 1st

Well I was just getting ready to fire myself, but I guess now I won't.

I was even thinking about doing it in a very official manner with a letter. I mean it doesn't do me much good to have a job at which I am not working, and I most certainly have not been writing lately, except for blog posts and letters in Tengwar, though there were a couple of times I attempted it. If I had been working at any other job I would have been fired a long time ago, so I thought it stood to reason that I should be fired as a writer.

I guess this just goes to show that I am not in control here. This very day I randomly decided to go out and check the mail—which I generally reserve for those who actually get things in the mail—and there was an envelope for me from Elder and Leemaur Publishers.

I opened it slowly, trying not to get excited. I already knew what it meant though.

I am going to be published! Or rather a piece of my writing is, which will make me a published writer.

Before I say anything further I should explain: this was in answer to a scholarship I had found. The requirement was for me to submit an essay under 500 words, for which topic I chose the following:

Topic #1: Over the past twenty years campaign spending has been increasing at an astronomical pace. Do you believe that this is good or bad for democracy? and why?

So I wrote the essay, worked on it, had a couple people read it, worked on it some more, (all of this within a few days of the deadline) and submitted it the day before the deadline, which was March 1st.

It is, however, rather ironic that I am getting it published. After all I have spent a good eight or so years of my life seriously working at writing fiction. I have written numerous stories and novels, I have read books about writing fiction, I have critiqued stories and had my own critiqued, and I have submitted numerous works of fiction to various magazines. Yet now I am going to have a non-fiction essay published.

I suppose it doesn't make too much difference what it is. The important part is that I am going to be published! I am rather excited.

To Do or Not To Do

2008-04-30T09:36:00.000-07:00

"It takes a lot of time to be a genius. You have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing." -Gertrude Stein

This quote goes perfectly with my thoughts as of late. This is exactly what it takes to be a writer.

Now of course trying to be a writer is not the same as trying to be a genius. After all, not all geniuses are writers and certainly all writers are not geniuses. Yet that is neither here nor there.

There have been numerous occasions when I have been standing around with a thoughtful look on my face (one I am told makes it look like I am mad or dead or whatever it is that I do not remember at the moment) and trying to think, and maybe even partially succeeding, but there are a great many more when I am simply doing nothing. I find that lately I hardly do nothing at all and thus my writing suffers. It is amazing how much doing nothing time it takes to be a writer.

Yet doing nothing takes a great skill. There are many people in the world who do nothing accidentally, but such doing of nothing generally results in nothing, as they do not know what to do with it. Of course in all likelihood they are not really doing nothing. It is not so easy a matter as one might suppose to really do nothing, not to worry about things about to happen, not to fret at the passage of time, not to drop into a state of complacency, nor anything else (save vital life functions of course).

However, it is also hard to find time to do nothing...

I cannot think of a single day this week I shall be able to really and properly do nothing, but perhaps I may be able to squeeze in an hour or two. It might be sufficient. Of course the quality and quantity of said time is inversely proportional to the effectiveness of the writing that results from it. Thus the lamentable state of my writing currently.

A Matter of Age, In Part

2008-04-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

Lately I have been giving much thought to the matter of growing up, probably mostly because it has no relation to any of the stories I might be considered to be working upon at the moment. And I have now reached some quasi-conclusions.

Firstly, in large part, growing up is to become responsible, but it also necessitates a feeling for others, an ability to put others' wants before one's own. This is why my mother has said that one never really grows up until having children of his own.

Of course we cannot help growing up. (At least I have not found a way.) Yet, as with most things, we all do it differently and in different degrees. Some people do it overly much. As a result there are a great many dull people in the world. I do not say dullness is a bad thing; they might very well be happier than those who lead more interesting lives. But I cannot help thinking that growing up ought not to necessitate becoming boring. At least so for me.

Secondly, growing up is not a term that adequately describes the subject. It seems to imply no more than an increase in height. It might just as well be described as growing away.

As a child one is very close to all those around him: his siblings, his parents, his friends, and most anyone else. This is because is looking at the world entirely from his own viewpoint, and ascribing it to everyone around him. It does not occurr to him to think about different viewpoints; that is a matter that comes with maturity. This is the reason that children can be friends with anyone.

Then, as the child grow older, he begins to grow away from his family and friends. As long as he lives with his family he can never draw very far from them; he lives too close to them not to know them intimately, but he can never be as close as he was when very young. But with his friends it is a different matter, especially if he rarely sees or talks with them. He has reached the age where interests begin to diverge, and what matters most now is a sharing of interests. This is why so few people retain their childhood friends. Yet even common interests are not always enough.

It is as if we are on islands in a vast ocean, constantly drifting away from each other. We must continue to work to bridge that space between, or the ties will be broken, and we will be beyond reach, perhaps forever in earthly terms. This is what people mean when they say they are talking to someone who seems miles away, an expression I thought rather silly until recently.

Or, perhaps more fittingly, it as if there are walls between us. It is natural that the walls should have grown up, but they will prevent our friendships only if we let them remain. All we must do is pull down the walls, brick by brick. In most circumstances it takes no more than a little effort.

Yet there are times we refuse to break down the wall. We let it remain and grow larger. Why?

It is natural for us to seek safety and to cling to it. When we have a steady rhythm to our lives we feel a sense of security and therefore want nothing to change because we do not want to lose our safety. We do not like to step outside the well-known and therefore the safe. Even when things are about to change drastically, we pretend to ourselves and to others that things are the same, that they are just as usual, and we dare not speak of more than trivial matters. Thus we let the walls grow taller.

Scientific Ramblings

2008-03-18T18:36:00.001-07:00

So I noticed this lymph node in my neck and thought it a good opportunity to look up something about the lymphoid system, which I knew very little about. So I pulled out an anatomy book to look at. It was one of those dry types of books that say a lot without saying much at all, so I still know very little about it, but a little bit less little than the little before. But it reminded me of a good quote from Chesterton (from "Orthodoxy" to be precise):

Scientific phrases are used like scientific wheels and piston-rods to make swifter and smoother yet the path of the comfortable. Long words go rattling by us like long railway trains. We know they are carrying thousands who are too tired or too indolent to walk and think for themselves. It is a good exercise to try for once in a way to express any opinion one holds in words of one syllable. If you say "The social utility of the indeterminate sentence is recognized by all criminologists as a part of our sociological evolution towards a more humane and scientific view of punishment," you can go on talking like that for hours with hardly a movement of the gray matter inside your skull. But if you wish to begin "I wish Jones to go to gaol and Brown to say when Jones shall come out," you will discover, with a thrill of horror, that you are obliged to think. The long words are not the hard words, it is the short words that are hard. There is much more metaphysical subtlety in the word "damn" than in the word "degeneration."

I could hardly limit myself to that and it is already a somewhat lengthy quote. Chesterton was such an intelligent man and I have yet to find a single point upon which we disagree; when someone asks me a question these days, I quite frequently bring in a reference to something he said.

