Museless

Now the title is something I find very funny for two reason. One I hate the way people talk about having a muse to write, you either write or you don’t there’s no waiting for it to happen (I’m an optimist at the best of times but writing is work, you have to show up for work!) and two the muse does not exist.

Did you read that?

It does NOT exist.

It really doesn’t.

Writing is something you sit down and do regardless of if the muse is there or not. Sure I’ve used the excuse a lot, I’m even almost using it now, but I’m proving to myself that I’m not quite as museless as I keep telling myself. I’ve been back in Melbourne for about five days now and so far I have managed to write a total of like 50 words in my novel because I can’t bring myself to write. I just can’t seem to find the write, so I endeavoured to keep moving on with B-School stuff. I’ve finished the Website module and I’m up to the Communication module and in doing so I had something happen, I’m not sure of how to actually explain it but the first sparks of inspiration are coming back to me. I’ve started carrying around my tablet with me with my current chapter on Evernote so I can access it whenever I’m not at the computer (plus I always tend to get my best ideas on public transport) and something amazing happened yesterday when I was coming back from my cousin’s house. I actually managed to get some writing out. Granted it was small, but it helped. I also woke up feeling inspired the day before, which helped.

And with all of this, I learned something huge. Sometimes it’s better to wait it out. Don’t force it, don’t push it too hard. After losing my Dad I know that I’ve got a long way to go before I get back to where I was but I’m letting the process happen naturally. I’m getting frustrated at myself, because I don’t know what to do without my writing and it’s frustrating to have not made a bigger dent on what I wanted to do. On what I really needed to do. I have deadlines I need to meet. I have books to write (yes you read plural there, 2 non-fic and one fic) and I need to get off my butt and do it already, but slowly. My self care is more important and I realised that I slipped a lot because I currently have this sinus thing that just popped up. It’s frustrating as anything!

So while I don’t believe in the muse, I’m asking you out there, if you believe in the muse? Do you use it as an excuse or is it an actual empowerment? I want to know. I don’t judge and many people get very, very defensive when I tell them muses don’t exist, so enlighten me, hmm?

Fully Awake Dreamer – Tom O’Connell

Today’s Dreamer is a writer who stumbled into my life when he entered a piece into the audio journal I was working on at uni (which is now my baby through my internship!) and someone who I wasn’t actually very close to until we started the back and forth commentary on our blogs! Amazing how things work out sometimes. He’s a really great guy and finally getting to introduce him to you all here!

Tell us a little about yourself and what you write.

I’m Tom O’Connell, a writer, editor and tea aficionado based in Melbourne, Australia. I once defined myself as a literary short fiction writer, but my tastes have broadened. Lately I’ve been experimenting with genre stuff and embarking upon (then swiftly abandoning) longer projects.

What is your burning writing desire about?

Good question! This isn’t something I’ve given much thought. I write about whatever’s interesting me at the time, though I suppose identity and relationships (not necessarily the romantic variety) are recurring themes. (Gee, that sounds vague and pretentious!) I like my writing to have verisimilitude, and am particularly interested in the human condition. Plot has always been a secondary concern.

 Are you working on anything right now? Can you give us a little bit of a sneak peak?

Not with any real conviction. Full-time study and domesticity consume me. (One of the great paradoxes about studying creative writing is that you hardly do any!) I have a few projects on the back burner. They’re all pretty exciting to me, and I’ll probably pull one out after finishing my assessments, or during the winter break. I hate dividing my attention between several projects. I have singular focus, and would rather commit wholeheartedly to one project at a time.

I’m waffling. Here’s an excerpt from a work in progress: a short story parodying The Bachelor.

 

Elizabeth exited the plane, stepping face-first into a wall of humidity. One hand gripped the handrail; the other held the sunshine at bay. The wind was strong on the tarmac. Her mess of greying hair flailed about. Though mild by locals’ standards, the weather was a huge contrast to the dreary Melbourne she’d left behind. Flushed, she edged down the mobile staircase.

The trio on the tarmac – two men and a young woman – spotted her and straightened up.

The young woman put her whole body into it a two-armed wave. ‘Mrs Virden!’ she shouted.

Elizabeth meekly returned the wave. The greeting struck her as inauspicious; no one could miss three garishly dressed TV execs standing at the foot of a stairway. She reached the base of the stairs and the three flooded her with welcoming gestures. She pulled away, having received a collective six kisses.

