I read a very interesting article over on Beach Front News written by Boomer.
"...That tendency to go blank about who-I-said-what-to might actually be evidence of a healthy memory at work. There’s evidence that when we reset a password or memorize a new phone number for a friend, the brain actively suppresses the out-of-date information. Because the old digits are competing with the new ones for memory space, the memory ‘deletes’ the potentially conflicting info. And retold stories aren’t always socially embarrassing or redundant. Repeated often enough, they become ritual, and, over time, oral history, Dr. Gobie says. It is also interesting to note that people with the most to gain – or lose – in terms of whom hears what (lobbyists, attorneys, salespeople) will often use the name of the person they are speaking with as a reminder: “Did I mention, Tom, the free emergency roadside assistance package?” While it could be could considered flattery, it could also be a means of tracking where information is going..." Beach Front News "Why We Forget What We say and to Whom"
The article brought up a lot of questions for me.
It almost sounded like "science" is now saying they think that forgetting is healthy. Or are they brainwashing us to tell us to do more drugs? Or am I just paranoid?
I don't know about the rest of that, but I do think if brains that habitually forget their short term memory are considered healthy, we must now be saying the brains that remember those details are unhealthy?
I wonder if they considered photographic memories in their studies? Perhaps, people that do not reset their memories, the way this article describes, forget other details that most everyone else remembers?
Is that where the idea of eccentricity comes from?
Einstein couldn't remember to tie his shoes. I can't remember my own Mother's Birthday. Maybe those are signs of an unhealthy brain?
Either, way, I'd love to see more research by the "professionals" on this one. I know I personally could really stand a memory wipe.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
I read a very interesting article over on Beach Front News written by Boomer.
So, it's been a year of change, adaptation, and growing. I figured I better end it fittingly and set the stage for the direction in which I want to grow. I've been doing that, awkwardly, and struggling, I assure you, but results are still results, even when you can't recognize them from what you had planned. Everyone knows nothing ever works out how you want it too. How could it, possibly? Yet there's still beauty in it. Sometime you just have to get dirty to see it.
Christmas was amazing. Thanks to everyone who was a part of it. We'll do it again in the near future and my condolences to those that couldn't make it, another time mayhaps.
For now, I'm taking off and enjoying the rest of the holidays as I've discovered computers make me crazy. Be back later.
Posted by AmberInGlass at 4:49 PM
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
How the fuck did it come to this? Words misspoken, feelings only slightly kissed. Just another one of life's connections missed. Float about. Breaking down. Try real hard. Hit the ground. Go and go and go and stop. It's the way of life, the cards we've dropped. A couple feels beneath the gun, go and stop and stop and run.
Posted by AmberInGlass at 9:09 PM
So, I after investigating how to delete Facebook, I realized it's a difficult process and decided I'd keep it around and just make another more relevant Facebook Business page. After attempting to do so, I now know that Facebook does not allow anyone to have multiple accounts. So... the first one is being deleted again. It's a two week process. So, my new page won't be available until the New Year after the old one has been deleted and I have started fresh. Stay tuned for more info.
Monday, December 21, 2009
I've said too much. It's not enough. I guess I won't say anything at all. It's just the things we do upon ourselves--the climb, the inevitable fall. Where do we go from here?
Posted by AmberInGlass at 6:08 PM
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Going back to the quote that's been with me for so long now "Make yourself as small as possible. Then grow." The music video "Die Slow by Health" is exceptionally appealing. It seems to fit the entire theme I've been running with for so long...
So, I was going to erase my Facebook and Myspace accounts, and reinvent them with an exciting new, business orientated personality. Then, I realized how difficult it actually is to erase a Facebook profile. So I decided, fuck it. I'm just going to keep them around as a little more personal of webspaces. I'm just not going to be using it much anymore.
In the meantime expect the the alter egos to be making appearances soon. I can guarantee it'll be a good time for at least one of us.
So... I've been making some changes over here. Maybe you've noticed? I'm not entirely sure what I'm changing into yet. I am, however, blessed enough to be able to recognize this period of growth for what it is. Hopefully you'll all forgive me my inconsistencies while I figure it out and grow. In the meantime here's some great art.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
As another grueling weekend of investigative journalism comes to a close, I have compiled a short list of some of the things that I've learned from it.
1) Life is very, very weird.
2) When dealing with Life nothing ever works out the way you want it to.
3) Life has, by far, the best sneak attack out of everyone I know.
Cheers to that Life.
I'll keep working on that hook.
See ya later in the week.
Oh yeah, and 4) Deadmau5 is pretty awesome.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
So I took this interesting, little test just now and since I'm bored and procrastinating, I figured I'd post the results. If anyone else wants to take and share your results with me please do.
Your result for The Quick & Painless ENNEAGRAM Test...
6 - the Questioner
Thanks for taking the test !
Questioners are responsible, trustworthy, and value loyalty to family, friends, groups, and causes. Their personalities range broadly from reserved and timid to outspoken and confrontative.
How to Get Along with Me
• Be direct and clear.
• Listen to me carefully.
• Don't judge me for my anxiety.
• Work things through with me.
• Reassure me that everything is OK between us.
• Laugh and make jokes with me.
• Gently push me toward new experiences.
• Try not to overreact to my overreacting.
• being committed and faithful to family and friends
• being responsible and hardworking
• being compassionate toward others
• having intellect and wit
• being a nonconformist
• confronting danger bravely
• being direct and assertive
What's Hard About Being a SIX
• the constant push and pull involved in trying to make up my mind
• procrastinating because of fear of failure; having little confidence in myself
• fearing being abandoned or taken advantage of
• exhausting myself by worrying and scanning for danger
• wishing I had a rule book at work so I could do everything right
• being too critical of myself when I haven't lived up to my expectations
SIXes as Children Often
• are friendly, likable, and dependable, and/or sarcastic, bossy, and stubborn
• are anxious and hypervigilant; anticipate danger
• form a team of "us against them" with a best friend or parent
• look to groups or authorities to protect them and/or question authority and rebel
SIXes as Parents
• are often loving, nurturing, and have a strong sense of duty
• are sometimes reluctant to give their children independence
• worry more than most that their children will get hurt
• sometimes have trouble saying no and setting boundaries
Renee Baron & Elizabeth Wagele, The Enneagram Made Easy. Discover the 9 Types of People.
Harper: San Francisco, 1994, 161 pages
You liked the test? so S P R E A D I T ! tell everyone!!!
(copypaste the HTML-code from below to your profile or blog!)
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You chose CY. Use the BACK-button on your browser see the other options!
Monday, December 7, 2009
I might have failed at everything, but at least I know I tried. I've only ever known how to be myself and staring at you shining in the midnight sky with all that space around you reminds me of how insignificant I really am. Is it any wonder that the harder I reached for you the dimmer your glow became? Was it a passing cloud? Was it because your light had actually gone out years ago, but only now is it reaching me-in my time, in this place? I have reached as far as I possibly could, but still never came close to closing this distance between us. I would leave my arm extended for all eternity if it were possible, but such idealistic thinking is pointless. I have stood still and stretched and you have looked back at me and faded. It is a bittersweet conclusion, but as I turn away I know in my heart that it is you who has really lost. Stars are dead before they are even seen.
So, this is the second installation in the untitled story I started back on Nov. 4th, that some of you expressed interest in continuing to read. I have to apologize, because, I had written up a lot more than this shortly after that date, but due to a freak computer accident lost a whole lot of pages of writing.
I'm tentatively changing the name from Untitled to Searching for Pluto so that it's easier to search if you want to go back and read part one. I'm also posting this draft as is on the first write up and completely unedited, because, well, I'm lazy and don't feel like editing. Er, rather, I'm going to do all my edits when the stories finished.
Nothing in life ever works out the way you want it to. Not even a fucking bus ride. It was every bit as terrible as I expected it to be, even if it was a helluva lot shorter than what I paid for.
Things would have been okay had they let me smoke, but apparently us cigarette addicts don’t have any rights. Never mind that the cigarette would have helped quell the nausea from the way the bus sloshed my brain back and forth.
So I sat in my seat sipping on my handle feeling outrageously sick for the beginning of the ride. It didn’t take too long before the bus’s bouncing made me vomit. Pity, that I was half asleep in my seat when it happened.
I stumbled my way to the little bathroom in the rear of the bus emptying the contents of my stomach the entire time. Inside, I tried my best to clean myself up, but it was pretty difficult considering the bus obviously wasn’t going to stop bouncing me around.
I think at some point I must have decided to sit down, because the next thing I remember is the bus driving kicking me and telling me we were at a rest stop and I had to get off. Cigarette. I breathed a sigh of relief at the realization and made my way to my feet, muttering my thanks.
Outside the air was frigid, but I didn’t care, I fumbled in my pockets till I found the two items I was seeking and plopped down onto the nearest bench. I put the cigarettes to my lips and struck the flame, breathing in. Thank god tobacco tastes better than vomit.
I drank the last few swigs from my handle and promptly blacked out. When I came to, the first thing I noticed was that someone had placed my guitar beside me on the bench. My first instinct was to check it, even though I knew I was the only one with the lock. It wasn’t until after I had the case open and assured myself it was still there that I realized my bus was nowhere to be seen.
I could go on and tell you about the hours I wasted on the phone bitching to the bus company, or the security guard that kept trying to chase me off, but it I won’t bore you. Let’s just say it sucked. Apparently the fact the bus left without me was entirely my own fault and there was nothing they would do for me. No refund, no other bus. I was stranded in some freezing, bumble-fuck country out in the middle of nowhere.