Now I shall return from this digression to return to the matter about which I began, though merely so that I may go upon another digression, which may actually be the main point after all. While looking at little squiggly lines to spread some sort of dim illumination upon the long, scientific words that told much about where all the lymph nodes and suchlike were and what they were capable of, and very little about what my lymphoid system was probably doing at this very moment, I discovered a matter of far more importance:

The human body is 60% fluid by volume. I thought I had heard it was more like 80%. Oh well. I guess we are not so much like watermelon after all...

A plague upon us all

2008-03-17T12:30:00.000-07:00

The novelty has worn off now. Many unpleasant things are not so bad at first, but only become so when they remain day after day without relief. No doubt the matter of the most importance is one's state of mind, however.

At first it was easy enough to grin and bear it. Thus I attempted many humorous comments, though I fear they were lost upon all but myself. Furthermore, as long as I have chicken pox I figured I might as well make the most of it, and to that end I decided to debunk several myths concerning it, and also being sick in general:

Myth #1: Watching movies is a good way to entertain oneself while sick.

Truth: While this may for a brief time distract one's senses from his present discomfort, it generally only serves to make him more displeased and irritated with the world.

Myth #2: Laughing is good when one is sick.

Truth: This may be true in some cases, and indeed I hope it is, but in case of headache accompanying chicken pox, this only serves to increase the discomfort.

Myth #3: The face is the last place one gets chicken pox.

Truth: The apparent meaning of this statement is patently false. Perhaps it would be best not to question the honesty of the one who made this statement—especially as I do not remember who it was—but suffice to say it is not true in all cases. Even after appearing upon the face, the spots are quite pleased to keep appearing upon the rest of the body.

Myth #4: Those who are still well laugh at those who have gotten sick, only to find the tables turned upon them when they get sick and have it worse.

Truth: The latter portion would be more effective when separated by periods of days or weeks, and so lies outside my experience, but I would guess it is only a generality. As for the former portion, it is quite as easy—nay, I would say easier—for those who already have it to do the laughing, for there is a strange invincibility in being made vulnerable by illness, an inability to sink any lower. Any laughter sent my way is easily sent to flight. I am already sick, but you do not know when you will succumb: it may be in two days, or it may be in two weeks, but you shall most certainly get it. Not that much laughter was sent my way, but such may just as well be used against those who deny they are getting it.

--------------------------

One possible effect of itchy chicken pox is a strong desire to jump up and down and scream, which I have on good authority from someone's whose name I will not mention. It makes me feel rather differently, but I will not go into that just now.

There are, however, numerous other small matters that might be of interest in relation to said illness, which only leads me to bewail and lament the fact that I did not have a little video camera to make a movie of the whole proceedings. (Those who have seen 'Mr. Bean's Holiday' may appreciate knowing this thought was in relation to said movie.) Since I have not, a great work of art may have been lost to the world.

Instead I sit here and write rambling thoughts about it, which probably are not even of minute amusement value to any but myself, and I have yet to emit even a half-chuckle. I would most definitely appreciate hearing from each and every one of my readers on this point, if you would be so charitable (it must count as a work of mercy—visiting the sick, you know), for I fear I have more readers than I get credit for. Hallo?

Absolutely splendidly wonderful...

2008-03-14T21:30:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately the electronic medium does not allow my words to carry their full weight of sarcasm, but if you imagine the most sarcastic thing you have ever heard and triple it, that should approximate it. Yet again is brought to mind of what use a sarcastic mood would be for an entirely technologically-inclined society, but I digress from my original purpose: chicken pox.

The youngest has it. How long until the rest of us succumb?

Of course I was sort of exposed before, years and years ago, and managed not to get it. It would be nice if I could feel confident in this matter, and laugh because I could not get it, but since I already have a fever, I fear my laughter must be restrained. Only tomorrow—or the next day, or the next, or some other next day—shall tell whether I will indeed get it.

There could not possibly be a convenient time to get chicken pox, but when it is nearly Easter seems particularly inconvenient. I certainly do not relish the thought of the days and weeks ahead as we shall each singly succumb... Unless of course we manage to all get it at the same time. Still the two weeks or whatever that it would be necessary to be quarantined while having the curse would—or I suppose I should say will—be most dreadfully annoying, especially as I am already feeling like a caged beast...

Enough of that, before it turns into a full-fledged rant.

-------------------------------

Looking back over what I have written, I cannot help but ask myself what was the point of it all. Was it merely to have fun with the drama of it all? Was it to release my feelings of annoyance? Or did it have a deeper meaning?

Hmm. I sound like I am playing diplomacy or something...

I think, therefore...

2008-03-13T11:25:00.000-07:00

In the almost immortal words of Descartes, it was “I think, therefore I am.” However, he might just as well have said any number of other things equally true, if not equally memorable and meaningful. What he said amounts only to I think I am, therefore I am, which is of course true because by the very act of thinking we have invented the word being and thus what meaning we ascribe to that word is what we sense, whether or not it is in accord with the concept we think we attempt to represent. This of course is a most serious consideration and not of much interest.

What is of far more interest is the fact that Descartes might just as well have said “I think, therefore I eat.” Or indeed he might have said—as someone I know said in effect, though the order of words is mine—“I think, therefore I'm tired.” The point of this was that when people are with friends or having fun, they forget they are tired, but when they are sitting around or not doing much they have the opportunity to think about being tired, and so they find they are.

He might have said any number of things included and not limited to the following:

I think, therefore I breathe.

I think, therefore I weep for all the folly in the world.

I think, therefore I climb a tree.

I think, therefore I write.

I think, therefore I see a purple hippopotomas swimming the backstroke toward my neighbor's house and playing a minuet on his viola.

Now none of this comes even close to being as memorable as what Descartes said, so I guess he knew what he was saying. If he had lived in these days, though, I suspect he would have said something more along the lines of “I think, therefore I guess” or “I think, therefore I doubt.”

It is amazing to think how it really all comes down to that in the end: to the act of thinking. Anything we do—or choose not to do—is the result of thinking. It is this rational thought that sets us apart from the rest of the animal world—not to mention the plant world—and thus why we alone can be so unsatisfied with our lot. If I were any other creature it would be impossible for me to say this:

I think, therefore I'm having a bad day.

Rebuttal

2008-02-29T09:51:00.000-08:00

Seeing as one of my very few commenting readers has asked a question, I will without hesitation write an entire blog post in response. (I daresay I am just as likely to write a book in response to a challenge as was Chesterton.)

I was speaking of a written work in poetic terms: a fruit, to be precise. Now when one holds an imperfect fruit in his hand—perhaps it has a worm hole or a great moldy gash in it—then he would feel no guilt if he were to throw it into the compost or merely toss it into the bushes and forget about it. However, if it were possible for him to bring the fruit to a state of perfection, he would of course prefer that option. One thing he must never do is pulverize the fruit, for that would be contradictory to the writing process; if, however, it is not a fruit at all, but only appeared so, then he ought by all means to pulverize it.

Now, leaving aside any rigid assertions about the physical possibilities of bringing the fruit to a state of perfection—as this part is not important—let us continue to where this analogy leads us...

