To The Blank Page

My first short story will soon be syndicated through this blog. Over the next couple weeks I’ll be revising and refitting the story to fit a blog post of reasonable size. Stay tuned.

The last leg was always the toughest, he thought to himself as he dropped down a chimney. He left these houses for last intentionally. Their spirit was always the lowest of all the others he visited. They never bothered to write, but worse, they never left out cookies and milk. To say he loathed these visits would be an understatement.

“Everyone always expects a ‘Ho Ho Ho’ and jingling bells…” He grumbled as he shoved presents under the tree. His duty momentarily sated, he walked over to the pantry looking for some snacks; even going so far as to pop open the fridge. As he suspected, there was nothing that tempted his appetite. Numbly, he let the fridge slowly close on its own.

There were no words to express how he felt; he could only stand in place staring into the middle distance. He was not sure when he had begun losing his spirit, only that he no longer felt jolly; in that moment he was no longer Santa Claus. The once jovial man looked towards the counter, a rack of knives calling to him. As he reached for one of them, he imagined the next day’s news snippet.

A family of five was brutally slain last night. Witnesses claim hearing jingling bells and a “Ho Ho Ho” at the time of the murders. Police found a note at the scene of the crime, ‘All I wanted was some fucking cookies.’ There are no suspects at this time.

“We met under such inauspicious circumstances. I hated him, and I don’t doubt he hated me. Somehow, that hatred turned into something more powerful than either of us could imagine or understand. On a Quest as we were, they said we were fools to be in love. At least, that is what they said to my face and behind his back.” A sad chuckle escaped her then as memories of times forgotten returned to her.

“There was no helping what was happening between us. It was no affliction, there was no cure. Like a falling drop of rain there was only one ending to our story. At the time I did not know this. It wasn’t until after the dust had settled, until after the battle was over; dazed as I was, stumbling about the battlefield in search of him, ignorant to the injured that stretched their hand out towards me begging for healing; it wasn’t until then that I discovered his true destiny.”
Her voice broke as tears began to fall down her face. She could not stop the flurry of emotion and instead opted to place her head upon the lectern, her body racked with passing sorrow. One of the Companions placed his hands on her, attempting to guide her away where she could mourn in privacy but she instead pushed him away.

Her emotions momentarily controlled, she continued, “Eventually, I found him. He was surrounded by so many dead I couldn’t help but be proud, even in the face of what I feared most. I walked up to him and fell upon my knees and I lifted his head and placed it upon my lap. I studied him; unlike I’d ever been able to look upon him before. In that moment of pure sorrow, where tears cannot yet express the heart, I looked upon him with such ferocity that his face shall forever remain in my mind.”

Anger strengthened her resolve and sustained her as she pushed herself to continue. “The Creature, the foe for which this war began, lay dead yards away. I could feel the force of my magic gathering itself and yet I could not recall summoning it. A beam erupted from my outstretched hand and tore the monster asunder. Its carcass withered to dust under the incredible force. No longer fortified by the ephemeral power, the magic subsided and my tears finally broke. Like the breaking of a damn there was no holding it back. I placed my head on his chest and wept. I hated myself for not having been there to see him die. Not out of some macabre desire, but because I could have taken his place. I could have spared myself the heartbreak. In that moment of sorrow I was selfish. He was stronger than I am, he was my hero, and he could survive his heart…”

The tears seemed too much to hold back. She stood in place her head wagging left to right trying to stop the tears. “He could have survived his heart being broken into so many pieces.” Her anguish was yet sated as the tears streamed down her face with renewed vigor. Only out of a desire to finish her eulogy was she able to continue. “He was my all, all that I have ever known of love. He died a hero in service to this country. Through my grief I hope that you can understand his sacrifice. He died a hero, he died for love of you, and he will be missed.”

“I think I’ll call you Juliet.” It was his best pick-up line, which he accentuated by sliding his business card towards the blonde bombshell Hollywood bars were known to attract. Romeo M, the name at the bottom read, his cell phone number strategically scrawled on the back before the start of the night.

The girl’s only response was a cursory glance in his direction, a cockeyed expression painted on her face, and a return to her order. He didn’t dare push the matter; she was out of his league anyway, most likely going back to a table occupied by professional athletes. The thought was comforting.