I pulled my sweatshirt tighter around me, shouldered my guitar, and left the watchful gaze of the security guard behind as I trudged my way out from the rest stop area and onto the highway.
The wind was bitter, and I realized then that I had just traded my entire life for a handle of booze and a carton of cigarettes and I didn’t even know where the hell I was. I sighed, and tried not to think about how cold my feet felt.
Fortunately, I still knew where I had to go. I still knew where she went even if it was starting to look further and further away then Pluto. Even if I didn’t know how I was going to get there, I still knew that I was going. At least it wouldn’t be so cold.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
This is my call out to all the world's positive people: Where are you? Come out. I want to surround myself amongst every single one of you and let your leaves intermingle mine. I want to become the branches that support you. I want your flesh to be at one within me, to transform our joined skin into the bark, so that we can all become the trunk that supports us. I want to direct my energies to lifting you up and in turn be lifted in kind to higher levels of being. I am sick of the weight of carrying the burden, of always trying to push those up that always want to hold me down. So positive people step forward, and turn your leaves towards the sun. The time for self hate and cowering blind is over. Step into the light and embrace. Embrace me. Embrace yourselves. Let us all carry the weight together with our tap roots sunk firm and deep beneath the earth so that when the wind blows, we all sway.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I do believe that this now officially concludes our brief experiment with Raw: an ongoing work of ...art? Yes, I know, shocking. Especially because in the end Raw failed entirely to be anything resembling what I had intended.
Raw wasn't a complete failure, it gave me two very different and solid ideas for short stories I may or may not work on at some point. It also gave me countless ideas for poetry and lyrics, that again, maybe someday I'll go back to.
Truth be told after a week of nonstop writing, and the last two days spent simply combing over the pages and pages of abstract thought, I finally was able to make sense of some things. Not everything. I've still got a million questions, many of which make me lose sleep at night, but a small gain is still a gain.
For now, I think this piece is a perfect and fitting conclusion for this experiment, and I hope you all find it the same. I'm going to leave you all with this very beautiful quote I was lucky enough to be shown, because it fits:
"Make yourself as small as possible. Then grow."
"...And it is my compassion for all who suffer, whether under suppressive rule or the silent rule of tradition and militant sheepishness, those who feel powerless in the face of change, who wish things would be different but have no idea how to go at it alone; those who feel alone, who feel compelled to “think different” beyond the trademark of their times, who only need a single spark to be the light that outshines history, those who dare not be shrouded by religious mystery; it is because of my belief in the power of art to act like a B vitamin: flush the system and dislodge the fat and disease from the tissue surrounding the heart and brain; because I want my shot at the virus, and because I think apathy is a plague and want to rid the slow of progress from it’s time-consuming glitches…."
Read the whole thing on Saul William's myspace. http://bulletins.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=bulletin.read&authorID=13395348&messageID=6603923180
Posted by AmberInGlass at 7:42 AM
So there is definitely more than enough brainstormed material in the last several days work. I promised a part 2 to brainstorming, but it isn't coming. I had planned to conclude the brainstorming on Dec 1st but instead I took the day off to try and live a healthier life. By Dec 2, I had already moved on from the brainstorming.
The good news is is that I was able to sift through all of the raw thought fragments and I came up with two different story ideas from all the chaos and an indeterminable number of potential songs and/or poems.
So here's the new plan, I'm going to focus on one of the story ideas, but I'm not sure which yet. I'm going to spend the next several days working up intros for both, then I'll post them, and then maybe you can tell me which one you want me to write, we can all vote on it or something, and maybe I'll listen.
Posted by AmberInGlass at 5:55 AM
Monday, November 30, 2009
Just for the record I've gone ahead and added some of my own notes as I did my nightly transcribing from the notebook to the screen, so when you see something like [this] [know that it is just me adding commentary. At the end I do a little wrap up called... Wrap Up: Trying to make sense of it all... yeah, good luck with that one.]
11/30 approx. 3am
Once again I can’t sleep, I have to get up in five hours and run for at least a mile to prove to myself I can, then I have to more work; guess I’m on borrowed time right now.
Did I ever tell you about my pirate-ninja dream? It was pretty epic. That’s the weird things about dreams; most people claim they can’t remember them, until come the ones they really can, then someone gets hung out to dry.
Too many thoughts, can’t slow them down enough to grasp a single one.
[Here things are finally starting to come together and I can begin to glimpse a cohesive whole, so I’ve snipped some things that are simply not ready to be revealed. Author’s rights of course. ;-P]
11/30 approx 11am
So I ran a mile one point five, maybe, tops. It was less then I wanted but exactly what I expected. I could have gone harder, but what was the reason I wanted to?
Now I’ll enjoy the day while waiting to get out on the water
…just filter up through all the bullshit till it’s like oh yeah? This is what I have forgot.
…everyone’s got their own demons trying hard to eat them up… if winter never ends will you ever see my spring?
If this is all we have is there nothing left to bring?
…everybody’s dreaming we’re all just in different states of waking up… Tell “Kirk” to bring us cigarettes please, and tell him I’ll reimburse; it’s just one more barter/trade example spun in different verse…and why is it you always have something with you; you don’t need and why is it you never bring it with you when you do?
… just want to throw myself outside the window and let myself feel left alive; anything must be better than the dead I feel inside… So I’ll run and I’ll smoke, I’ll quit and I’ll choke, live this life of self destruction long enough to… to…
I spent the better half of the day barefoot, trying to get back to my roots… because the world’s so misaligned that we spend all our time staring back at space, and never seeing much
[snippity. Here’s a tease, structure and form for… FnLinLO]
…and finally after a chaotic morning I’m on the boat again still just trying to figure out from where the water it all began…
…you’re exactly what I’ve always wanted, but never really got; the point just keeps repeating—the world and it’s whole entire lot is ground beef mixed up, jumbled, scrambled and forgot.
[snip, some notes on how I would restructure and begin to edit this process tonight that you don’t need to see.]
…I can destroy my feet I can destroy my knees; I can destroy my legs all the way through to my hip; but it’ll never prove because it is the one connection that we missed; and I realize it’s just life’s wavelengths struggling to coexist
A Writer’s Daily Checklist
-hats are sacred, never lose a fucking hat
-sunglasses are always good
-a plethora of cigarettes to always have on hand for you to smoke.
-water, water, water
-run two miles at 6.a.m.
-kayak, live, and
P.S. And somewhere along the way… die.
…and I take a toast for ocean sorrowing, morose I whisper, ever succinctly spoken regret; ‘Yeah, Ocean… here’s to that’ and quickly flick my cigarette over starboard to the ocean now begat. Forgive me ocean, I want to whisper, please forgive me that… and I realize it’s just the artist’s dilemma universally begot / he arrives before his time arrives and is just as quick, as he is, as is, forgot.
11/30 approx. 4pm Good bye to November
…it is going to be rough working with me tonight.
-and I found myself in water lounging making time come stand and be forgot
-it’s the entire ninja-pirate complex that is so quickly all forgot we all are either, either neither are, they all are or they are not?
[WRAP UP: Trying to make sense of it all: whew… that’s not even the half of everything I got written today, I think it’s suffice to say that I almost have enough brainstormed material to start coming up with something a little more cohesive. Which, even though it has only just begun, would mean the end of Raw: an ongoing work of… art? Well, at least it is bound to at a certain point eventually, become less Raw and will have moved up to whatever it is that comes next, Almost Prepared maybe? (I could use a catchy jingle here wordsmiths, if you are reading ;-P), Anyway, I’m not going to devote anymore time to brainstorming ideas tonight, because, truth be told, we could spend our entire lifetimes brainstorming and never get anywhere but a whole bunch of good ideas. It’s easy to get caught up and overwhelmed. I have some ideas for how I’d like to transform what you’ve been following over the last couple days into a story, I’m going to be letting those ideas percolate over the next couple of days, in the meantime we’ll ride out the brainstorm process a bit more and let you linger over just how extremely grotesque it is in the beginning of the arts. See you tomorrow for Raw: An ongoing work of... art? Brainstorming, part 2... oh did someone mention audio clips? ;-P]
Leave me something.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Yes, ladies and gentlemen you heard that right, tonight on AiGtv we are introducing Raw: an ungoing work of. . . art? "What is this titillating and tantalizing tale," you ask? Or rather, roll your eyes and try to forget my horrible usage of grammar.
What I mean to say is, I thought my grace period was over, but apparently it had ideas all it's own of becoming something so much more. It came to me as the lamenting died: three day's grace is just not enough. No, this was destined for something more. This was rallied to be a muse. And as long as this muse is alive I feel compelled to ride it out.
I know whoever still bothers to read this is probably thinking "okay, okay, enough of this angsty-emo shit already!" To that I say... loud and clear, I HEAR YOU!
But a muse is a muse and when it speaks an artist moves. It takes you through trees and takes you through climbs, it speaks through your limbs, your brain becomes vines...
It's pretty scary some of the things it tells me to do, but like all jobs, we just gotta suck it up and do what we're told. My apologies to all those out there that don't want to hear it.
Raw: An ungoing work of. . . art?
...So you'll swallow me up / you'll eat me whole / cuz it's the whole damn world that's spiraling violently out of control / you'll break me apart and see right under my skin, you'll stitch me up, put me right under your chin, just to let me drop and do it over again... and all of this is just me screaming through the throng, that I really need a family, or just some place I can belong...
