Your Black Eel Memories

Death is a slippery thing for the blessed; it is hard to envision, harder to touch, and impossible to hold without causing great discomfort. The pain of others, even when presented to us in tangible form, writhes like a black eel in our hands. We cannot offer comfort to the damned.
Perhaps I should be thankful that I am separated from that suffering, protected by a great white void called innocence. But it grows lonely here, on my small island of bliss. And I can hear the wails. Sadness has a way of drifting across chasms and oceans, you see, and burying its sharp tooth into the heart of the most secure.
But we are given time for a purpose, and some use it to shield their hearts from the bite of sorrow, while others seek for a way to fill the void. Those who seek will learn, for they look, and they listen, and they do not close their tender hearts off from the pain. And they see that death has many forms.

There is death of the heart, come from too much grieving and loss. There is death of the soul, which comes for those who have forgotten the meaning of life. There is death of the mind, taking the ones with broken wings and scattered dreams. There are small deaths and broad deaths, deep deaths and deaths that chip away one layer at a time. Sudden deaths. Slow deaths. Torturous, loud; numb, silent.
And there is death of the flesh.
(It comes like thunder, it comes like a heavy, dark night, it comes like snow, and when we are given a warning we cannot avoid it, only flounder as the storm approaches until it covers our eyes and sweeps us off our feet and we kick, we thrash, we scream for help or for mercy or for anything to just make it please, please end...[but we know that hope has forsaken us she's gone he's gone they're lost forever and there is nothing that can bring them back yet even though we could never have protected them we still feel this is all our fault and if we truly fought hard enough we would have found a way but it's too late now there is no respite no relief no release from this jagged hollow tear deep deep inside us except for death itself sweet thoughtless death free us from these memories--])
Is it, perhaps, the absence of life? But no, it runs deeper than that - this absence can be felt, it causes A wound in life, then; a wound that does not easily heal.

There are as many names for death as there are forms of it. Heaven, the Underworld, the Other Shore. Some claim death does not exist at all, but is only one step in the cycle of reincarnation, one piece of the whole. They call it rebirth. But I have no pretty names for death, and I see it very simply:

There was a person, here, before. And then the person was no more.

I wish I could see what you see.




((I took a break from Reports yesterday because, heck, it was Chinese New Year, and I spent all day on college research and summer program applications. And working out Sun Road's plot. Can't get away from that, even on my holidays...))

Mournful Bleeting

She and I do not live in the same world. There is the universe of reason, of logic and goals and from here to there the shortest distance is a straight line so take this path and here's a brilliant electric lamp so that you do not lose the way. And all the while as she's talking I wish I could be in those galaxies, small worlds, pockets of space and time, where magic exists and the best paths are the ones you chance upon and true love lights upon the surface of the good sweet earth like falling stars. There I might be completely happy. There I could simply...be.

I used to ask myself a lot of the time what the meaning of it all was - perhaps I was talking about what I did in school that day, the revolving of the planets, the footsteps of yesterday, life itself. I ask myself that question still.
I've come to realize that I don't enjoy writing. It's difficult. Frequently unrewarding. Most certainly not worth the time and effort it takes to salvage floating scraps of truth (of which there are discouragingly few) in the sea of chaos in my mind. If I had to write for a television show, a weekly cartoon, anything meant purely for entertainment, anything meant for an audience to peruse for pleasure, I would drive myself either to suicide or madness. I write because I have something that needs be said. Perhaps people will listen. Perhaps not. Words are, in the end, meant to be read by others; my only mechanism in the machine is to make them easy for people to understand. I wouldn't be able to write if I knew nobody would pick my work up. So why do I write? Praise brings some pleasure to me, it is true, but my own awkwardness and forced humility taint it considerably. Why do I trouble myself with this burden? Why do I walk this unpredictable, unforgiving, tortuous path?
All my works are born from yearning. A desire to hide from truth while revealing a deeper one. I could never write light fiction for long; I thrive in darkness, misery, struggle, because those are what touch the core of my essence, and those are what I believe make the world turn. My life is already consumed by the pursuit of beauty and truth, however they may elude me. If I stopped trying, I would forget myself. So I continue to write, and hope my words are heard by at least the ones who matter, and that they are understood. And I continue to dream of a day when I can see a glimmer of what it means to be human, and whisper that secret in the ear of the good blue earth, and die a child of tomorrow's dawn.