She walked away and Romeo recycled his business card. He hadn’t paid much for the few he had printed out, but it seemed like such a waste to let the card soak in spilled tequila and imported beer. He turned back to his glass and realized it was empty so he pulled out his wallet to grab some more cash, but only found a week old receipt.

Unable to leave a tip, he slipped out of his chair and crept out of the bar. Outside he spotted the bombshell, drink in hand, approaching a pasty faced youth with wildly tousled hair and eyes like the dead. Romeo was the best lover the world had ever seen and he was doomed to spend the night alone, his left hand the only witness to the quality of his love.

It has recently come to my attention that Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series has done a great dis-service to men around the world. A playful comment made by a co-worker of mine to a Facebook post about the series on a friend’s profile, yielded some interesting response. Particularly in a rebuttal from a third, also unnamed female. The comment, a negative statement made towards the series, sparked a response from this third party whereby she cites the comment as a reason why she no longer likes “normal” boys. This is an atrocity.

For quite some time, it seems the status quo has been for men to impress women through their bravado and lack of manners. In antiquity, particularly the 50’s and 60’s, the greaser’s and bikers were the true bee’s knees. It seems in this day, the status quo is raising it’s standard further and further. No longer will being a warm-blooded homo sapien qualify a man as a suitable mate. At the rate this trend is proceeding in fact, pretty soon being a human being and expecting to get dates will actually be a faux pas.

What I do not understand then, is why would women want to date a creature that could potentially devour them? It’s a shame that I could imagine a woman in this near future wanting to date an Eat-My-Life because Stephanie Meyer’s new book paints them as the ephemeral lover and loyal protector.

The crux of the matter is this, when will the romanticization of mythological monsters cease? Will a wendigo be the next object of young female adoration? Will my children have to compete with demonic cannibals in order to earn the attention of their high school crush?

I sure hope not.

I’m so unimportantly important.
Or is it importantly unimportant?
Either way, I’m in a portent,
And perhaps that may be good.

Or per chance could it be bad?
These contradictions can make me awfully mad.
Damned if I am, or damned if I’m not?
Or is it blessed that I am what I am?

Should the universe be so kind as to provide a hint?
Maybe my whole life has been a hint,
each day offered as another chance to get it.
Or maybe I already get it?

Some say ignorance is bliss, and
I in my ignorance blissfully agree.
It’s easy to trust that the truth will come–
that scares the shit out of me.

Do I really want to know the truth?
To shatter my ignorance in a single moment,
with truth so pure it tastes like a lie?
Is this really what I want?

No.
Yes?
Maybe…
Another item added to the list of “I don’t knows.”

“You don’t expect me to do this, do you?” Tears threatened at the corner of Pierre’s eyes as the memory of his loss returned to him. His superior’s audacity only spurred his anger, the last fortification against his grief. He looked down in disbelief at the assignment he had been given.

“We’ve known for quite some time that you have been visiting her Pierre. You’ve become enslaved by the very revenant we fight to expel. She is but a pale shadow of your wife, you must see this. You must let her go.”

“I can’t lose her, not again.” His anger faltered, his superior’s words were too infallible to refute. He had to let her go, and the only way to do it would be to Reave her ghost.

“By allowing her to haunt, you dishonor her memory and condemn her to Purgatory. Help her find her way to peace Pierre. I know you can.”

His resolve broke, the tears began to fall like the soldiers of his anger, tossed from the ramparts to meet their death, the final bastion overrun by the warriors of his grief. His superior wrapped her motherly arms around him and spoke into his ear. “You couldn’t be there for her when she died Pierre. As a Reaver, you can help guide her soul to its resting place and bring closure to the wound in your heart. This is your second chance.”

What she said was true. It did not however, stop the tears.

A lot of times an errant fiction writer assumes that their apparent lack of skill stems from an inability to write, coming to the assumption that the task for them is futile. This kind of thinking is morose to say the least. Writing is not a process that comes unto those who posses a certain unique quality or skill or ability. Writing is about telling a story, an act in and of itself that should not be confused with masochistic self-torture. Storytelling is, I will admit, not a skill everyone possesses. It takes a unique perspective to tell a story, an even rarer perspective to invent a story and tell it simultaneously. That being said, there are many writers who supplement their writing with events that have most likely taken place in their own life, or suffuse their characters with the spirit of friends or family. There are short-cuts a writer can take to make the process easier and to make their writing more telling a story, than building a world.