Once the fruit is as perfect as it may be, then it goes forth into the world. That is its first true test.

It is upon these fruits that the world will be nourished and thus their quality is of incalculable importance. Those that mold ought to be thrown out and trampled underfoot. Those that yield only vinegar may have a part to play, but only a small one, and ought to be regarded with care. Those that yield only wine will cause many to become drunk and foolish upon them, though for those who take them only in moderation they may do no harm and even be of benefit. Yet it is those that yield wholesome flesh and juice that shall provide the nourishment necessary for all. Thus is the first part of the test.

And the second is like it: the fruit, in yielding this nourishment to the world, must not shrink and lose its shape or become blemished, but remain firm and whole and beautiful. For those that do will soon be discarded.

-----------------------------------

The above left aside of course the whole issue of what people do with the fruits' yield, for naturally not all are content merely to take sustenance from them in their natural form. These are the jellies and applesauces and whatnot about which I was questioned.

Some people cannot enjoy the fruit wholly without extracting the flesh and making something more of it than was originally there, though without changing any more than the appearance of it. I am not saying that this is without merit—for there is a time and a place for everything—yet these should be made with care, as often such processes involve bringing in additional ingredients (e.g. the salts and sugars and cinnamons and sundry others). Depending upon what is added, the result may be so different from the original fruit as to be unrecognizable. But there are also those that would be indigestible without said additions.

This is by no means an inexhaustible list. Many other means of sustenance exist which involve these fruits only in part or in an amalgamation of them, and I have not time—nor interest—in covering all of them.

-----------------------------------

There it is. I do not know of what benefit it was, as I ought really to be writing other things, but I did rather enjoy it. Although at this rate I suppose I might just as well write a book of analogies about writing.

The idea all came about because of one question, and I appreciate it. These days people do not ask enough questions and those they do ask are usually the wrong ones, for they are afraid to say too much, and so they say too little. If only people would ask more questions and would actively seek the truth, the world would be a better place.

A Child's Wisdom

2008-02-25T15:52:00.000-08:00

So the other day I was taking care of my little brother outside. Now, except that he needed someone to watch him and he prefers to play with someone, my being there was rather superfluous, which allowed me to speculate upon the abilities of young children in general and three-and-a-half-year-olds in particular.

Of course not all children are the same. After all, not all three-and-a-half-year-olds can do simple addition and subtraction. However, he gave me much to ponder.

My conclusion was that young children are natural storytellers. For one, they have not yet reached the point where they delineate true and false in relation to what has happened and what has not. If we tell him about some event that has happened in the past it is just as real for him as what he tells us he has done before and as real as what is happening around him. Often when children tell adults something, the adults respond by asking, “Really?” This is a question children would not think to ask, for it implies a certain degree of disbelief, of cynicism, which they do not yet know. Their minds are still free to believe anything.

As he played with a newt from the gully, he showed his innate sense of narrative. Everything we did had to be done a certain way and in a certain order.

It is these reasons that make children such good storytellers, and yet there is one thing they lack: they have not yet developed a sense for what is interesting to hear about and what is not. If you ever listen to them telling a story, you will notice that they tell everything in the order it happened, leaving nothing out. Perhaps, though, it would be more accurate to say not that it is a lack but that it is something of which they have an over abundance, their sense of the importance of everything being so strong that they hold each and every thing with equal regard.

As children grow older they lose so much. That is why children often seem so happy, while adults do only rarely. As they grow, they forget their natural creativity, reducing everything to the black and white, true and false, of the adult world. They learn to doubt, to disbelieve. They narrow their sense of the important to rest upon a limited number of things that have little meaning for them. Thus they not only lose their ability as storytellers, but also they lose the ability to live happily.

It is for this reason that Jesus said we must become like children if we wish to enter heaven and that the kingdom of heaven belonged to such as these.

For writers this is especially important. We must have a child's creativity so that we move beyond the hard lines accepted as facts and dare to attempt what we never would otherwise, a childlike confidence in our work, and also a child's wonder at the world. This is what shall produce fruit.

Yet once we have that precious fruit—that first draft—we must be able to continue on. For this it is necessary to have abilities gained only with maturity: the ability to judge and assess the work, and the ability to be able to listen to others and learn from what they have to tell us. It is these that shall enable us to improve both our craft and our stories so that we may create works that may be of lasting influence in the world.

A Recognized Thirst

2008-02-20T06:37:00.000-08:00

After avoiding it for more than a month, I finally sat down yesterday evening to write. Though it took me much effort of will to force myself to do it, as soon as I had begun, the pleasure of words and ideas flowing from my mind brought peace.

So I wrote this story about a man who thinks himself imprisoned, but really is not. I am fairly pleased with it, at least the idea of it, though I daresay I shall tinker with it a little more before I look for readers.

Now there is something I read a little while ago, which echoes in my mind. Oh, how true it is! I knew it before, but I refused to act upon it, rather like the man in my story. That of which I speak was written by the poet Rilke:

“You are looking outward and that above all you must not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody.”

There is a deep well within each of us and we need only go to it and dip into it, but fear often holds us back. Instead we look for others to tell us that our stories are good. We look for friends to encourage us, to talk of many things--“...of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.” We look anywhere, but within ourselves.

The hermits, I think, knew best. Those who are closest to God are closest to themselves and thus closer to their own deep wells. When one is waiting to hear from his friends and wanting to talk with them, he often ignores what lies within himself. Yet if one were to withdraw wholly from the world—not to hear from any living soul—and be alone with God, he would be able to draw more deeply from that well. Perhaps I shall try that someday.

I suppose, though, there are many things that would be lost then. A conversation with a good friend is priceless, and oft brings into being things that otherwise would never have known the light.

Passion

2008-02-11T11:08:00.000-08:00

"You lack the fire."
~An old fencing master

Thus was the student's answer given in very few words, but it had a drastic result: the student then gave up fencing, thereby proving the fencing master's words.

----------------------

The other day it occurred to me how little I have been writing, but what is more, how little I even think about writing and the things thereof. It used to be that I would rise at five o'clock so as to have at least two good hours before everyone else woke, and I was always thinking about some new story idea, and always working on several projects at once, starting numerous stories, every now and again finishing one. Writing was my life, my passion.

But now...

Now I no longer want to write.

Now my passion for writing has been replaced by something else: fencing. All week I look forward to those days when I can fence, I practice every day and I can hardly think of anything else. It was hard at first—though I always enjoyed it—but now I have gotten to the point where I begin to have enough control that I can think about what is happening; I can do more than react to the person before me, and I have begun to gain confidence in myself. I even feel I might fence all day every day and not tire of it. In fact, my passion for fencing is such that I begin to wonder whether I ought not to forget my desire to be a writer...

As soon as such a thought enters my mind, however, I know it could never be. I write because I cannot not write. Even in these times when I feel as if I will never write anything of worth, I know that I cannot give it up, that I must keep trying.