‘So glad you could make it,’ said a stout man with cocoa skin. He brushed invisible lint from a crisp salmon shirt and introduced himself as Devon, the producer. ‘This is my assistant, Cynthia. And over there, of course, is Mike Straus, host of The Perfect Man.’

Mike flashed his signature grin. ‘Hey, how’s it goin’? Been watching at home?’

Elizabeth blushed. ‘Actually, I’ve never seen your program. It’s not really my thing.’

Devon smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder and directing her towards the terminal. ‘I admire your honesty.’

Cynthia’s voice tinkled. ‘You must be, like, so proud of your daughter, though.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘Actually, I had no idea Ashley was on it until last week.’

‘Unreal!’ said Cynthia, not noticing this was an obvious point of contention. ‘But, like, can you believe she’s made it all the way to the final?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Elizabeth forced a laugh. ‘Certainly wouldn’t be here in a foreign country if I didn’t.’

Devon and Cynthia laughed self-consciously. Mike had all but checked out, and was busy trying to dislodge a piece of apple that was stuck between his teeth.

Elizabeth fanned herself with the base of her sweatshirt.

Cynthia bounced as she walked, though her large artificial breasts remained fixed in position. She looked down, noticing Elizabeth’s attire for the first time. ‘Cute sweater …’

Devon conveyed his verdict by scrunching his face. ‘Ugh! Tiger-print? Honey, get that thing off!’

‘Why?’ Elizabeth feigned hurt.

Devon back-pedalled. ‘Well, because … the humidity! There’s no need for sweaters here.’

Elizabeth smiled. Devon, squirming, was trying to turn this into an issue of practicality.

‘I had to wear it. There was no room left in my carry-on. Perhaps if I’d been given checked luggage …’

Devon stopped in his tracks. Everyone followed his lead. With dramatic flourish, his hands found his hips and he spun on his heels. ‘Cynthia, you denied this poor woman checked luggage? She’s the mother of one of our stars!’

Cynthia frowned. ‘The budget wouldn’t allow for it.’

‘Nuh-uh!’ said Devon, raising his palm. Elizabeth noted his wildly fluctuating cadence. ‘Unacceptable. You should’ve found a way.’

Cynthia lowered her voice. ‘I came to you about this, remember? You weren’t willing to give up the masseuse … Or the penthouse …’

‘Enough excuses, Cynthia! I hate when people can’t admit they’ve screwed up!’

Cynthia smiled through gnashed teeth. The walk resumed.

‘So, what’s on the itinerary?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Right!’ said Devon, the fire returning in his eyes. ‘As you know – or, evidently, as you don’t know – Perfect Man Baxter will make his final decision tomorrow. It’ll be marvellous, darling. We’ve the most romantic spot picked out: atop a Balinese cliff. It’s helicopter-only, so only rich white folk are allowed.’ He laughed, held up his hand and flicked his wrist, like a cat pawing. ‘There’s gonna be laughter, a live band, sweeping ocean views …’

‘I’m getting tingles,’ said Mike.

Cynthia bounced back. ‘Me too!’

‘But,’ continued Devon, ‘the most exciting part is that, this year, The Perfect Man’s entire finale will air live, coast-to-coast!’

Cynthia balled her fists and stomped the ground. ‘The competition will be blown away!’

Mike raised a fist. ‘We’ll make history!’

There was a moment of silence. Elizabeth worried they were expecting her to fill it, so she raised a fist and gave a tepid ‘Yeah!’

What nourishes your dreams besides writing?

Music, I guess.

What inspires you?

You probably want a ‘proper’ answer, but everything inspires me! The world at large, people I know, stuff that happens to me, music, art, other writers, video games, nature, television, movies, the news. I’m a big filthy sponge.

What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned from writing?

I’m not sure I can quantify what writing’s taught me. Perseverance, maybe. Humility (rejections sting!). Maybe discipline. A fundamental lesson is the importance of redrafting.

 What’s the hardest thing you’ve had to overcome when it comes to your writing?

My inner-critic. He’s a real surly old bastard. Because of him (that’s right: no accountability from me), I’m not nearly as productive as I could be. I’m a perfectionist and perfectionism is not conducive to drafting. Something doesn’t sit right inside if I know a sentence isn’t as strong as it could be. (Mandi edit here, I’ve seen this first hand, this was draft number two of these questions!)