...I am nothing, without meaning, I am something, I am something lack'd / just how much self loathing must I sift through to find that hidden latch?
This is my final cry... there isn't anything that I can do just holler away at nothing wishing that I can come home to you...
This is my final cry the last few things that I have to do / before I fall away from this world with you...
This is my final cry the very last thing I'll say before...
And that's okay maybe I'll just get mislabeled more and ride this wave until it's collapse, where earth and sky meet water to gently lapse her shore.
This is my final cry the very last thing that I'll say before I lie / just get me outta here there's too much room in this head, there's so much living going on around me I just might as well be dead...
You told me not to hide / so I'll just keep on stupid screaming hoping they say I never lied... at least until this spark has died...
But I gotta keep on writing as long as this muse is still alive / I'm gonna look obsessive, but thats a label I have to ride / either that or crawl back under the rock where first I lied.
...Throwing all our money out the window just to be pissed off we're here...
...black obsidian the world's most negative force...
...and I realize I have become my cat; or is it he has become me? when all he's doing is stupid screaming for having been left behind; I needed a muse and I found it in you... and you, and you andyouandyouandyou... and me.
-to be concluded-
Now, if I still have you after all that, all of you are really to be commended. So what is Raw? Okay, here's my idea: Raw is all this mindless drivel my brain has been concocting over the last several days. Raw will be whatever mindless drivel my brain concocts over the course of well, however long it decides to concoct.
You see that's the beauty of it, all this angsty emo crap I've got on here is the rawest ingredients for a work of... art? I don't know, maybe I could call it art. Certainly it is set with the aspirations of art, but that all remains yet to be seen.
The whole point, I'm making is that with Raw, I'm going to be showing you the readers exactly how someone takes his angsty, emo, and abstract drivel and turns it into something more.
I'll show you my progress as I sift and restructure this crap to make a song, or a story, or a poem, or anything. I don't even know what it is yet, let alone have any idea what it could be. I first have to know what it is...
And when I do figure out exactly what [this] is you can all be damn sure you'll hear it here first on Raw: An ungoing work of. . . art?
Posted by AmberInGlass at 9:11 PM
Admittedly things have been a little moody and brooding over here the last several days. Well, The three day grace period is over so I can't keep wallowing for myself. I do however, humbly, ask that you deal with it for one more day as I post the drivel my mind cooked up yesterday. I'm leaving everything unedited again, raw and rough around the edges, because well... I'm feeling a little raw and rough around the edges myself.
The Last One Month
So the last month to you, you were sitting and blue, you were stuck in the ground, you didn’t know your way around, and the last month to you It was all that we knew you were stuck and confused, and the last month to me wasn’t quite sweet(quite that way sweet but it was) it was great, it wasn’t beat, the last month to you was all that we knew, with everyone shelved up with regret and confused, and I’m sorry to say it came to be this way, I’m sorry to say, I never knew you, anyway.
And the last month to you was just a drowned out scream, the last month to me was a short lived, fleeting dream, I just want to say, sorry that it went down this way.
So the last month to you was hollow and used and everything showed up eventually.
The last month to you was hollow and blue
the last month to me I held hallow’d and new,
and the last month to you haunts in your memory
like a drowning scream
and the last month to me I held too closely
like trying to grasp the waking dream
While the last month to me,
was a good month to be,
by your side.
While the last month to you,
after the bullshit problems and struggles
...and I see another cycle like in the way that things began; to the that they are ending / ending in our hands; and words they seem so fleeting; so easily forgot; upside down and all around; a mixed up jumbled lot; said and said and just as easily dismissed; the words and feelings just keep running, run the entire gamut.
...you have to grow, to spread your leaves and fly; otherwise you will be stunted and poignantly maligned; you'll find yourself ne'er growing, and to be predestinely-declined, those friendships ever going; are so delicate entwined; that those things are ever fleeting and fade before the mind / can ever make sense of the truth...
"I know what she means... but I don't know what I said..."
...too many thoughts are still a reeling and the glories they all fade; a distant safe word never spoken and the habitually inlaid; why is it my mind is only spoken when my thoughts of sense cannot be made? I guess it's a product of devolving... or forever growing?
Fort Liquorhell... dreamily going from the last best thing to the next worse thing waiting for that real thing that doesn't really live. People just keep going giving, given, take, get, and 'gin. No one really knows just what they're doing not until the end; when everything in life was realized and the next phase can begin.
Maybe someday, I'll be able to make sense of all this myself.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Another sleepless time last night, words scrolled past my tongue, but every time I tossed and turned I failed to catch a single one. The morning comes so slow and cold, the memories and words once spoken I am trying hard now not to hold, but the thought that keeps on circling is that everything's gone wrong. If I could first correct the world, perhaps then I could write this song, but I can't even find my own meaning, I am stumblingly behind. I guess I cannot really fault you, only hope one day you'll change your mind...
I don't know what's up with all the rhyming lately, I keep trying to break away from it with my writing and keep finding myself only capable of communicating in this flowing rhyme and meter style. It's been a bit aggravating. Anyone else ever find themselves getting stuck in a certain style even after it feels long played out?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thanksgiving Grace: An accountable tale of one nothing’s Thanksgiving. Pre-edit.
[The following text was written at various points throughout the course of the day of 11/26/09 They appear before you unabridged and unedited as transcribed directly from the block of wood upon which they had been painstakingly carved]
I am the scum beneath the earth/ the world beneath your feet/ the mysterious stranger in the night, that you wish you could meet/ I am the sun, the sea/ the sky and clouds/ I am the evil underneath/ I am the feeling, I am the pain/ I am the cold November light/ I am your heart’s desire, but your mind’s already took flight/ I am everything and nothing, I am nothing, not at all/ the only reason I’m still going is that I continue still to fall./ I am standing here and screaming you are waiting for me to disappear/ I am everything and nothing/ I am nothing if not here. And I’ll just keep on falling/ falling till the world will clear…
….And now I’m watching the rain come in/ drowned, out wasted/ where did time begin?/ Buzzards circle something dead again/ and the voices blur into the background/ and I find myself alone in my own head/ again, it’s empty ,wasted, drowned dead/ Found myself self loathing and hating all I’ve done/ Such is life it bears repeating/ before they end cycles must first have been begun…
…And someone talks my ear off/ and I connect it’s just life’s cycle epitome’d again/ and everything worth loving is fleeting/ and the bad things never end/ and my thoughts and focus just go reeling/ and I remember things begin/ and everything will end.
Thanks for the tough year.
And we will always haunt each other/haunt and not come back/ because human mechanics won’t allow our universe to work just quite like that…
…Lot’s more talking and I hear… what? What… do… I… hear?
……………..turned out to be a pool pump…
And an unexpected blessing from you makes me think I won’t be sharing this at all/ who wants to hear a nothing screams before he falls?...
…and simplest connections are laid when I realize it is not my lighter that I’ve been hording, nor is it my friend I made.
We were founded on a nation of slackers is it any wonder we all seek only to destroy ourselves? And we are heading for a war.
…And it’s freebird I relate to on the water once again and it’s just another dying cycle/ things have ended/ things begin.
…Silly City gal and City-Country Guy, always looking ahead or looking behind, but to what’s around us we are blind.
…Dude what are you doing over there with that knife?/ I’m trying to sharpen a pencil… in the dark… with a knife… so I can write… in the dark… with a pencil.
…And as I pass you by, U2 starts playing “With or Without You” So I crane my neck to catch a glimpse, or perhaps to even say “hi”/ instead my eyes see nothing and my lips whisper a soft goodbye
…So I spent the day at long, lost pondering, my heart’s thoughts a mess when I come home late at last/ to realize I should be thankful, thankful stones were even cast.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I guess I'll just go away and fade back into my place beneath the rocks. Where coldness and loneliness combine with warmth and happiness to make a picture perfect, empty hollow gray and turns blind eyes away from the light of day where they cannot see it is their own venom upon which they feed. Poison for poison's sake to drown that throbbing, aching need. I guess I'll just slither back and fade away, leave you alone, fall back to when we both thought we were okay, a time when things were simpler didn't worry about the way... With problems numbed behind our empty cups and the world a distant haze, the voices they don't scream so loud, they blur amongst the days, the loneliness is so much easier with an empty, hollow head and everything is so much simpler when your drowned out, gone, or dead.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
It is the resolve to want to be together, despite the fear of contact with another, a desire to push through the ambiguous loneliness, and be something more. A willingness to hurt and be hurt, to love and be loved, and all the joys and sorrows that come along with it. It is the want to feel alive; to peek out from under our rocks and find out that maybe, maybe sometime's life just isn't as complicated as we all make it out to be. Maybe some things good really do just come our way when we least expect it. The key is to see it before it passes by, and knowing when to hold on.
Posted by AmberInGlass at 12:37 PM
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Nothing in life ever works out the way you want it to. In fact, wanting something to work out is a sure-fire way to ensure that something doesn’t happen. I knew this because every time I wanted something prior to this I had watched it fall apart. I guess a lifetime of failing to get what you want can make you cynical. I don’t know.
I did know, however, that it wasn’t going to work out for me this time, just as much as it never worked out for me before. I knew it even before I committed myself to see it through, but I didn’t care. Well, that’s wrong. I did care. I just couldn’t stop myself.
So I packed my bags. I sold my car for a lot less than it was worth. It wasn’t worth a whole lot, but definitely a lot more than I got it for it. It didn’t matter. It got me the bus ticket I needed, and all that really mattered was that I had to follow her.