After all, it has only been a little more than a month since I could hardly think of anything but the story I was finishing. Such a time will come again, I have no doubts. Yet I miss the days when I used to work on projects with others, as that always spurred me on and fueled my desire to write. Now I seek inspiration wherever I may, knowing that I must hope to find it nowhere but in myself.

Yet there is one thing that is essential, both in fencing and in writing. As my good friend and fellow writer put it: "Confidence is, like, tres important." And it is. No matter how I think others might judge my writing, no matter how many harsh criticisms and spurning rejections I get, I must have confidence in myself and my writing.

It is easy with things such as fencing where I can see my improvement and judge it against others, while I have a teacher to point out what I am doing wrong. However, in writing I must be the final judge. And I am a harsh judge.

I do at least have a couple of ideas that are growing in my mind and I may decide to combine them, which would make a really neat story...

I do not want it to be said that I lack the fire.

Inconsequentiality

2008-02-04T12:14:00.000-08:00

There are some things that are considered socially acceptable—and even socially beneficial—that we never think to question, and yet if we bothered to take the time to ponder, would realize their ridiculousness. I daresay there are a great many of these, but the one I have in mind at the moment is wholly inconsequential, and therefore the more interesting.

That entity to which I refer is the habit of baring one's teeth accompanied by a simultaneous upward curve of the lips. This is more generally described as the action accompanying a snarl, and yet we accept it by another name and even prefer people who frequently engage in this activity.

Yes, I speak of the phenomenon generally referred to as smiling.

It is not an activity in which I much engage. Mostly I tend to regard the world with a thoughtful expression while I ponder deeper matters, but even I do on occasion participate in this action. The naturalness of this expression causes me to wonder about it, especially as it seems to be in direct contradiction to the rest of creation. Why is it that if other animals engage in this activity we instantly are wary of them and other animals feel threatened, but if we do, then we find friends gathered about us, eager to enjoy our company?

Greatness and Dead Limbs

2008-01-19T11:57:00.000-08:00

For a work to be great, it cannot be merely the result of a moment's chance, but requires much skill and effort, the pouring out of one's very self into the making of it. This is especially true of a book, and in particular the novel where it is the writer's experience that makes the characters living and real and the writer's imagination that makes the story vivid and unique.

Yet to say that the writer must pour his very self into his work is by no means exaggeration or mere poeticism, but truth.

It is rather as if one were to grow an extra limb—an arm let us say for example's sake—and naturally to accomplish such a feat (leaving aside its practical if not its utter impossibility) one must exert all his strength and energy into it, as if it could be done by strength of will alone. At first it would be a mere protuberance, but gradually it would begin to take on a resemblance to the other arms. Thus, growing slowly, it would at last be complete. (That would be the point at which one's friends would begin to ask what it felt like to have three arms. Of course the response would disappoint them, for there would have been no abrupt transition from two to three, but rather a gradual growing accustomed to it until the usage of three arms was as natural as had been two.)

Then comes the time to remove the limb. It was not made to become part of the body and function as a third arm, but as a work of art. (My analogy begins to grow stranger.) Thus one would then remove the arm, leaving behind an open wound, though hidden to all the world.

Rather than merely letting the limb remain lying about to admire, one must decide to show it to his friends and acquaintances. (And, yes, here my analogy grows very strange indeed.) Without this step, one would never notice all the imperfections in it, from the misplaced wrinkle on a knuckle to a darkened fingernail to the malformed elbow.

Either then, or after a time of rest, it comes time to reattach the arm, and work out those imperfections, striving once again to make an arm as perfect as those two already at his sides, which grew there without any effort on his part. Sometimes he must begin all over again with only the idea in his mind of what worked and what did not. For the intent is not merely to make an arm of sorts, but to make such an arm that all would recognize it as an arm just like any other arm.

Again the finished arm must be removed. This time it is more difficult and leaves a larger wound behind, for the more perfect it is, the more greatly does it become attached. This might happen a number of times, but all is aimed toward the final goal of sharing it with the whole world that they might learn from it by examining it.

Thus is the analogy finished, at least insofar as is my regard for it. The truths of the matter might be better expressed in other ways, but only in ways less palpable.

It is this pouring out of one's soul into his work that is both a toll upon his strength and yet brings joy unmeasurable; it is both a hardship and a testing of one's strength and will, and also a fulfillment. Perhaps, too, it is why writers are known for their tendency toward insanity and suchlike.

Rejection

2008-01-13T19:24:00.000-08:00

The other day—the day before yesterday to be precise— I was sent out (yes, it was a passive sort of sent-outedness, for the sending was not aimed directly at me necessarily) to get something, and, as I had seen the mail come, I decided to go out and get it. I do not know what made me decide this, as I rarely receive anything of interest, but it was at least a strange coincidence.

As soon as I saw the envelope on top with my name written on it as I had written it there hardly more than a week before, my immediate response was, "No, not already." Experience has told me that a hasty return means a rejection. (Not that my experience with a slow return has diverged significantly.)

I picked the envelope up. It was too thin to be more than a rejection. But I tore it open nonetheless.

It was, of course.

Then I returned to the house. My little sister saw me coming toward the door and asked if there were anything interesting. I hesitated but a fraction of a moment before I replied lightly: "No."

There was nothing interesting. Perhaps there are occasions when rejection slips are interesting, but this was not one of them. This was bloody annoying. I had not even had a chance to submit anything else yet and I find it better to always have at least one manuscript in a state of uncertainty. So much for that.

The Best Event of the Year

2008-01-05T14:06:00.000-08:00

Three of us—my brother, a friend and I—started off along the railroad tracks, one pack to share amongst us. It was warm, warm enough to elicit the comment, "It's bloody hot out here." It may be difficult to believe that this happened in forty-nine degrees or so, but if you have prepared for rain and high winds because of a dangerous storm breaking upon the area, and you are walking swiftly, it forces you to realize how subjective is the feeling of warmth or cold.

We strode on in high spirits: nine miles to go, two hours until sunset.

This storm that was to break upon us had been likened to the Columbus Day Storm (considering the reaction this statement caused, it must have been a somewhat fearsome storm). Notwithstanding, we strode boldly on, watching for the slightest sign of falling tree or mudslide, except for when we were talking too intently to bother about these highly unlikely occurrences.

Then we saw a mudslide. The bottom of the hill washed out and only the top of the hill was left unsupported, which was rather frightening. Then the top of the hill was washed along too, carrying us along with it, but fortunately in the direction we wished to go, as the wind was coming from the opposite direction, south-ish.

We did get rather carried away.

On we went along the trail. It was not long before the sprinkle of raindrops that had eased the heat increased to a drizzle.

We stopped for a bit to eat bread and chocolate. We were damper when we started on, and beginning to be chilly. The whole outing was no longer the jolly lark it had been, but had taken on more serious significance.

For most of the way we followed the path, but for a time we had to continue along a rock-covered road, with a plow field stretching away to our left, and fields and trees surrounding us. "Unlike the hobbits, we have a warm fire and food to look forward to," I remarked. I confess I did not find the thought all that comforting at that point, but only imagined I would when darkness fell.

