The Hidden Chest

Within here are some of my nearest and dearest personal writings. These books were seen by only a few trusted and will never again be seen by any eyes but my own. The story is enchanting.

Set in a beautiful desert city in a post-apocalyptic world...An employee of the occupying forces contracts a rare and fatal disease and is presumed dead after an escape from the enemy...A gift of brilliant mental processing meant to stop the spread of the crippling disease he's responsible for spreading, all the while dying from its very effects...The hope that a wealthy emperor will give his multi-billion dollar spice and herb venture to the occupation before it strangles civilians...Genetical tests that create a super bug that turns man into beast...

Here's an excerpt from the first book in the chest. It still gives me chills.

"They cried, they screamed, they sacrificed everything for nothing and begged for a second chance after they forgot about the first. They were all around in the darkness, in the eyes of those nearby, in the arms of all that was true and false. They were bred in insolence, born in innocence, raised in disgust, and died in loathing. They stood, they crawled, they walked, and they learned to read all so they could spill their own flesh's blood and experience the thrill of death. They were each other. They were the citizens."

I love this story and only visit it once every few years.

Tonight I have an appointment with nostalgia.

Love Lost

Sometimes I can't fight the feeling that I already met my one and only true love. I'm not much of a romantic person, perhaps I'm too jaded for that, but when I look back on my last serious relationship I realize that he was in every way what people call a soul mate. He was the one I was destined to marry.

But, then again, was he really? If he was, wouldn't I be with him right now?

Ahhhhhh, love is such a pain in the ass.

Tomorrow, Oh, How it Creeps

Think about our dreams, old friend.
The ones we dreamt when we were young and happy.
Those stories we used to tell with excitement and fervor.
We'd battle pirates on the bow of the ship,
Wield daggers against thieves in the night,
And fly on the backs of eagles in the golden sky.


Think about our dreams, old friend.
We left them behind when we grew older and seasoned.
We weren't chasing robbers when we had to wear a suit and tie.
There were briefcases to be sealed in the morning,
Meetings to attend in the cool of the office,
And trash to be taken to the curb in the dusty dusk.


Think about our dreams, old friend.
It's all we have left as we age and wither.
We can't carry briefcases with these frail hands and arms.
There are pills to be taken in the morning,
Programs to watch in the comfort of the couch,
And meals to heat up in the microwave before the sun even sets.


Think about our dreams, old friend.
Because now all we can do is dream while we wait for the sunset.
These are the stories we tell our grandchildren.
Stories about pirates on the high winds,
creepers in the darkness of alleys,
And a wilderness unfolding before our eyes only.


Think about our dreams, old friend.

Mid-Summer Immunity Fail

One minute I'm hot and sweaty.

The next I'm shivering and freezing.

Then hot again.

I can't breathe, my body is sore and shaky, and my eyes watery.

Who the hell gets sick in the middle of July?

Writer's Angst: Living in the Block

Forewarning: I complain a lot in this post. 

Do you know how it is to walk around each day and have a thousand thoughts and ideas flying through your head with no end in sight? Keep in mind, these aren't just random thoughts. It's the same thing, a thousand times over, in the same format, in the same order. Each one centers around a book that so very desperately wants to be written but cannot find the words when pen is put to paper. The only solution is to just step away before you drive yourself insane from frustration.

But as soon as you walk away from that paper, those thoughts are back to running circles in your head again. You want to write, you want to create, you want to show, you want to develop and plot, you want to write, dammit, but you can't. It's absolutely maddening.

But therein is the revelation that a writer so intensely pursues. A writer's block is not just in the writer's work and concerned with pages and words. It's in the writer's life.

This writer's block is part of my life.

Perhaps I am not so lost as to what words to put to paper as to what actions to take in my own life. Perhaps I cannot plot and scheme because I do not know the plot or scheme of my own life. Perhaps my fears with this book are not what they seem: the worry that I may not achieve enough pages, the suspicion that maybe the climax will not pay off for the amount of build, the idea that the secondary characters are not working efficiently enough to build up and push forward the main character, the general fear that maybe one day these books may never reach the greatness I have in mind for them.

Or perhaps those are all fears I have about myself. From not finding a job that pays, the destination of my life will not be as great as I hoped, that those around me are not as perfect as I once thought, to the terrifying thought that maybe, just maybe, all this work I put into living isn't nearly worth as much blood, sweat and tears I've sacrificed.

Perhaps my insecurities with writing are truly my insecurities with living.

A tidbit of writing to end a rather sullen post.

Sievers, Killers, and Bikes

I haven't posted in a year. Okay, maybe a week? Two weeks?

Nonetheless!

Writing has been off and on for me the last couple weeks. Life has gotten INSANELY busy for reasons I don't even know (farm, nanny-stuff, family) so I'm lucky if I get a couple paragraphs written each day. It takes some serious buckling down for me to write right now. I have to lock myself in my room for an afternoon, which means abandoning all household chores with approval from the house mistress.

Anyhow, the last few chapters in Book 4 have been fun to write. Last time I blogged about the book, I believe Roan had just discovered his earth magic (fifth and final element he had to master) and now he's off to outsmart BBG and crew. Since then he's encountered several new and old bag guys, BBG head honcho Bladis included, and stumbled further into the plot of Book 4.

I got to introduce a creature I've been stewing over for years. It's the Siever and it first came to conception years ago when playing HL2. Striders, anyone? Or Tripods as they were known in War of the Worlds? Or Reapers as they were known in ME3?

Mine have their own twist. Instead of robots powered by aliens, I turned them into an insect/spider cross. They. Are. Epic.

One of my favorite antagonists thus far. Here's a glimpse. As always, this is totally unedited.

In addition to Sievers, I also got to introduce two more Steppers to the book. In the original books, these two characters were based off of several characters. They were great and all but I found I didn't have enough time to write so many arcs into the book. Not only that but with the loss of two strong female characters in the last books, Book 4 lacked a prominent female presence, excluding BBG Azira. So Arri (female) and Eliot (male) came into the picture.

These two will provide the transition into Book 5 while also playing as the root for the Stoneheart brothers' origins.

The last thing I feel is necessary to mention is that Roan had his first scene with his bike. In the original book, Roan most definitely had a bike. Book 4 was his rebelling book and he spent a lot of time driving around the States on that bike while avoiding his team and responsibilities. In the rewrite, I decided that was too angsty. He got to keep his bike but he wasn't using it so much as escape from his responsibilities. It more plays the role of symbolizing his freedom and desire to strike out on his own as he pushes further into the war and becomes more adult-like and responsible.

It also gives him a pretty decent scene when it comes to getaways.