I didn’t even know if she wanted me to, but I knew that I had to, because things were just so damned complicated and life was just so damned messy that if I didn’t, if I didn’t go, I’d always wonder, and I’d think, and I’d hate myself more than I already did with my wondering.
So I sold everything I owned for a measly three hundred-fifty dollars and bought myself a handle of whiskey, a carton of cigarettes, and a bus ticket to a city thirty hours away. It may as well have been half the world, or the whole world, or two worlds. It could have been Pluto.
It felt so far away as I waited half the day at the bus station. I had kept one of my guitars, but I ended up drinking a third of the handle and chain smoking so playing was the last thing on my mind. Actually I couldn’t think of anything other than the fact that I had no idea how she was going to take seeing me again. She’d be surprised, I was sure. I was also sure I’d been a complete fucking idiot. Did I really just sell everything for a bus ticket and a good solid day of drunkenness?
I was definitely a fucking idiot. People don’t fall in love anymore, love died right beside kindness around the same time greed and selfishness took over. We lived in a world where love is a toy to be played with and everyone was so damned self-centered no one bothered to see it anymore when it looked them in the eye.
That’s why she moved half the world away, and that’s why I was bound and determined to go after her. Someone had to prove the world wrong.
Posted by AmberInGlass at 11:22 AM
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Sometimes it can be hard to take too much in at once, overwhelming really. Or perhaps the truth is always just too hard to see? And what of the thoughts that can’t be put to words and pictures and feelings and what of, what of--just being? What of that fear of being cut too deep? What of the things that are on the tip of your tongue bursting to be free? The things that you just want to scream so clearly you can taste them floating in your mouth and yet you can’t find the words. What of being so elated your heart could just stop beating? What of putting thoughts to words and words to thoughts. What of letting go of thought and only feeling. What is this world? What is this—just being?
Monday, November 2, 2009
I haven't forgotten the blog, or abandoned you. I've just been very, very busy. I could keep you entertained with a list of excuses, but really, I don't feel like writing them, so why should anyone want to read it. Instead here's something I wrote today that will just have to suffice until I can put the time and thought into blogging once again.
There was a wind and the water made waves
lapping on our legs as we discarded clothes,
and our voices sang in laughter
drowning in the stars above
and for just that moment we were alone in the world.
sealed with a kiss,
dancing amid the waves naked and alone.
And the stars themselves they mirrored us,
tiny and alone to our eyes,
blanketed by space and city glow
bouncing their light just to say hello
as we played beneath the sky
in the waves and the wind,
looking back like stars and wondering,
'where did we begin?'
Sunday, September 27, 2009
So recently, as some of you undoubtedly know, I had to take a little trip back to my home town. To do this I decided to drive. As things worked out, I made the twelve hundred-mile-plus trip alone. Why did I decide to do it with as few stops as possible? The only answer I can come up with is “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad I did it. It was very much like a religious experience. In fact I think of it being much akin with a Muslim Hajj to Mecca. Like a Hajj, I think it was something most likely only to be experienced once.
I did however have quite a few epiphanies along the way. I learned a couple things about life and, well, about driving long distances. Let’s say, driving twelve hundred miles over the period of slightly more than twenty hours, kind of long distances. Stop only to get gas and relieve my biological function. Preferably at the same time, hey, I won’t even begin to talk about some of the country gas stations I saw along the way. You can thank me for that, and I’ll thank you for not asking me to elaborate further.
Anyway, here are some of the things I learned that I do wish to elaborate on:
1) Cruising along at 70 mph (the legal speed limit where I was I might add), any sudden changes to course trajectory can and will easily lead to a compact car being up on two wheels. Allow me to explain. Prior to embarking on my trip, I slept the entire day--quite literally, actually. I finally woke up around 11pm and was out on the road at midnight.
Over tiredness was not an issue, because, as it was I was quite refreshed. The issue was however, that it was dark and the road was not perfectly flat rendering it physically impossible for me to have seen the thing in the road that was about to make me panic, beforehand.
So, I haven’t been living in Florida for very much time in the scheme of things and to me, it feels like it has not been long at all. I keep telling myself the reason I haven’t met many friends down here is because I haven’t been here long, and not because I spend all my time sitting alone at home writing something, but I digress… Anyway, as an avid appreciator of all wildlife, and having known for some time that the South Florida climate was their home habitat, I have always wanted to see an armadillo.
I never wanted to see one like this, however--large and gray like a giant boulder, suddenly looming up before me in the middle of the road, mere feet ahead of my car. With no chance to break in time I hit them anyway and swerved my vehicle. That was a mistake, and leads me to,
2) If a poor dumb animal, creature, obstruction , or human ever suddenly appears out in front of your car while cruising at 70mph and with no time to break—HIT THE POOR DUMB BASTARD! I can’t stress that last part enough. And I meant it when I said I love wildlife. It always pains me to see dead animals, humans… meh.
But anyway, I swerved, and suddenly, my life was no longer in my control, my car was up on two wheels, I could tell by the way the road suddenly slanted in the view of my windshield, and I was driving towards the side of the highway, where fortunately a lot of trees were close at hand waiting to catch me.
Instinct, or panic, or some other mighty influence guided my hand as I cut the wheel the other way. Fortunately, I was already breaking, and I heard a loud thump below me as the road righted itself in my field of vision, but now, I was heading towards the big solid, median between the separate lanes of the highway.
I cut the wheel back again and the car straightened in the lane, albeit it was the complete opposite lane of where I had started, but it was straight and the view from my windshield was clear from any obstructions. I continued on my way, with the lesson well learned. Should something ever step out in front of my car again at 70mph, with no chance of breaking to save it, I will hit the poor dumb bastard head on. It’s either that, or risk serious injury.
I continued on my way, carefully finding my way back to 70mph. It was now 2am and I had only been driving for two hours. With over eighteen more to go, I realized I was off for a great start.
(To be continued…)
Has anyone else ever had a really interesting experience while on a road trip? How do you feel about road trips in general? Are they something that should always be avoided, or do you love them when the circumstances are correct? Would you be willing to spend twenty hours in a car alone?
Give me your thoughts so I can devour them like candy and respond as necessary. Does anyone else feel Halloween approaching or is it just me?
Posted by AmberInGlass at 5:34 PM
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Hello, I'm Andrew's slacker friend/"domainatrix," Svetlana. He wrote a blog post a while ago and asked if I could provide you guys with a "special treat" to accompany it.
This has resulted in said post collecting digital dust in my inbox while waiting to be published. Andrew has been very patient but is understandably worried about disappointing followers due to lack of updates. So, followers, please do not be disappointed in him. Rather, prepare thyselves for impending epic surprises within the week.
P.S. You should also tell him how awesome you think "Svetlana Vladislavovna Doubova" is for my pen name.
Posted by AmberInGlass at 4:33 PM
Thursday, September 17, 2009
I started a book review blog for anyone that's interested you can find it here A Cynic's Reading. Feel free to come by and start a discussion. Or just hurl words at me, whichever floats your fancy.
That's just one of the treats in store this season. The other one is still on its way. I think. ;-P
Posted by AmberInGlass at 6:08 AM
Friday, September 4, 2009
I have not been blogging. I think by now if my absence from this digital world hasn’t driven away all of my friends and readers, well that statement is pretty obvious. Instead of blogging I’ve been busy behind the scenes working on various other projects. I’ve also been spending a good amount of time thinking about how to spice things up around here and I came up with an awesome idea!
Let’s face it. I am not the world’s most web-savvy person. One thing I’ve always disliked about blogging was every time I wanted to do something specific it took a lot of time to figure out how. What I mean is, every time I wanted to put a link in one of my posts it took me upwards of fifteen minutes just to get the link in correctly. I was spending way too much time blogging and it was detracting from the other things I needed to be doing. You know, like actually writing.
With that said, let’s use our imaginations a little. Let’s say that the task of actually posting a blog update for me has become a whip. I dunno why a whip, maybe because it stings more than just a little, but anyway, for all intents and purposes, it’s a whip. Well I’ve decided to hand that whip over to a certain young web-mistress that I have known for awhile now.
So for a trial basis, to see how things go I’ll write and she’ll crack the whip--over my back if necessary. I know! The idea gives me goose bumps too. Wait, what are we talking about again? …right so what this means for the blog is now that I’m only responsible for content I’m going to free up a lot more time for those other things I need to be doing, you know, the actual writing stuff that I like to do. More goose bumps.
Also, my new web-mistress has a special treat in store for everyone concerning the blog also that I just can’t spoil, but you’ll find out for yourselves soon so stay tuned. I promise she won’t whip you… unless you want her to.
Finally, and I am so overdo in this, mass apologies go out all around. My blog was nominated for two rewards! It happened before I took a month’s vacation from blogging, and even if my absence may have made them question their decisions to reward me, I still think of it as way awesome and wholeheartedly thank Alissa Grosso of Books I Liked Loved or Hated and Slightly More than Dirt fame and Carrie Eckles who has been blogging at Promt Romp and Cogito Ergo Scribit. Both Carrie and Alissa have multiple blogs that are unique and offer refreshing perspectives that are well worth a read.
Here are the rules for the award:
1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award.
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.
4. Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.
5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.
6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they have been nominated.
So, seven thing people might find interesting about me, okay, let’s see.
1. I absolutely cannot close my right eye by itself. I don’t know why, it just doesn’t work. I can wink my left eye just fine, but when I try to wink with the right… nothing. I can however close them both together, or if my left eye is already closed, then I can close the right eye independently.