What advice can you give to budding writers?

I find the usual hackneyed advice holds true. Read widely. Finish your shit. Get a reliable critique group. Get out once in awhile. Redraft relentlessly. Eat your veggies.

Are you dreaming fully awake and how did you get there?

Not entirely sure of the question, but I think you’re asking if I’m living the life I aspire to. If so, yes (with an asterisk!). I’ve said before in an earlier blog post that the life I have is proportionate to the effort I’ve put in. I believe that. I love living in Australia (not originally from here, you see); Melbourne, in particular, is a wonderful creative hub. I’m also thankful to have found my life’s passion. That sounds a bit wanky, but so many of my friends are floundering about in careers, degrees or situations that don’t inspire them. They’re apathetic, directionless, which is a horrible fate.

I feel (perhaps naively) that I’m beginning to make traction with writing. I’ve had a handful of modest publishing successes and, in turn, my confidence is growing. Growing up, I often felt like a waste of space (thanks, sports-obsessed high school!), so it’s validating to now have others respect and value my work.

All that said, there’s still much work to do before the fantasy is reality. That’s fine, though; I’m learning daily and having a blast. The asterisk is because I live in a (figurative) shoebox – i.e. a cramped suburban apartment bordered by loud, inconsiderate neighbours – and am typically skint. Not ideal, but I do okay (excepting the odd demoralising dinner of baked beans on toast). Wealth’s not much of a motivator for me, but destitution (or at least the privileged white person’s definition of it) is definitely not part of the dream.

About the Dreamer

Tom is currently studying Writing and Publishing at NMIT. His work has appeared in [untitled], INfusion, Vine Leaves, Inscribe and Crack the Spine. Check him out at his blog.

Sharing Sunday – Wulfa’s Story Part One

 

Today’s Dreamer is a fellow NaNoWriMoer. I can’t remember how we got close but it happened along the way, he’s part of the reason as to why I’m building up a tolerance to beer again. Thanks for that Crash. Here’s his story.

Wulfa’s Story Part One

In a city the rain pattered around, in the loneliest of buildings odd sounds abound. In the darkest corner a creature did sit, with horn on his head and tail on his back, his big brown eyes watched the rain pita-pita-pat. His name was Wulfa and he was alone. He knew not where he had come from, nor not where he had been, his only company at this moment was his friend the fruit tree. The rain danced on the window pane as he watched it drift by. He clutched his knees to his ratty old suit, it was brown and worn bare. He didn’t remember where he got it from; in fact he didn’t really care.

He watched the rain and listened to the thunder, he had been in the house longer then he had remembered. He couldn’t remember anything beyond this house, he couldn’t remember how he had gotten to it and he couldn’t remember why he stayed. Thunder roared and he whimpered again, he remembered now. It always rained here, or if it wasn’t raining it was about to. He hated the rain, it always meant lightning. He watched through the safety of the house. It had survived many lightning strikes and no matter what shattered or broke it was repaired the next day, sometimes even when he watched it he could see the wood reform or the glass return seamlessly to the pane. He sometimes watched it do it actually, but not often it was scary. Wulfa looked out at the fruit tree, he liked the tree. It was always green and had fruit.

He stared at the fruit. He liked the fruit, it was so tasty and sweet, although he never went out to get any when it was raining, and the rain and lightning seemed to take offence to it. Lightning thundered and Wulfa whimpered clutching his knees, he had been struck by lightning before while he had tried to get a piece of fruit when it was raining. It hurt, and was the reason he always waited for the rain to go away. Wulfa watched the rain silently as he stared at the tree.

The rain gradually dwindled to a stop and Wulfa brightened instantly, he waited though, and as he waited the streets outside filled with life. He didn’t dare go outside when the rain dimmed it was too flooded with people. People he didn’t trust, they walked strangely and spoke in a language that only after listening to for a while Wulfa got used to. He sighed and stared out the window. One of them, a little one, a child, used to live here with him and bring him something called bread. He also used to bring him fruit from the tree outside even if it rained. He sighed. He missed the child, he was lonely because of it and the child was always smiling or always had a game and it rarely rained. Wulfa stared at the window and waited some more until he was satisfied it was safe.