We returned to the path and went on mile after mile. We tried to guess how far we had gone and how far we had yet to go, but decided we knew only that we did not know either.

Sunset came and went without remark. The sun had been hidden behind clouds all day, so its setting behind the horizon scarcely caused much effect, except that the air began to grow cooler. It grew darker, but so gradually that it was of no consequence. The light gradually faded until the forest about us appeared in grey-scale with an almost greenish hue to it. All that still held any brightness were the piles of snow gleaming along the edges of the path.

On we went until we could see no more than a few paces before us. The path gleamed like a dark lake, and the forest grew dimmer.

It seemed we would go on and on forever. Our friend — whose idea the expedition had been—kept assuring us that it was not much farther. With each repetition, it grew less assuring until it caused my brother to state, "I no longer believe in the end of the trail."

Then he began to sing: "This is the trail that never ends..." We joined in: "...it goes on and on my friends; some people started walking it not knowing what it was and they'll continue walking it forever just because..."

We halted after only a few short verses. After all its place as the song that never ends had been usurped.

The fallen branches littered the path before us more thickly and the darkness grew more oppressive. It was decided to bring out a flashlight, though it seemed a pity to spoil the darkness which still glimmered with the last rays of light that lingered where they were trapped beneath the grey-clouded sky. With the flashlight, though, we were able to avoid tripping over the rest of the branches and the tree that lay across the path.

Then we saw two red headlights shining before us.

Even as we came to the end of our journey, footsore and weary, it was difficult to rejoice in that sight. I at least did not wish to end our journey so soon, nor leave behind the forest which seemed to hold so many forgotten secrets.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How many people would be tough enough?" we asked when we spoke of future hikes. "How many people would want to?"

As to how far we walked, I do not know precisely, but it was around ten miles. It only took us about three hours. I daresay with a whole day we might have been able to go at least twice that and enjoy a leisurely pace.

If this in any way appeals to you, I highly recommend it. If, however, you dismiss it as too tame or difficult or whatnot else, I suppose it may be too late for you. Before you begin, I do have a few bits of advice:

1. Do not, on any account, wear cotton socks with your hiking boots unless you enjoy the sensation of walking ten miles with a bloody blister.

2. Bring a flashlight, but do not use it unless necessary.

3. Bring an emergency kit, just in case, but the most important item would be the bandages.

4. Be prepared for slight discomforts so that you do not fail after the first mile or so.

5. Bring plenty of water.

6. Either plan a loop for your journey, or have someone agree to pick you up at the end. "There and back again" journeys are pleasurable only when the way back is not exactly the same as the way there.

7. Bring me with you, if it is at all feasible.

One In Three

2008-01-03T19:00:00.000-08:00

Finally satisfied with a few stories, I thought the time had come to attempt publication, once again. This is not as easy as one might think, however.

I have this historical fiction short story that was rejected a while back, and I only found one magazine to submit it to, but when I went to do it, that magazine was closed to submissions until March or some other time equally far in the future. Searching was of no avail. If there is a market for that story, I have yet to find it.

Thus I turned to another story, one I wrote only recently. Though only one other person besides myself had read it, I felt fairly confident about it. Therefore, I decided to send it to a magazine I had submitted to before.

After going through all the necessary preliminary processes—verifying formatting, printing, checking it over, sticking it in an envelope, and then finding ninety-seven cents worth in stamps (with a 23 cent stamp and two old 37 cent stamps I actually managed to avoid paying extra without going to the post office) —I went out to mail it. Unfortunately, I was again foiled. The mail lady, thinking perhaps to be considerate by coming early, had thus rendered herself unintentionally inconsiderate. My manuscript would not go out for another day.

That was yesterday. It is gone now.

Gone. Utterly gone. No chance to change it now...

Based on previous experience and their estimated time, I should expect to receive a rejection within two to eight weeks, at which time I will post about it here. I would say wish me luck, but since I do not believe in luck, that would be rather foolish.

New Year's Resolutions

2007-12-31T12:49:00.000-08:00

Yes, this is the time of year when people make New Year's Resolutions and I am telling you that not because you do not already know it, but because sometimes there are times when one feels like stating the obvious, especially when the obvious is going to be followed by something slightly less obvious, which means it is only the more obvious—or isn't.

In other words I am not going to here state my New Year's Resolutions. In point of fact, I haven't any.

I have always thought said resolutions were somewhat silly. After all it is just as easy to make resolutions the rest of the year, and most resolutions probably result in nothing anyway. I do now recognize the importance of setting goals and the benefit of telling them to others, so that it is harder to fail to accomplish them, but that is all.

Enough of that. This is your opportunity to suggest some for me.

Sad and Spooky

2007-12-30T15:04:00.000-08:00

It is sad how in our society today God is being replaced by so many other things, but there is one thing I do not understand at all. (I had much time to think about this, being subjected to it each day at work, which—huzzah!—I am finished with.)

"He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good..."

This sounds as if it were a description of God. But, no. They meant Santa Claus of all things. Since when is Santa Claus omniscient and omnipresent? I think someone forgot to teach me that when I was growing up, as so many other children are taught.

Somehow I do not find that a bad thing. I much prefer the legend of Saint Nicholas, which was in some almost-inexplicable way corrupted into the modern idea of Santa Claus. However, it is a great pity that this happened, as not only does Saint Nicholas have a better sense of fashion and a better sense of justice and generosity, but he is also the patron saint of pirates and sailors.

I may say they are equating Santa Claus with God, but some can derive an entirely different conclusion from the same set of facts (from Wikipedia):

A Calvin and Hobbes strip implied that if Santa "sees you when you're sleeping [and] knows when you're awake," he must be a "CIA spook."

Yuletide Analogy

2007-12-26T14:02:00.001-08:00

Life is like fixing a string of Christmas lights.

No matter how much energy one puts into trying to be ahead, it never works.

No matter how many times one fixes the same problem, one has to keep fixing it each year, and in addition to all the old problems, there are always new ones, some of which are practically impossible to fix.

The result is always easier for others to appreciate.

It takes so much time and hardly seems worth it, though there can also be something that makes one suddenly glad for the effort.

As do all things, it has an end, sometimes good, sometimes not.

While one is doing it there are the small pleasures—or perhaps more accurately reliefs—of bringing light to something that hardly seems to be of any value.

And sometimes you just want to throw it out the window.

Honorificabilitudinity

2007-12-20T17:24:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a boy whose name was...

Well, his father—whose name was Athanasius Christopher Maximilian Augustine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff—was born in Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotameteaturipukakapikimau-
ngahoronukupokaiwhenakitanatahu, New Zealand, and his mother—whose name was Caoilfhionn Eileánóir MacGhilleseatheanaich—was born in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Wales. The event of their marriage transpired approximately halfway between in Krungthepmahanakonbowornratanakosinmahintarayud-
yayamahadiloponoparatanarajthaniburiromudomrajniwesmahasat-
arnamornpimarnavatarsatitsakattiyavisanukamphrasit, Thailand, after his father attempted to circumexplorandiscover the world by a combined means of circumnavigation and circumambulation, which failed when he met Caoilfhionn. His brother's name is Marcellinus Alexander Nathaniel Johnathan, and his sisters' names are Francesca Gwendolyn Meredith Josephine and Cassandra Gabrielle Dominique Annabelle.