2. I happen to be a big fan of well planned and designed tattoos. Not the trashy crap you see a lot of these days, but something artistic and clearly well thought out. Currently my tattoos are limited to only a tree of life split between my forearms and a personal symbol over my heart that has to do with my family and heritage, but I want oh, so many more.
3. I play guitar and I try to sing. I even record my own songs and I like to torture some of my dear friends by making them listen to my recordings. They say they aren’t too bad, but I think they lie. I made a musician’s myspace page to put up some of my own recordings and have yet to do so. Maybe someday I will, maybe not. Good or not it’s a better hobby for me than a lot of the other options out there.
4. I have some really weird dreams. Just ask Carrie.
5. I am the owner of an inbred (there’s no proof, but I suspect) polydactyl (meaning extra toes) cat. He is special, and I mean that in the most politically correct term possible. He is a very large cat not fat, but in length. I’m talking he stands up off the ground and his mutant paws come to my armpits and I’m 6’. But he’s sweet… most of the time. He likes to climb all over me all the time, and purr, and bite me when I pet him. And purr. I call him Stiffy a bit of an acronym from S.T.F.F--Seven Toed Feline Freak.
6. I like dragons. I like dragons a lot. I wish I was one.
7. I’m having trouble thinking of a seventh interesting factor. That may happen to be the case that I am probably my own harshest critic. I don’t know why, but sometimes I can’t help but give myself a lot of shit.
And now, in no particular order, the nominees!
1. B.J. Anderson of BJ Anderson
2. Roberto Scarlato of Tales and Troubled Times of a Hungry Writer
3. Eden Tyler of An Aspiring Author’s Journey
4. Rich Leighton of Florida Nature Photography
5.Cathryn Grant of Cathryn G-rant
6. Uninvoked of A Noveling Blog
7. Becky Joie of Rather Be Writing
Thanks everyone, and don’t forget to come back soon, they’ll be more treats to hand out.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Whew. Hold on, I'm still catching my breath. Whew. Alright, twenty-one days since my last post, and, despite some setbacks, I have finally returned.
I've got quite a lot of interesting things to relate about my getaway, and even more interesting things I need to catch up on that I've missed in my absence. I'll be doing most of the catch up first, and spreading my stories out over the next several days.
Suffice to say, the trip was certainly interesting, and was a success in that my batteries now have more juice in them then they did when I left, though they might not be powering what I had hoped, more juice is still a win in my book.
I'd just like to say thanks to everyone for your kind comments in my absence and not abandoning me. A special thanks goes out to Alissa and Carrie for nominating me for blog rewards, I'll be following up on those just as soon as I get a little more settled in.
Also a quick note, anyone in the South Florida area with computer troubles should definitely check out AnyTech here! If not for them I wouldn't be online right now.
Without further ado, it's time to get to it and start the catch up. More from me soon.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Sorry for the disappearance, I lost my internet connection for a few days, and decided while away that maybe a break from blogging isn't such a bad idea. As much as I love it, it is very time consuming, and time I spend blogging is time not spent on my WIP, not to mention I have another trip coming up in the next couple of days and won't have much writing time during that period at all. So I'm going to be making my presence here a little scarce. I'll still do original work updates and be around, just not as frequently for some time while I get things in order.
Posted by AmberInGlass at 3:43 PM
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Anyone with even a slight interest in English grammar or wordplay should definitely head over to BeckyJoie's blog Rather be writing and read "Dr. Word Wielder's Wordsmithing Woes" it's very entertaining and insightful. Here's the link: Rather Be Writing
I'm totally switching the tone from Tuesday's "The Thistle and the Daisies" here. (I did say, I didn't write anything of that nature very often, didn't I? There really isn't much to be said about it, but I guess I could give you all a warning, it's a bit gloomy.
Today, the room was more still than usual. Jonathon was no exception. His eyes were open and he could see the neon-flourescant glow of the bright bulb above him clearly. The light would have been enough to make an average human blink and look away, but Jonathon could not. His eyes were fixated forward as was his head, unable to move.
He could hear the rythmic hum of the apparatus beside him. It was comforting to him. It reminded him he was still alive and filled him with hope. Every artificial breath told him that perhaps one day, he might be able to move again. The thought to try would come to his still active mind, now and again, and he would have tried, if he could remember how. The nerves were dead. Severed and destroyed when the car had hit him.
He remembered pieces of the accident. He rememebered the helplessness of seeing the SUV barrel through the light. He remembered being unable to get out of it's berserk flight. His car rolled several times and stopped top down in a ditch. He remembered feeling the coldness of something wet pressing against him, filling his nose and his mouth. He remembered being trapped. It was the last thing he ever felt.
It was nothing compared to this. He could hear, and he could think, but he could not move. He could not communicate. He was fed intravenously through a tube he could not feel that pumped the life giving substance into his body. Another tube, sucked away his waste. The only evidence ever coming to his attention of this were the slurping sounds that he sometimes heard, and the nurse that came frequently and stood around him doing things he could not see.
It did not take him long to begin to look forward to her visits, he could hear her footsteps from down the hallway, panging and echoing from the empty walls as she would make her way to his room. He called her Samantha, and she was the most pleasent person in his mind, always asking how he was and telling him about her family.
In reality, never a word was spoken. Today, he was listening to the stillness of the room. The occasional slurp of a machine doing it's job, and over that, the constant steady in and out of the one that gave him breath. He was wondering where Samantha was. He heard two sets of footsteps begin making their way down the hall. They were both heavier than Sam's, he knew instantly. The stopped outside his door and he could hear a male's voice whispering, but he could not make out the words. The door swung open and the two footsteps entered.
Fsssh, foooh. Fsssh foooh. Jonathon still found comfort in the sounds that brought him life.
"Poor, bastard." Said a man's voice standing at the door of the room. "No friends. No family."
Jonathon could hear him move beside his bed.
"It's almost a shame." The other man said.
Fssh, foooh. Fsssh foooh.
"Almost." The man moved and a switch clicked beside Jonathon's head.
"Call the coroner. Time of death... eh, I'll give him five minutes."
"Let's say 11:38."
The footsteps left the room, the door swung silently shut.
Jonathon listened to them in horror as the footsteps faded down the hallway. There were no more sounds. There was nothing.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
I wrote this on a whim for a friend once, via an internet conversation, because they had asked for a story, and sometimes, I oblige. After reading a lot of things today about challenges and hardships, I thought it kind of fit, so here it is.
The Thistle and the Daisies
So once upon a time in a very distant land there grew a great field of daisies. Now this field was a special field, in it that all of the other daisies were just as happy as daisies could be. Which is to say, they were outstandingly happy. After all a single daisy only had to look in any direction to see that it was surrounded by the brightest and best of it's kind, exactly like its self, and the daisies were all very much in love with themselves and the soil beneath their roots and the tenderly, loving bees and butterflies that would tickle their petals and spread their love from one flower to the next.
In fact, there was no happier place anywhere to be found. All the flowers were very much in love with life and everything their simple existance contained. In hindsight they needed so little; sun, rain, insects for pollination. Not a complaint could ever be heard coming from anywhere in this field of daisies. That is, at least from the petals of the daisies.
You see, In this field of yellow and white that stretched as far as the eye could see was a single, purple thistle. Much to the thistle's dismay, he grew up tall and proud, (in thistle comparison anyway) but somehow always seemed to find himself as the ridicule of the daisies' attention.
Now, it wasn't as if the daisies made fun of this poor, lonely thistle, mind you. In fact, there was no ill will at all. The daisies were far too concerned with their own existance to ever pay attention to the single purple blight amoungst them, which was, hence, the root of the thistle's problem. No matter how tall and proud he grew he could never rise his head above the daisies and find a place for himself. Instead the thistle felt very much insecure and unwanted. After all, everywhere he looked were the bright yellow colors of all the daisies. His own purple hue was so ridiculously out of place.
So one day, after the season's heaviest rains had fallen and given all the flowers the life giving water they so desperately needed, and when the sun had just begun to peak out from behind the clouds and pleasantly warm the air; the thistle came to a very important decision.
He had decided he had enough. The thistle, with all his pride, pulled himself from the moist earth freeing all of his roots and gazed up and over all of the daisies. He waved farewell, and listened as the daisies too made their lazy good-byes and returned to basking in the sun. With his mind made up he set off across the field walking along his roots until the field of daisies was long behind him.
He was just beginning to question his motives, as he crested a very big--and tiring!--hill, but lo and behold--on the other side of the hill was a very happy and beautiful field with millions and millions of purple thistles just like him singing and praising the sun. His petals glistened with a sense of belonging and happiness he had never felt as he quickly rushed down and made his place amoungst the other thistles.
And so just when things had gotten the worst for the thistle he left, and found his kind, and unbounded happiness, just over a hill.
Take from that what you will. If you haven't already be sure to read yesterday's guest blog and head over to Brittany's page www.rhapsodizingmoments.blogspot.com where you can read all the other great things she has to say and see the guest blog that I wrote posted there. As always, feel free to leave a comment, reading them is often more fun than posting.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Hey, folks. As I hinted at on Friday, I might have a surprise treat in store for you all, and as it happens I do. SURPRISE! As you probably gathered from the title, Brittany Hart from the blog Rhapsodizing Moments and I just exchanged guest blogs for one another.
Brittany has been studying creative nonfiction and has posted some really wonderful pieces on her site. This exchange is particularly of note, because, without having read some of her things, and being inspired by her style, I never would have wrote my own nonfiction account of the weather like I did that you can now find on her blog.