Wulfa slinked outside into the fresh air. He breathed in the fresh air deeply as he made his way to the tree carefully. To say Wulfa was afraid of everything would be a lie; he led a life of secularity so he was merely cautious of everything. He scampered over to the tree and began to climb, he had found from experience the best fruit was always at the top. He carefully made his way up, the tree was always slippery after rain, Wulfa looked through the leaves, they curtained him from sight of passersby and only the most astute watcher would see the bestial hand grabbing a piece of fruit.

Wulfa smiled happily as he grabbed what he thought was the most luscious and descended without a care. He reached the bottom and slipped crashing onto the ground. The muddy ground was no consolation that it broke his fall. He’d need to stay out in the rain to clean the mud off. He whined slightly but immediately brightened when he saw his fruit unharmed and still looking as tasty as it did before, even if it was a bit mud covered. He smiled and brushed the mud off before he realized he was being watched.

He stared at the small figure watching him for a moment and scrambled up the tree, only looking back when he was safe in a branch. The child sat there looking at him curiously and then began to climb after him with a broad smile. Wulfa watched in a mix between fear and curiosity as the child climbed. Whenever he got near Wulfa scampered up to a higher branch, the child followed him. Fruit in mouth and filled with fear as the child closed in he leapt to the tallest branch and watched from its safety. The child laughed and followed like it was some big game until he got to a branch he could not get to. After moments of trying he gave up and sat looking at Wulfa with a broad grin.

He stared at the small child who stared back. He wasn’t sure what to do, Wulfa cautiously took a bite of his fruit and the child laughed and applause as juice dribbled off his chin. Then as if mimicking him the child took a nearby piece of fruit and bit into it. Juice dribbling from his chin as he did so, Wulfa sat on the branch and looked at the child in confusion as he finished his fruit. The child merely laughed and watched him with big green curious eyes. He laughed and said something which Wulfa couldn’t understand before taking another big bite. Wulfa picked another piece of fruit from the branches and offered it to the child. The child accepted it happily.

It was about then the branch snapped. Wulfa hung there in surprise for a moment and then came crashing into the ground. He groaned loudly and slipped into unconsciousness. He dreamt what he always dreamt, he dreamed of his wonderful friend, and then the memory of being alone in the dark and stormy night as fire was everywhere around him and a terrifying roar echoed as a figure fought against a something.

Wulfa awoke and the child was watching him silently but with a smile. He stared at the child with his brown eyes and tried to return the smile. The child stared back and smiled and then laughed. Wulfa looked around hesitantly unsure of what to do next.

“I’m Julian.” The child announced happily as he gestured towards himself. “What’s your name?”

“Wulfa.” Wulfa replied hesitantly. He was at a loss; he hadn’t dealt with anyone in a long time. “Fruit was tasty. Tree always has tastiest fruit.”

“Really?” the child asked with a smile. “Nice! Want to play?” he asked with all the energy of a ten year old behind him. Wulfa’s memories of the first child and him playing resurfaced and he remembered all the fun they had.

“Yes.” He replied making up his mind. “What game?” he asked as Julian launched himself at him with a smile and they began to play wrestle in the mud. Time past as it does and eventually the sun began to set. The rain set in again but only as a drizzle.

“I need to get home.” Julian sighed looking at the sky. “It’s getting dark.” Wulfa nodded and looked at the sky. “Thank you for playing with me Wulfa!” he proclaimed and hugged him. “Where do you live?”

“Here,” Wulfa replied as he yawned loudly. “This is home.” He said as he brushed the mud off himself.

“Can I visit tomorrow?” Julian asked with a smile and Wulfa nodded happily, it was good to have someone else around.

“Great!” he exclaimed, his smile increasing in size. “I’ll see you tomorrow then!” he exclaimed as he rushed out of sight. Wulfa sat patiently, today had been fun, normally he would have to have entertained himself by watching the street from the tree again. His stomach growled loudly and it quickly cut off any further thoughts along the lines of loneliness. Wulfa looked at the tree and a piece of fruit swayed there before snapping from the tree and into his hands. Wulfa brightened and let the drizzle clean him off. Today had been a good day.

Sure enough, Julian came back the next day even when it was raining Wulfa waited by the door patiently “It’s too wet to play.” Wulfa said unhappily as he looked at the rain pouring outside. Julian laughed.