Dear Ashfire 2

1/5/13
Dear Ashfire,

Seeing as your dear beloved sunshine is invariably the root of my problems with your story and the reason why it's taken me a whole month to figure out the first chapter, I've decided I need to sit down with her and have a good heart to heart chat. Care to pass the message?

your creator,

The Sheep

1/6/13

to The Sheep

*unintelligible handwriting*

from Ashfire

1/6/13

Dear Ashfire,

Oh, hi. I'm glad you received my message and sent...something back. But I was really asking for Rhea herself to respond, not for you to transcribe it or anything. So if you could please step down from being the main character and let your supporting cast shine in the limelight a little? Thanks.

your creator,

The Sheep

1/8/13

*unintelligible* going to bother her I will *unintelligible* you and *unintelligible* so *unintelligible* off!

- Ashfire

1/8/13

Dear Ashfire,

Look, I'm trying to write a story here, and because you keep getting in the way I can't get anyone else's characters straight - so stop being an overprotective mama bear and just let me talk with Rhea. 

Also, teaching yourself to write is a lot harder than teaching yourself to read. Work on that handwriting. And don't press so hard on the paper.

your venerable creator,

The Sheep

1/8/13

*unintelligible* you.

- Ashfire

1/10/13

Dear The Sheep,

It's a pleasure to converse with you! Is your name really The Sheep? I'm sorry if that was impolite, but I was curious because that's not a name I've seen before.

Ashfire told me you wanted to know who I was, so I'll write it all down now. My name is Rhea Fieldbellows. I am 11 years old. My mother's name was Meloda Fieldbellows, and my father was an Anaglade, which is why I don't look like everyone else. I used to live in Ruminor until the Dragon came. My mother was the best mother ever and I still miss her a lot, but Ashfire says I have to look forward, so I don't cry for her very much anymore. Ashfire is my best friend. He saved me from the scary people and he took care of me after the Dragon came. My dream is to find the Dragon and make it stop killing people because killing people is bad. Oh, but don't tell him that I lived in Ruminor and about mother. He doesn't like nobles. He thinks that my mother and father were both Anaglades, and that I used to live in the mountains. I don't know why but he's scary when he's mad so I've been keeping it a secret.

Are you a noble? Should I call you Esteemed The Sheep? I was really happy that you wanted to know me. I want to know you too. What do you look like? Can you come see us sometime?

Yours Sincerely,

Rhea

1/11/13
Dear Ashfire,

...Ashfire, I just realized what a terrible person you are. You are my new favorite character, Rhea. You deserve better than that jerk. Come on and let's tell your story too.

your creator, for both of you,

The Esteemed Sheep

Dear Ashfire 1

Dear Ashfire,

     I'm starting out with an apology. See, I don't think you know this, but you're the main character of the novel I'm trying to write. I wrote the first draft way back in November - remember that? In the last half I was churning out 2,000+ words a day and having the time of my life. I finished your novel; really, truly finished it; wrote an epilogue and everything; the plot was a line, a squiggly dotted line, but still a line.
     And then December rolled around, and I looked back at what I had written, and I couldn't bear to see your (imaginary yet still horrifically intimidating) face.
     I started to rewrite your story in mid-December. The setting alone was worked and reworked and reworked again until it was finally starting to resemble a fantastical world, and your dear companion and possible love interest had an entirely different personality. Finally, I felt ready to bring it all to life again.
     By Christmas I tore up those plans all over again.
     See, this is what writing my first ever novel is like. There's the exciting birth of the idea, the rapid flow of words, the splattering of black and white paint all over the digital landscape. And then there's the realization that I'm, how shall I put it, a sucky and just plain boring author whose work doesn't make any sense. And there's the struggle. And the headaches. And the strangling your critical artist friend when she notices a flaw and you don't want to admit she's right.
     And the rewriting.
     It always comes back to that, the rewriting, the editing and polishing and frowning, the starting from scratch. I have no idea how many revisions it'll take before I'm happy with your book. I have no idea how many more it'll take before a publisher would even look at it. But it'll be okay, because I still love you, and I still want to tell your story.
     Now I've written the prologue and finally settled with a Chapter 1 that I kind of sort of like. It took almost a month. I might have to change everything all over again later. But I know that I'm making progress, and I'm enjoying it - and that's all that matters.
     So, my dear Ashfire, get back to work being an anti-hero. I've got you covered.

-------------------------read the novel here: Sun Road------------------------------

On Writing #1

Let the story grow naturally, like a peach from a tree, and nurture it with love and earnest hard work until it's big enough to squash two evil aunts and then sail the seven seas. Enjoy the process. Don't force it.