Below is an example of her work. Brittany has a lot of great things to say so be sure to go and check out the rest of her stuff at Rhapsodizing Moments.
Fresh powder drifts lightly to the ground as I wait for the bus, staring at my feet. The flakes look so innocent and fragile, lightly attaching to the sidewalk without melting. But I know better—they aren’t innocent, and soon they won’t be fragile. They’ll melt just in time to freeze overnight, becoming the slick magicians that make my feet disappear into thin air, the traitorous sidekicks of gravity that bruise my backside.
I step on a small, untouched patch of snow in front of me to examine the intricate pattern of my footprint, but the snow turns brown and melts before I can fully appreciate my stamp on the world. I pat my foot again, this time dragging it back and forth, painting the sidewalk with lines of the nasty brown muck that seems so much more appropriate for today’s temperature.
I lift my head momentarily to examine the other people at the bus stop. Some look very serious, foreheads furrowed and mouths straight as they concentrate on some very important business that consumes their lives. Some look bored, and understandably so—patience is not a natural virtue. One girl speaks loudly into her cell phone while making large, animated gestures with her left hand as if the person on the other end of the line can see her. Two boys discuss how gross their roommate is for watching horse porn. Yeah...the world is an interesting place.
The bus arrives and I watch. The serious people make their way to the bus doors with haste, as if they fear there are only two seats left and someone pissed on one of those seats. The bored people follow at a leisurely pace, avoiding the loud, animated girl on her cell phone like oil avoids water. The two boys discussing their gross roommate must not be waiting for the bus at all, because they remain behind. I get on last, because that’s what I do sometimes.
The bus is warm, a comforting fact since I only wore two coats, a hat, a scarf, and gloves today. Regardless of the reviving heat, I still feel awkward on the bus. I’m never quite sure where to look once I sit down. Do I look ahead at the person across the aisle from me, or should I pretend that I’m texting someone so that I don’t have to meet anyone’s eyes? I settle for reading the ads above the seats, the ones I’ve practically memorized.
Getting off the bus is a scary prospect for me. Going down the steps can be treacherous, and stepping onto an ice-covered sidewalk is an entirely different ordeal. I grab the railing and count the steps. One, two, three steps and...sidewalk. My shoes stick to the pavement, solid and unmoving, and I let out a deep sigh of relief, watching my breath dance with the air in front of me.
Walks in the winter are definitely not my favorite thing in the world. It seems to take longer to get home when it’s cold outside. The worst part of walking home is the stoplights, because I have to just stand there and wait while the snow piles on my shoulders and wiggles its way into my bones. Today I cross the street as if on stilts—slow, steady, and deliberate, monitoring the each sabotaging step—and I notice that some drivers are taking a keen interest in me. One driver needs to turn right, but I’m in his way, which he makes obvious by riding my heels. He might as well roll down his window and shout, “Get out of my way, stupid girl.” I can understand why he doesn’t do this though—it’s far too cold to roll down the window. Another man turning left lets me know that I’m in his way, too. I’m just so glad that my presence is enhancing people’s lives today.
I finally get into my apartment and shed—coats, hat, scarf, gloves, shoes, and backpack. Everything wet comes off, excluding my pants. I plop on the couch and sit still, eyes closed for a few minutes. I try to relax, but it is hard. I have so much to do, and I am not at all in the mood to do it. My hands ache from the storm. I don’t have arthritis or anything, I just pop my knuckles.
My roommate Megan comes through the door a few minutes later, snowflakes covering her hair and jacket like lacework. I’m amazed at her ability to wear winter as a jeweled accessory. “Hey,” she says. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much. Just thawing.”
“Yeah, it’s cold out there,” she replies with a big grin on her face. The grin isn’t for the snow, it’s for me. She doesn’t like snow. “I’m gonna take a nap before work, okay?”
I smile back at her and nod. I wish winter would treat me as well as it did her. Neither of us like the cold, but winter definitely has favorites. My winter leaves me with crappy brown muck. Her winter adorns her with stars of pearl.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wow, Florida has some amazing weather. I just wrote a nonfiction piece about an experience I literally just had with that same said weather. I can't wait to share it with all of you, but I think that I may have a special surprise for you all in the near future about it. So stay tuned, and I'll clue you in soon. Yes, I know, I'm a tease, but this is worth waiting a few days for. At least for me. :-P
And the other tidbit I felt like sharing this Friday night is, the other day I responded to a comment and for some reason as I was responding I got to thinking about Joyce Carol Oates' short story "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been". And in the comment I gave a link to where you could find it on her official page and read it, because if you haven't you definitely should. Since I'm probably the only person in the world that keeps track of all the comments I get on my page I thought it bared repeating so...
If you have never read "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" Go and do so. Oates' use of symbology is absolutely mind blowingly good. Here's the link: Link!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
I almost missed this one. I didn't though. I made it with, as of this writing, an hour and twenty-three minutes to spare. I'm sorry for cutting it so close, but sometimes life happens. I hope no one finds it as lackluster as an update as I do.
Here's a couple different poems I wrote about different things at different periods of my life. I'd love to hear your thoughts on them so go ahead and leave me your comments.
Ouroboros at it's end,
All the flesh that's left is dead.
She screams and she
screams and she
screams why don't you hear,
world, these are my dying cries
and he sighs and he sighs,
curls on himself
bites down, and dies.
Ouroboros at it's end,
all that's left are,
pieces of head.
Mind devoured by the substance
jammed down it's throat.
She cries and she cries,
and her lips spill forth lies.
And he holds out his hand
and she turns eyes blind,
puts blame to the land,
forgets that death
was hers to be had.
Ouroboros at it's end.
It's own body crammed
false values into future generations.
It's stomach filled on pieces of itself.
The degeneration masked by
world class socialization.
Ouroboros at it's end
soul and head.
And everything real
was suddenly dead.
Passed right over
the cultures head.
And one more, to make up for being so late...(please?) :-P
Tired lips that try
the words to songs
Trying through the tired
ways to get the thoughts
Slipping from the single
view that sends the head now
A single moment's
and nothing tasted
Just a moment of absolute
that came and never
Fallen to the spiral
loss of all the
feeling down the spine not
Just an aboslution killed
For everything that
Ah, hell, one more just because.
I think about it all the time,
tragically losing what I thought divine,
but love is a shadow of secrets and crimes,
and everyone will do their time.
Missteps for misbegotten,
Hands held and lips met
all now forgotten.
Tragically losing what we hold in our mind,
our lovers and lives pour lies in unison,
our lovers and lies poor lives in comparison.
Shadows and secrets and crimes.
Waiting and wasting
and doing our time.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I'm not going to say much about this next piece first except that it is fairly old and never became anything more than a first draft. I had written it years ago with the intention of making it quite a bit longer story of a story. I really wanted to make sure the analogy, I was trying to make got hammered home, but it was a project that just didn't ever seem worth finishing. Interestingly enough, looking back at it now I think, despite a bit of an abrupt ending, it might have worked at showing what I was trying to accomplish, but it is hard to judge that for one's self.
I awoke to find myself no longer surrounded by the comforts of pillow and down but upon a bed of leaves and sand so dry and course it scratched my skin. Looking up wearily, a gloomy sky dressed in shades of black and gray loomed above me. I heard a tremble in the air, and in the distance there was a bright, white flash, but it was quickly gone even before I might blink. Sweat dripped from my hair and ran down my shirtless back. The air was painful to breathe, each breath came thick and raspy. The heat and humidity was unbearable.
Rain began to fall, slowly at first, but soon became a downpour. The drops felt unnaturally warm and brought no comfort as they beat upon me savagely. Weariness was quickly washed away and I looked around wide eyed, slowly.
The sights I took in made me jerk my ahead away and cover my eyes, but eventually I forced myself to look. I saw a beach, discolored and polluted. The sands were black and gray, thick, and rough. The waters were even darker still. Life, in various stages of death washed, or crawled, upon the shores in a vain attempt to escape the black waters. The pungent stench of oil wafted into my nostrils and I tried desperately to cover my nose.
There was no sun, no moon. No stars in the sky, but everything was cast in a grayish light like the color of fog. It was then that I noticed the wings, feathery and black, that were attached to my back, and I regarded them with no more attention then I would give my arms. Just as easily as I might have walked I flew, small and obsolete, in an infinite world of black and gray. I left the decaying beach behind me and flew over the waters. However, I could not escape the smell or the sight of the dying creatures that had embedded themselves into my eyes no matter how far I left that land behind.
The only thing above me was the constant rain and the dark, cloudless sky. Below, the waters churned and swirled, threatening to devour me. I flew higher straight up, allowing the rain to pelt my face, and further awaken my senses. My eyes stretched from horizon to horizon, and drowned in the heavy sky above and the deadly oil below. I wondered when and how I had come to such a dismal place as this and tried to remember where I went astray. I could recall nothing. My face turned up to the sky, eyes wide open, welcoming the painful drops to wash away my tears,
I tried to convince myself that I had not always been here. That it was not by any cruel fate, but by my own accord that I was confined in such a state. I could not believe it. I saw no way in and no way out. The thick, black waters continued to bubble and froth below me. There I could see my way out. It would be simple to let myself drop, I realized. To allow myself to be swallowed by the dark water. Yet, even as I contemplated that final plummet, the rains slowed, and finally stopped. Above me stretched from behind its blanket the warmth of the sun. Just a glimpse, peering out and sharing its rays, but it was enough. My vision was drawn suddenly, to a great white heron, its wings spread, and slicing through the air, speeding away from me.