Their family is unusual, for they are the only ones in the world to express their surprise by saying Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious. They have a habit of floccinaucinihilipilification. Also, they are the only ones to have both acquired Numanoultramicroscopicsilicavolcanoconeosis and to suffer from Pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism.

Athanasius Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff is a scientist and works with chemicals. His children enjoy hearing him repeat them, but this is their favorite: methionylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucylphenylalany-
lalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylglutamylglycylal-
anylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylleucylglycyla-
spartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleucyllysyliso-
leucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylglycylalanylas-
partylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylphenylalanyl-
serylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthreonylisoleu-
cylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucylarginylalanylphenylal-
anylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylalanylglutaminylcysteiny-
lphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylleucylisoleucylarginyl-
glutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucylprolylisoleucylglyc-
ylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparaginylleucylvalylphenyla-
lanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylglutamylphenylalanylt-
yrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylvalylglycylvalylaspart-
ylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylprolylvalylglutaminylglu-
tamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarginylglutaminylalanylalanylleu-
cylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylalanylprolylisoleucylphenylalany-
lisoleucylcysteinylprolylprolylaspartylalanylaspartylaspartylaspa-
rtylleucylleucylarginylglutaminylisoleucylalanylseryltyrosylglycy-
larginylglycyltyrosylthreonyltyrosylleucylleucylserylarginylalany-
lglycylvalylthreonylglycylalanylglutamylasparaginylarginylalanyla-
lanylleucylprolylleucylasparaginylhistidylleucylvalylalanyllysylle-
ucyllysylglutamyltyrosylasparaginylalanylalanylprolylprolylleucyl-
glutaminylglycylphenylalanylglycylisoleucylserylalanylprolylaspar-
tylglutaminylvalyllysylalanylalanylisoleucylaspartylalanylglycyla-
lanylalanylglycylalanylisoleucylserylglycylserylalanylisoleucylva-
lyllysylisoleucylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylhistidylasparaginyliso-
leucylglutamylprolylglutamyllysylmethionylleucylalanylalanylleucyll-
ysylvalylphenylalanylvalylglutaminylprolylmethionyllysylalanylalany-
lthreonylarginylserine.

The children are fond of words, and always enjoy coming across a new one such as honorificabilitudinitatibus or Lopadotemachoselachogaleokranioleipsanodrimhypotrimmatosilph-
ioparaomelitokatakechymenokichlepikossyphophattoperisteralektr-
yonoptekephalliokinklopeleiolagoiosiraiobaphetraganopterygon.

Now, what is the boy's name?

To Blog or Not to Blog

2007-12-18T20:53:00.000-08:00

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."—E.L. Doctorow

"Blogging is a socially acceptable form of talking to oneself." -Myself

Perhaps that is why I find blogging interesting and quite natural, for I have always been accustomed to talk to myself. Perhaps it is a habit like that of Gandalf, choosing to speak to the wisest person.

However, there is a difference between blogging and mere talking to oneself. Rather than addressing comments to myself as if I were another person (which generally is the form talking to oneself takes), I address my comments as if I were addressing all the inhabitants of the entire world, and any other worlds I do not yet happen to know about.

This, of course, is not true for all. There are numerous people out there blogging who are not talking to themselves, not even talking to themselves as if they were addressing the whole world, but instead are talking to a group of dedicated readers. I would guess, though, that even these people started out their blogging careers (if it can be called that) by talking to themselves as if they were the whole world; if not, then I daresay they must have been famous already, or have begun by bribing a whole bunch of people to read, and comment on, their blogs.

---------------------------------------------

Upon rereading that, I am not wholly certain it is true after all, though a good portion of it is. Now, I think perhaps that blogging is really more like addressing an entire audience that does not exist.

This, however, is a point of mere detail, for it is really no different than what I have stated above except in the form of my expression of the matter: addressing a group of people that does not exist is scarcely different—if at all—from addressing yourself as a group of people; either way you are projecting yourself into a group of people, whom you are then addressing.

--------------------------------------------

Then again, this may just be an excuse for why I receive no more than an occasional comment or two. Of course, that is entirely my own fault, since I have not really told anyone I even have a blog, let alone that they might actually want to read it. Perhaps I ought to. It may not be a good thing to talk to oneself all the time...

Mon Ami

2007-12-10T11:25:00.000-08:00

"We live in a culture that often talks about community, connectedness, social networking, etc where very little true community actually exists and where we elevate acquaintances to friends and have very few true friends." -The Curt Jester, whose blog is both informative and entertaining.

This is something I have often thought about. It seems that the meaning of friend has been forgotten, or delegated to a far lower position than it previously held. People now communicate with people all across the world, but how many of these could truly be called friends?

Let us take a look at a definition:

From the American Heritage Dictionary:

friend
A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.
A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.

So it seems that definition of ordinary usage has made its way into the dictionary as well. So much for the purity of the word friend. It is not the first to travel this road, though, nor shall it be the last. After all, "silly" once meant "innocent".

With our society's focus on quantity rather than quality and the ease with which we can communicate with hundreds upon hundreds of people, is it any surprise that we no longer have the time for true friendship? Friends—to use the more exclusive meaning of the word—are not made overnight. To have friends, you must learn to know and trust them, which takes time. People do not have energy for that when they scatter their time among so many different people and enterprises.

Perhaps I am in the minority with this viewpoint, but I do not think that acquaintances should be elevated to the level of friends. Friends are people you know and trust, whom you can rely on. They are people with whom you want to be and who want to be with you; to whom you want to talk, and who want to talk to you. When you need help, it is your friends to whom you look for help, and in turn you help them through their difficulties, easing the pains of this life in ways that no acquaintance of a brief moment could. Yet still my attempt to define the word falls short of its meaning. Thus is my thought, though perhaps it is no more than relic of ages past. As goes the old saying, "Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold."

Even with this view in mind, the matter is uncertain. Definitions are inherently arbitrary, based solely on our own perceptions, and one major question remains: when does an acquaintance become a friend?

Blast!

2007-12-03T13:01:00.000-08:00

"The cold droplets of rain lashing against my bare head, soaking my hair, dripping down to run in rivulets across my face; the rush and roar of the wind, which presses upon the sails and whips through the rigging, tugging against my coat; the rushing waters of the seas all around, the waves crested with white; the roll and surge of the deck beneath my feet and the feel of the wheel in my hands, as I brace my feet to hold the ship upon her course; the fear that every moment one of the men might slip overboard or the sails rip to shreds in the wind or the rudder fail: thus it is to be a captain aboard a ship in a storm."

"I love storms. There is something about the power of the elements--a power one cannot lessen, but only endure--that touches some instinct within. It touches a chord of defiance within the heart, for who willingly admits the insignificance of himself until pitted against such an ancient and powerful adversary as the sea? This defiance brings a thrill surging through every fiber of one's being."