Some writers assume, because their characters are thin or their plot feels contrived, that their story is not worth the telling. This is not so. As with every other task we apply ourselves to, over time we become better at it. A bottle factory worker does not immediately begin capping hundreds of bottles per hour. It takes repetition, continued effort, and fervor, to get to that point. It also takes time, a lot of time. A writer does not immediately have the ability to weave a quality piece fiction. It takes exploration of one’s own imagination, discovering one’s passions, drawing from your source of knowledge, and ultimately: writing! A writer cannot excel in the craft unless he writes.

Even now, despite the fact that I choose to publicly display my work, I am self-conscious of my writing. I too can write thousands of words into a story only to feel it slip away and the passion I once held for it dissipate. This lack of confidence eventually poisons your mind and rather than continue to try, you give up. There are two primary reason’s for this and one I’ve already mentioned, lack of confidence and writer’s block. I don’t think a writer truly believes in writer’s block until they realize this simple fact: No story you write will come flowing out of your finger tips. Writing a story takes time and patience. Your characters are thin? Get to know them better. Learn what trials and tribulations they have been through that has shaped them as a person. Examine them in particular situations and see how they react. Your plot is contrived? Mix things up; a lot. Add a character. Introduce a new scenario, see how your characters react. Or, seek help. Perhaps you don’t know your characters well enough to further the plot, or perhaps you don’t know the plot well enough to make it anything other than contrived. Perhaps you rely too much on stereotypes, maybe more people-watching is called for. The world gives us so many tools as a writer it’s a shame to suffer when trying to tell your story out of hubris. Never be too proud to seek assistance, or guidance, or new information. Most importantly, never feel above what you’re writing. It’s easy for a writer to lose confidence in their work if they feel they could do better because until you’ve fully explored what it is you’re writing, you really don’t know.

Essentially, in order to be a writer, you have to have the confidence to pursue it. Your writing will take you down alleys at times that are cut off by tall brick walls but it’s up to you to scale it and get to the other side. Like everything, writing presents its unique challenges, so don’t ever be discouraged. Writing is a process that should be respected and by giving up so easily, you are disrupting this process. Giving up will not teach you the skills you need to persevere, and it is only through perseverance that you can expect to create anything of value. If you ever feel like you’re not good enough, re-evaluate your perspective. Just because a story doesn’t feel worthy of completing, doesn’t make it so.

Ultimately, if you really don’t feel like you can do it, then maybe you can’t. Maybe that story you’ve had running through your thoughts and dreams is simply a fantasy never to be shared. Maybe the desire to write, the joy of writing, and the excitement of creating is simply God’s unique way of torching you. Or maybe it’s time you put up or shut up. In closing, I’d like to offer a piece of advice that will help you get to a place where you’re comfortable writing. Poor planning leads to poor execution. If you feel like your story isn’t going as well as you’d hope, maybe you didn’t plan enough before you put finger to key or pen to paper. Perhaps taking a step back in the writing process to plan where you want to go, who will come with you, and why, will really help you push through your fears.

Or, maybe you’re just not a writer, but forever doomed to be a dreamer.

I used to be very lonely,
and always afraid of the dark.
I used to have bad night terrors,
of frightful monsters lurking near.
Their breath held the stench of my fear.
As a child, I always fed them,
while cowering under the sheets.
That is when I learned to escape.

At night, while lying in my bed,
I would lift off, crash through ceiling,
after ceiling, after ceiling,
through to the top of the building,
until I was held high above
by stray gusts; watched by blinking stars.
I would find solace in the breeze,
so high no creature could reach me
but the birds and mighty dragons.

The din from the streets below would
sing their ghetto lullaby, and
the moon would gently tuck me in.
And then, as I drift off to sleep,
the bed would slowly descend; down
through the top of the building, down
through ceiling after ceiling, and
finally back into my room.

The fear of night ignored… for now.

It’s like being trapped in a cage, with a lion.
It’s like your heart will stop at any moment.
It’s like your lungs will refuse any more air.
It’s like your mind is losing track of itself.
It’s like your body is trying to shut down.
It’s like you want to run, but your legs won’t move.
And there is no cage, and there is no lion.

There’s only you.