Immediately, I set off in pursuit of that white heron. The sun's rays warming to my flesh I followed as quickly as I could, but it's majestic wings far outreached mine of borrowed feathers and wax and soon it was a white speck in the murky distance. I flew in that direction for as long as I could, out over the open waters that were below me. It was sometime, before I realized that looking down in the waters below, I saw reflected above me, the blinding beauty of the sun in all it's glory, and bright blue skies above. Even the pungent waters below that had before been death, now seemed clear and still.
I was hot, and my body was weary, but still I flew after the bird that had brought me hope. As my wings began to falter I saw an island, lush with life and trees. Untouched by anything that would destroy such beauty, and I was awed. I collapsed there on it's white sand beach to catch my breath. The wings that had once held me so distant above the ground blew gently from my back, in a passing breeze. And for the first time in what I thought an eternity I fell asleep.
There is no way of knowing how long I had slept, but when at last the warmth of the sun aroused me from my slumber, I sat up slowly, and stretched my body, feeling alive as if for the first time. I blinked and took a deep breath, enjoying the air passing through my lungs for no other reason but that I wanted to enjoy. A
blanket had been lifted from my eyes and looking around I saw now the same landscape that had once been bleak, cold, and dreary. What had changed? What had changed in such a short period of time that what was before death was now too pristine for words? What had happened to cause this change?
I stood upon the beach peering into the forest, thinking of my white heron and contemplating this. At length I realized my sadness, even here amongst so much beauty. Sad, because the heron had slipped from me. I could not push aside it's majestic beauty piercing my darkness and offering me hope, when I had none and so it's purity drove me. I set forth further into this paradise, with a single goal: to find this heron and learn from it. To become it, if I may, or to become as close a creature to it as I possibly could.
For hours I searched but to no prevail. I swam around shimmering rocks with water dancing over them as I searched one pool after another, or behind one tree and than another. There was nothing, but still I could not get the sight of my heron away from my eyes.
I searched the entire island to find myself back where I had landed and then I searched the island again.
Now, despair had set upon me and the same beauty in this paradise that had sparked in me awe, now only reminded me of how lonely I was. I did not realize that I was beginning to lose sight of the beauty around, only for the beauty in my mind. I collapsed upon a rock that sat in the midst of a stream that ran through this place.
The waters turned black and thick and swirled around me, but I never saw them change. One second things were beautiful, and the next the fog returned and everything had gone back to gray. I could hear thunder roaming in the sky above.
It was than in my despair and loneliness that a fairy appeared before me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, it was keen to me, for reasons I knew not why, and it promised me wealth and riches and happiness if I would only come along with it.
It calmed the black waters around me and made them blue again and promised that it could stave off the rain. My heart was heavy, but the world the fairy offered was far better than the black. Reluctantly, I agreed to go with it. I had forgotten my white heron.
So I ask, what do you think? Is this too subtle, or does it suffer from being way too painfully obvious? Or something else entirely? Or would you like to discuss todays weather? As always, all comments are welcome.
Friday, July 17, 2009
I just read this over on Rebecca Emrich's Blog Living a Life of Writing http://www.rebeccasbook.blogspot.com/. Apparently, someone had sent her an email regarding her thoughts on what makes a writer able to call themselves a writer. The email disturbed me enough to write a rebuttal that I feel deserves it's own spot on my blog that I would like to open up for conversation.
"To suggest to such a degree that writers are anyone who writes is absurd. The only possible way to prove oneself as a writer is to make enough money to be self sustaining. Otherwise, there is no hope for the "writing career" of said writer. Only jokers are willing to sacrifice themselves for a dream. To many people fancy themselves writers and spend time poking at a computer. They don;t have a job to refer to, other than their dream. I say again it is a dream... no money they are not a writer, they are a dreamer. Dreamers need to come down from their clouds and get a real job. I suspect that writers who don't make money have someone who backs their delusions up.... I repeat again all writers without money are dreamers."
So unless I missed the jist here, the emailer is trying to say that the only way you can call yourself, and expect to be recognized, as a writer, is by the amount of money you make? I disagree, for numerous reasons.
There are plenty of writers that do so only for the pure joy and love of writing. They have other financial means of sustaining themselves. The author of the email was quick to say that they believe someone else often supports them. This may be true in some cases, but it is also equally likely they support themselves with another, or even, multiple jobs and should also be acknowledged.
Personally, I know more than one writer that I would classify as a writing hobbyist, as they are not writing for means of an income but means of personal entertainment. Alot of times they may submit their work to magazines that do not pay or use it for other purposes. The simple fact alone that they are not making money with their writing, does not invalidate it by any means, and such a statement, I must say, is absurd.
I could go on and on about the many publishers in existance that do not pay when they publish submitted work. Yet they have no trouble getting submissions. Obviously publishing in itself is a form of recognition for any writer.
I could also write a small novel talking about the snowball effect that Rebecca mentioned, but I'll just say, everyone has to start somewhere.
It is sad for me to read this person's comment and see that some people have such a narrow point of view. Sadder still, is that they feel so strongly about it they must write discouraging and harsh words to portray their feelings. But the real issue here is the fact that the emailer, who is certainly entitled to his/her opinion, is a bit ignorant on the topic and should have educated themselves on it before portraying personal opinion as fact.
As I wrote before in my guest blog for Rebecca, back in June, if you are writing just for money you and your work alike will both show for it. And more likely than not the work will be terrible.
Above all else the main reason authors succeed is because of their passion to write and not their desire to become rich. Look at some statistics, unless you are a select few writers as a majority are not wealthy.
So I ask you, if you aren't writing for money alone, how is it logical that money can be the only measure to which you can mark your success?
If you aren't familiar with Rebecca Emrich's work or her blog, go check it out. Here's a link: Living a Life of Writing
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Finally, home from what turned out to be an extended trip to the harsh, bitter cold north (to be fair, I may be exaggerating the coldness a bit), I feel like I really need to touch base here.
Sorry folks, no original work update today. I am behind, behind, behind on everything that I could possibly be behind in. More pressing, however, I am very much in need of a nice long nap. I'll get around to catching up on things I've missed over the next couple of days. You'll be hearing more from me soon, but for now--Good night.
Posted by AmberInGlass at 3:55 PM
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Since tomorrow I will be leaving for a week and can't guarantee I'll have much blogging time if any at all; I thought today would be a good time to share with you something that has been weighing heavily on my mind for several days now.
Though I haven't been sharing any of this particular project, I have been hard at work on a fantasy novel for some time now. If pressed to express my feelings on this novel, I would say it is my love child. While working on it there has been numerous ups and downs. There have been times where I just could not put my thoughts and ideas into words, and there have been times when the story wrote itself and felt like I was not creating, but merely dictating someone else's actions. I'm not sure if that's common for all writers, but it is certainly part of the writing experience for me. Rough waters or smooth sailing, I'm dedicated to finishing this novel.
Now, as some of you may know, Carrie Eckles very recently gave me a spot on her blog Prompt Romp where I gave some of my thoughts on writing prompts and shared a small scene of a science-fiction story that I had come up with after reading one of Carrie's prompts.
That prompt, and the small scene I wrote opened the door to an entire universe of story ideas I had never considered before. In fact, since writing that scene, I've come up with several different short story ideas for what could very well be an ongoing series with these characters and in this world.
I've been working on it everyday, and it's been a very enjoyable experience. However, I haven't spent one moment sitting down and actually writing my other novel. I feel like I am betraying myself and betraying my story.
Like an adulterer every time I sit down and work on this other series, no matter how smoothly it flows and natural it feels, I feel guilty. Which brings me to my questions:
How do we as writer's balance multiple projects? Am I really betraying one project for another? Is this guilt and self-loathing justified?
I want to finish both projects as soon as possible. I can divide brain power and spend time thinking about both stories, but unless I mutate and suddenly grow two brains and another pair of arms, however, I know it is physically impossible for me to work on both projects at once. Are my feelings of betrayal natural?
I don't have any answers of my own, but I'm really curious how other authors handle working on multiple projects. Am I alone in feeling like this? Do you just pick one project and dedicate yourself to it until completed, or do you flip from one project to the next as the muse strikes?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Hello, everyone, thanks for coming by. As always, call me nosey, but I really want to hear what everyone is thinking. So if you feel inclined please leave me some comments at the bottom of the posts.
Before I post the conclusion to "Serious Attachment" I just wanted to request that, if you haven't done so already, please read yesterdays blog. I had a small announcment there as well as a really great guest blogger sharing her opinions on character creation. Now, I've got some projects calling my name this morning so I won't waste anytime.
ORIGINAL WORK UPDATE
“. . .I’m telling you, Steve. It was really bizarre.” Rachael was laughing with one of her co-workers in the backroom of their store. “I mean I never even talked to this guy when we had class together, it’s really strange.”
Steve chuckled along with her. “What a dope. Still though, that’s kinda weird finding all those cigarette butts on your step like that.”
“Nah, not really. I’m unlisted, so it’s not like he looked up my address or anything. My neighbor’s a drunk, he does that kinda thing all the time, did I ever tell you about the time I found him asleep on my lawn one morning?”
The next day she had off of work so she slept in late. She had turned her phone off before going to bed and when she was ready casually began to check her messages.
“You have seventeen new messages.”
She raised an eyebrow as she sat on her couch listening.
“First message: *click*. Second message. *click*”
It went on and she just began to delete them, then a voice held her finger from the key.