-Captain Nic Blaknar

Yet for those who are landlocked, a storm means something far different. Especially for those who dwell near a river or creek.

As the rain pours down, the muddy waters rise, higher and higher until they spill over the bank, flooding across lowlands, running in ever-widening streams of brown. The waters continue to rise until shallow brown water flows across the pastures and through the forests, rushing ever onward, and still the waters continue to come, flowing higher and higher.

Children glory in such a flood. They play in the water-filled fields, finding grubs and voles, and they do not mind getting wet in the pounding rains. They care not for the damage it may wreak. The hours of hard work that may be ruined in a single day are as naught to them.

Yet as they grow older, they forget their careless enjoyment and think instead of the annoyance and sorrow, losing their wonder. The sight of the still falling rain can only depress them. They cannot think of the floods without sadness at what may be destroyed.

Some there are who stand between, like one lingering halfway between two worlds.
The two feelings tug at them and their hearts are divided.

Never before--at least as long as we have lived here--has this much water passed through our lands for this long. Ever before it was a brief: a quick rise and fall overnight so that we saw only the muddy desolation left behind. Now a whole day has passed and still the waters stream through, hardly less than before.

Three trees at least have fallen in this storm, and these on our side of the creek. Too many already have fallen. So few remain. It will be long before those we have planted grow tall enough to cast shade of much consequence, and meanwhile how many more will fall? Already there were too few trees. At this rate it shall not be long before the lands lie bare.

This brings to mind a story that occurred to me the last time the winds brought some of the trees to the ground. It was a sad story, a tragedy perhaps. The trees were falling, falling, falling...

EDIT: The water finally receded enough that I was able to go out yesterday morning and take stock of the damage. Except for two uprooted plants and the loss of four wire cages protecting plants, there was little more damage beyond the usual layer of fine mud wherever I looked and the places eroded even further by the rushing torrents. Deep pools still remain. This was a flood such as we have not seen before. Shortly after we moved in there was a flood of similar proportions, but it rose quickly and then passed away; we had hardly enough time to look at it before the waters had returned to the creek, leaving behind the eroded streams of mud through the overgrazed pasture. At least the damage was less than it might have been.

Finito--or is it?

2007-11-30T23:16:00.000-08:00

Midnight of the last day of November is fast approaching. Once again I managed to finish my novel, but only barely in time. I am filled with the same strange mix of feelings always present after I have typed the words THE END on the last page: satisfaction at my accomplishment; sorrow that it had to end; an eagerness to read it; and a knowledge that there are many things I feel still need to be improved, which I would not allow myself to do at the time for fear I should not finish before the month was over.

There are many small things I left out of scenes that I must add, but most in mind is a whole new character, whose part I did not realize until now and am not yet certain belongs. This new character will not greatly change the story, but may add much of value to it. Yet this character is one whom I cannot easily understand, and therefore cannot easily write about, and that, I think, is the primary cause of my doubt.

Overall I think my month writing a novel went rather well. There were a few things I promised myself I would do and I think I mostly succeeded in this: firstly that I would try to end each chapter in such a way that it would draw the reader onward, leaving him in anticipation, while I shifted between characters; secondly that I would write only scenes I enjoyed, and not plow through boring sections that could only be boring to readers; thirdly that I would visualize what I was writing. These all helped to create a better story, I think. The first is more important for readers, and the latter two helped me to really get into the story, as I have never done before.

Usually I am thinking about so many things I have a hard time keeping track of all the different characters and events in my stories and how they all fit together, but this time I did not have that problem. I scarcely wrote any notes at all: only once or twice. The rest of the time I figured it all out in my mind.

This year was different than last year in another way as well. Last year I had far more free time and so was able to write a 100,000 word novel without difficulty. This year, however, what with working two days a week and teaching piano two days a week, and all the other responsibilites I have, it was more difficult. My mom pointed out that it was a good experience to have to be able to write while still doing all these other things (which could be considered a justification for why she does not let me off all my chores for the month as some people do, not that I think that is necessary), and I agree.

My parents thought it was amazing that I could start writing the novel on November 1st and finish it just a little before midnight of the last day of the month. I do not find it so. I knew I was drawing near to the end and thus wrote furiously to finish in time. That is the power of deadlines. Sometimes it is a good thing to have deadlines to meet, though in this case I do not know; I fear I may have rushed the ending a little more than I should have.

So now it is time to set it aside for a bit. I am eagerly looking forward to reading it, but that will have to wait until I have distanced myself from it a little. In the meantime there are some of my older writings I am eager to read again, and also I want to finish probably my slowest ever reading of the Lord of the Rings, which sadly is only my fifth time.

After I have revised my novel, then the time will come for it to be read. I told my brother he could probably read it, but I think I will look for other readers as well so that I may receive a good selection of criticism.

Then it will be on to other projects. At the moment I have at least two novels in mind I would like to start and one to rewrite and some others I do not remember just now, and I think I may work on these all at the same time to try something different for a while, varying which one I am writing with how I am feeling at the time.

If this all seems less coherent than usual, than I suppose it is due to the lateness of the hour and the fact that I already wrote over 12,000 words today. This would make it right around 13,000 I would imagine. Not the most I have ever written, but a goodly sum notwithstanding.

The Inspiration of Confidence , Or, Conversely, The Confidence of Inspiration

2007-11-26T12:46:00.000-08:00

I had hardly thought about my novel from last year's NaNoWriMo for nearly a year, but for some reason it surfaced in my mind the other day. Remembering a scene near the end, I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to read it. Thus, after writing a little more on my current NaNovel, I did.

Not only did it utterly absorb my attention and draw me into reading more than I had intended, but I was actually impressed to think that I had written it. There were of course a few things I thought could be improved; that, however, is always the case, even with my writing now. This means that my writing has reached the point where it is no longer improving at such a drastic rate, and I can be pleased with my work as a writer.

For a long time I have disparaged my writing, but that time is at an end. I have confidence in my work for the first time.

Now some might say that I should have discovered this a long time ago and it would have been more beneficial for me. I would not agree. The years in which I labored over my writing, feeling it was lacking and ever striving toward perfection, have not been in vain. It is through those struggles that I have reached the mountaintop upon which I now stand, and may look beyond to the higher mountains that I have yet to reach.

This summer of letting my mind lay fallow was not without benefit either. It made me realize how much I missed writing and allowed the ideas and the words to grow in more fertile soil when the time of growth came again.

Even as I realized all of this, though, I was afraid I should have waited to read part of last year's NaNovel until I had completed this year's, for after reading it I could think of little else. For the first time I wanted to revise more than to write, which was a strange feeling, as I have always preferred to seek out new stories and ideas.

Nevertheless, it turned out that the inspiration it gave me was invaluable. I was able to turn my mind to my current project and write onward.

I have now completed over 50,000 words on my novel and four days remain. The end of the story is at a distance still, but I hope that I may have time to finish it before the month runs out.