“Hey, Rachael, it’s me, Josh. Not nice of you to turn your phone off on your boyfriend.” Laughter. “I’ll see you later, darling. Hugs ‘n’ kisses. *click*.”
She suppressed a shudder just as a knock on her door startled her to jump. Hastily she moved the curtain aside and glanced out the window. An unfamiliar car was parked in the street in front of her house.
She moved to the doorway and glanced through the peephole. Suddenly her blood ran cold. Goose bumps raised on her arms and legs. She nearly gasped. Standing in front of the door was none other than Josh, smiling. His dark hair, mottled and unwashed, was sticking about wildly. He pushed at his black framed glasses with a finger as he stood facing the door.
Rachael backed away slowly and crouched on her knees, hoping to be out of sight, her breath caught in her lungs. Just then her cell phone began to ring. Splitting the quiet, stillness of the air. She wanted to run for it to shut it up, but instead crept as quietly and as quickly towards it as she could. She silenced the ringer and hesitantly put it to her ear.
“Hello?” She whispered.
“Hey, love.” Came the familiar, pleasant sounding voice that sent a shiver down her spine. “Are you home, I was hoping to hang out today.”
She hesitated. She could feel her heart pumping in her chest,. She could hear it’s beats loudly and imagined them echoing through the walls. She wanted to silence it. Cowering in the corner behind the couch she found her voice, but only whispered.. “Uh, no. . . I’m not.” Her mind was racing. “A friend of mine came and picked me up.”
“Oh that’s too bad. I really wanted to see you today, feels like I haven’t seen my girlfriend in days.”
“Josh, I’m not your girlfriend. I’ve been seeing someone for awhile now. I don’t know what gave you this idea, but you seriously need to stop. It’s creeping me out. Don’t call me anymore, okay?”
He laughed off her words without missing a beat. “Don’t be silly. When do you think you’ll be home?”
“I am not being silly, damn-it!” She said still trying to remain quiet. You seriously need to stop. Good bye!” She hung up the phone and quickly shut off the ringer.
A shadow of a figure crept in front of her window, blanketed out by the curtains. She leaned further back into the corner, holding her breath. She touched the button to call her work.
“Ritger’s Hardware, this is Steve. How may I help you?”
“Steve, it’s Rachael.” She whispered.
“Heeeeeeeeey! What’s up girl?”
“Shh, not so loud. Steve, I need your help, that guy is lurking outside my house.”
He laughed. “What guy,” then remembered, “oh, are you serious?”
Another shadow crept along behind another window of the room.
“It’s not funny. I told him I wasn’t home, and now he’s outside, I dunno what he’s doing, walking around my house or something. Please, can you get here?”
“Nah, Rach, sorry, It’s just me and Jim right now, no way he’s letting me out. You better call the police or something. I gotta get back on the floor, we’re busy. I’ll come by when I get off. Things will be alright. Bye.”
She waited a minute and then dialed three numbers.
“Hello. . . Police. . . Yes this is an emergency.”
They told her there was not any units available immediately, but to stay inside and they would send one within an hour. She sat for an hour and a half not daring to move. Cringing at the sounds of hands rustling at her windows, or tugging at her door. She prayed that all were locked. The shadow continued to dart from window to window and then it disappeared. She thought she heard the sound of a car driving away but she could not be certain over the sounds of her own breathing. Her knees were aching from where she had been crouched and her palms were sweaty as she tried to phone the police once more.
The unit was on it’s way. She sighed and waited a few more minutes. She had not seen or heard anything for awhile. Her legs were aching so badly. She choked down her fear, and gritting her teeth, stretched out her legs. She felt better knowing that the police were on their way and risked a quick glance out the front window. The car she had seen was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief and pulled the curtain away to get a better look around. A hand stretched from the side of the window and slammed into the pane, making her jump back with a gasp. The phone fell from her hand.
“Hey, Rachael! Let me in! I wanna talk to you.” He began to beat on the window frantically. He moved to her doorway and began to beat on it repeatedly. She froze on the other side, afraid that he might break in. “Hey, come on!”
A car approached, she heard the brief flick of a siren.
The beating stopped. She looked out the peephole, he was moving away from the door. She waited a moment and opened it slowly. He was approaching the officer his hands clasped behind his back.
“Young man, I’m sorry, but I need to ask you to leave.” The officer was saying.
Rachael thought she caught a glimpse of something flash in Josh’s hand, she opened the door and stepped onto the porch.
He spoke, but she could not hear what was said.
The officer’s response however, was loud and clear. “Then I’ll have to lead you out in cuffs, come along now.”
Josh turned around and smiled so brightly at Rachael that she froze.
“I love you.” He said, and turned upon the policeman.
A knife was in his hand, she saw it now. She tried to scream out a warning to tell him to stop, but everything formed on her tongue and died at once. All she could do was gasp and watch as the officer reacted quickly.
Two explosive sounds deafened her senses. Josh fell backwards with his glasses flying away from the twisted smile frozen upon his face. Rachael slumped to her knees. The two explosive sounds reverberated through her ears.
She stared ahead fixedly, but could barely see. The officer was down beside the body, doing something. He was speaking into the radio at his side, but the words were lost on her. She pressed her palms into her face harshly and pulled them away. There was wetness on her palms. Was she crying? She couldn’t tell. Her knees were knocking together so violently she thought she might fall. There were voices speaking, but all she could see was that twisted smile frozen behind the tears and obscuring her vision.
Personally, I think the conclusion isn't all that well written or exciting, but I learned a long time ago that I am usually pretty self-deprecating when it comes to my own writings so I've tried to turn that negative voices volume down. What did you think of the ending?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Ah, another Monday. Where did this month go? Well, I’ve got a mix of good news and bad news for everyone today so we’ll start with the bad news.
I’ll be going away for a week this Thursday and it is likely, that I will not be doing much blogging until I return on July 9th. So, it’s probably not that terrible of news I just wanted to give you a heads up; I’m not going to be around much after Wednesday. And now here’s the good news:
Carrie Eckles of Prompt Romp and I have exchanged guest blogs for one another. For those of you that don’t know Carrie, much like myself, has just started up a new blog. Though I must admit, hers is much cooler a premise than mine.
What she has been doing for almost two months now is updating her blog regularly with writing prompts to help kick-start a writer’s brain and get away from that wicked devil we call writer’s block.
I just recently used one of her prompts to start a short story series that I can see myself working on for a long time to come. Be sure to head over to her blog Prompt Romp to check it out and read my thoughts on writing prompts.
Carrie is also the author of the delightfully amusing blog Artful Procrastination I hope everyone takes some time to check out her blogs and enjoys them even half as much as I do.
Below are Carries thoughts on character creation:
Character creation is one of the most frustrating aspects of fiction writing; it’s also one of the most fun and most rewarding. To some people, creating vivid and memorable characters comes naturally. To others, it’s a chore that they just want to get done so they can write their amazingly cool and totally awesome plot.
Creating characters doesn’t have to be a chore. When you understand what makes a good character, creating one is as simple as writing your own name.
Character conception is, obviously, the first phase of creating a character. The idea for the character might just randomly pop into your head one day and the character might be so compelling that they necessitate the need for a good plot and story; on the other hand, you might have a really good story to tell and need to create a character to drive it. Whatever the reason, you conceive your character idea.
During the conception phase, you should know a few basics about your character. You don’t necessarily have to know their name, but you do have to know their function in the story. What role do they play to help the story progress? Knowing the answer to that is the key for continuing to develop your character.
Once you have the basic function of the character mapped out, it’s time for the really fun stuff.
Naming a Character
To me, naming the character is one of the most exciting parts of the process. More often than not, I scour etymology websites until I find a name that suits my character. That may seem like a lack of creativity, but really, I believe a name is one of the most important things about a character.
Basically, your character has to have a memorable sounding name. If they don’t, your readers will never remember it. Think of the most famous names in literature: Dorian Gray, Albus Dumbledore, Frodo Baggins, and Elizabeth Bennett. What do all of these names have in common? A) They fit their characters and B) they fit the world their characters live in.
Take Dorian Gray, for example. His world is meant to portray that excess of aestheticism; therefore, he must have a name that has the flourish of the aesthetic movement. It’s commonly accepted that Oscar Wilde took the name from the Dorians, who were a tribe of ancient Greece. The surname Gray could be seen as a hint, alluding to the moral grayness of excess: how much is too much? And when does it all become ridiculous?
A name that fits the character, and compliments them, is very important for crafting a name that’s memorable and important.
One of the most important things to ask yourself is this: Is my character relevant to the story? Examine that question and understand what it truly means before you answer that. Basically, what I’m telling you to ask yourself is: Does my character matter? Do they add to the story? Is there a reason readers should care about them?
If you’ve answered yes to all of those questions, you’re well on your way to crafting a memorable character. That is, you are only if you answered truthfully. This is the part of the character creation process where you have to be honest with yourself. By being honest, you can see your characters the way your readers (and publishers) most likely will.
If you answered no to any of those questions, revise your character (or your story) until they go hand in hand and complement each other. In the end, you may have to make a choice: save your character or save your story. Personally, I’d go for the former. Good story ideas fall down like rain; good characters come once in a blue moon.
Thank you very much Carrie; that was very well said and insightful! I particularly liked your thoughts on naming, for me personally naming a character was always the hardest part. Often I just throw letters together and hope it sounds okay, I’m a little embarrassed to admit.
I’m curious what are some ways that everyone else fleshes out their characters?
Be sure to check back in here tomorrow for the conclusion to my "Serious Attachment" story.