Some difficulties still remain, though none are insurmountable. The primary one is that I have many major characters and not all will live happily ever after, but I am reluctant to allow that anything will happen to them, whether suffering or death, or worse. I wonder if all writers feel this way.

Yet there is nothing I can do to prevent this from happening. The story must go as it will, and—unless I stop now— I will discover all their ends. I do not really feel as if I am choosing these ends and their choices leading up to them, but it is rather as if I am discovering these stories and recording them; that feeling is especially strong this month since I began my novel with no more than a single character and a single scene, not knowing where it would lead, and now I have a host of characters and a plot that draws me toward the still mysterious end.

Even though I recognize that not all can live happily ever after and I know that I tend to prefer tragic characters when I read, still I wish those in my story might find peace, for they are not strangers whose tragedies affect me not. These are my friends and their lives touch me deeply.

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, An Artist's Life For Me

2007-11-19T15:32:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I decided to try the artist's life. It was an interesting experience and one that was perhaps not as authentic as it might have been, for I did at least did sell a few things, despite the lack of visitors to the bazaar.

I did at least manage to cover most of my materials costs. However, I also had to sit there for two long days. There were of course the times when I talked with people, whether friends or strangers, including the time when we played 'I Doubt It' and Fr. Carl walked over and asked whether he wanted to know what we were playing and I said, "I doubt it."

It was not completely dull, not even as dull as I might have made it seem. Sebastian was selling wood swords he had made and several of his friends took it upon themselves to become his salesmen. One of them was quite good at it, and it was most interesting—and often quite amusing and even hilarious at times—to watch the reactions he received.

The hardest thing about it was that I was there probably a total of over 18 hours, which I could have spent writing, and if I had, I likely would have written at least 18,000 words. Instead I managed to write only a mere 2,400; this was due partially to the distraction of being in the middle of a room where children are running about and people are talking, and partially to the measly battery my laptop has, and mostly to my not leaving the table to go hide in a corner by an electrical socket. Of course, the problem is those 18,000 words I could have written would have gotten me no closer to the earning money in a way other than being employed at the Berry Barn.

I learned many things from the experience, however. Firstly, it is more beneficial to concentrate my time in one day upon one end rather than working on many various projects at once. Secondly, I need to learn how not to wait until the last moment. Thirdly, it might actually be possible to make a bit of money for college.

Furthermore, I also got many compliments upon my work. This means I am no longer an artist in my own eyes only. Huzzah!

Jack of All Trades

2007-11-15T18:53:00.000-08:00

People always say practice makes perfect, which by extension means the same for focus. If you focus all your energy and concentration upon one area, your skill in that one area will be immense. I often wonder what it would be like to only have area that was the focus of all my life...

If my focus were running, I could run for miles and miles, perhaps eventually enough to circumambulate (which is not a word, but ought to be) the world.

If it were making friends, I could have lots of good friends spread throughout the world from America to Europe to Antartica (or maybe that is stretching it a little too far).

If it were art, I could create beautiful illuminated manuscripts, paintings and fine drawings, with my art known the world over, perhaps even resulting in a masterpiece that would bring those looking at it into the picture.

If it were languages I could know a good portion of the languages of the world and have several constructed languages of my own, and be able to speak them all so perfectly well that no one would ever know whether I was complimenting them or insulting them, or complimenting them in a way that happened to be an insult.

If it were sailing, I could be winning races and circumnavigating the globe, proving the Age of Sail continues strong and well, at least in the mind of one.

If it were being a pirate captain, I could have several fine prizes and a wealth of legends gathering about me, and show to the world that piracy is not a thing of the past, except whereas it concerns the internet or machine guns and rubber rafts.

If it were writing, I could be a renowned published author, subverting my readers just as the other best-selling authors do, except to the truth.

If it were living out my faith, I could be in heaven by now, rather than laboring through this valley of sorrows.

Wow. I impress myself. To think that I could have done any of those! (Never mind that the odds of any one of them happening are about as great as that of a polar bear and a penguin waltzing to a minuett played by a Chinese dragon.)

Yet I have chosen another course, the way of diverse interests and little rewards and a mind full of thoughts as scattered as feathers in the wind; though whether I have chosen rightly none can say. It is a good life. Perhaps a better one. Instead of going through life trying to be the best at something I can realize that there will always be many who are better than I, and yet not in all ways. Yes, I like being Jack of All Trades.

Riddle

2007-11-14T10:35:00.000-08:00

It now is hard inside and soft outside,
But ought to be the opposite.
It changes from century to century
And yet remains the same.
It puts its trust in many things
That soon will be no more.
It rushes forward at a great rate
Forgetting its past wisdom.
It strives to reach for the heavens
But alone it can only fail.

Bella: True Love Goes Beyond Romance

2007-11-13T12:42:00.000-08:00

Finally a movie has arisen to combat the foul trends of Hollywood: Bella. Though I tend to prefer what my parents describe as "shallow action films" such as Pirates of the Caribbean and Mask of Zorro, I was impressed with how beautiful and well-done Bella was. It is worth seeing both on its own merits and because it will send out a message that there are people who care about seeing good, moral movies. Furthermore, the story behind the movie is quite impressive as well:

The Testimony of Eduardo Verastegui

In 2006 Bella won the People's Choice Award at the Toronto Film Festival, and then October 26th of this year it came out in a few select theaters . My understanding is that it broke at least one record its opening weekend. I actually saw it that Sunday with my grandmother.

I highly recommend it. The only good excuse you could have for not going to see it would be if there were no theater showing it in your state, and as they are adding new theaters, I doubt that could be an adequate excuse for long. I just hope that Metanoia Films will keep up the good work and produce more films like this one.

Greetings and Salutations to the Wide World

2007-11-12T19:42:00.000-08:00

"The first million words are practice." Thus said Isaac Asimov, and his words, if not literal truth, are at least something many people ought to keep in mind.

Though I have never bothered to calculate the quantity of words contained in my collective writings, yet by estimation I am certain that I have more than exceeded that count. Yet still I would not easily pass up an opportunity to increase my skill, such as this, despite the requirements of the month of November, alternatively known as National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo).

To embark upon such a quest--to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days--may seem daunting, and not without good reason. You may start out the month eager and expectant, not knowing where the story is headed, yet not caring, but merely reveling in the experience. Then the days go on. The time comes for the story to decide its course, and doubts ensue. You may begin to wonder whether it will be possible to complete the novel, or even to pass the 10,000 word mark. Then comes the time when the story comes together: those subconscious parts of your mind have really been working all the while, and those vague ideas come together into something that begins to resemble a cohesive whole. The first obstacle has been overcome. None after can ever equal it, for now the end is in sight, different than was first envisioned, and all the better for it.

At just over 20,000 words, I am right on schedule. As usual, my story threatens to grow beyond control and likely beyond the requisite 50k, but not in such a vast epic manner as too many of my ideas before--not yet anyway. I am enjoying it, even at the relatively slow pace I am taking it. I can even say I look forward to the revision in December when I figure out in what order to place the chapters so that they better move the narrative toward the currently unknown and mysterious ending.