“It’s never too wet to play.” He said happily coming inside. “We’ll just have to play inside.” He announced and dragged him in. For his age Wulfa was surprised by the amount of strength that Julian had and was dragged slightly for a moment before following him.

Julian reached a corridor and stopped letting out a slight gasp.

“This place is huge!” he announced happily. “It must have taken ages to explore!”

“Explore?” Wulfa asked curiously “Home change constantly.” Wulfa murmured as he looked at a flight of stairs up, “Never go upstairs above second for. Get lost.” He whined and looked at the flight of stairs. “Don’t like being lost.” Julian looked at Wulfa and smiled before dragging him towards the stairs.

“Don’t worry Wulfa! We won’t get lost. It’ll be an adventure!” and with that Julian rushed up stairs. In one of Wulfa’s more courageous moments he decided to not resist and follow.

They explored the third floor with amazement, some rooms opened into complete new worlds some mystical some hellish, others were filled with books upon books upon books, and although never entering. As they explored Wulfa made very sure that he remembered which way to get out in case something horrible would come. So in the months that passed on the sunny days they played outside on the wet days they explored the ever changing third floor of the house. Months of this passed until one day.

Storms had echoed for days and Wulfa had hidden himself in a room on the second floor overlooking the tree. He watched Julian rush in from the torrential rain and waited patiently as he heard rushed footsteps. Thunder cracked and Wulfa huddled into a ball and whimpered.

“Wulfa!” Julian exclaimed hugging him happily, as he entered, he was dripping wet. “Want to go explore again!” Wulfa shook his head and looked outside unhappily.

“This Storm.” Wulfa whined as he cowered in the corner, “Strong storm. Don’t like this storm.” Wulfa murmured as he watched the lightning outside. Julian looked outside with the assured confidence of a ten year old.

“Granpa’s angry!” he chirped with a smile sitting down next to Wulfa as he watched the rain and lightning play in the sky. “Papa said that when there’s a storm it’s cause of Granpa!” Julian laughed. “Granpa’s always angry!” he mentioned in way of explanation.

“Why?” Wulfa asked slowly as he tried to get his head around it. Was Julian related to the sky? Lightning echoed around and Wulfa whined slightly. They watched the rain some more and it increased to a torrential pace. “He very angry.” Wulfa murmured as they watched bolt of lightning slam into a roof and set it on fire, the fire soon put out by the torrential rain. The lightning was stronger now than he had ever seen it before. Silently Wulfa wondered what the sky had to be angry at. The ground seemed inoffensive enough. His musings were cut short as a streak of lightning shattered the window.

Wulfa immediately backed into the nearest corner and cowered, Julian joining him almost as quickly as they watched the lightning crack and rumble outside. In a point to design for the other houses, some bolts linked from rooftop to rooftop as lightning rods drew fire from the houses and dispersed them. Wulfa sniffed the air; the smell of ash assaulted his nostrils. He looked around and wondered fearfully where it was coming from. Almost in answer to his question there was a tremendous roar from the next room and everything was suddenly hotter. In silent recognition Wulfa and Julian looked at each other, and Wulfa shakily stood up and went to the door.

About the Dreamer

Chris Ashworth is an accounting superstar and web enthusiast who lives in Adelaide. He has no previous publications but he organises the local Adelaide NaNoWriMo chapter.

Sharing Sunday – Wulfa’s Story Part Two

Part Two

The door swung open easily and Wulfa immediately tried to back into the corner as he saw an inferno of raging flames. Julian looked at the flames in shock and coughed loudly before covering his mouth. Wulfa looked out the window. The ground window was billowing with flames as well. A piece of roof collapsed sending a shower of sparks near him and he rushed towards Julian scooping him up and stared at the inferno. The fire was frightening to him, even more so then getting hit by lightning again, the child coughed loudly again and Wulfa breathed in the air and snorted out the smoke. The scent of ash filled his nostrils. He looked at the raging fire and then at Julian who was huddled in his arms, he knew the stairs were made of stone and would still be there, he had seen houses on fire before, the stone was always the last to burn. Wulfa whined as he made his decision and sprinted through the fire to the stairwell.

As he rushed ahead floor collapsed underneath him billowing flames coming in his wake as he rushed to the stairs. Fire billowed at the bottom as he made his way down to the second floor. He rushed and weaved through the rooms avoiding all fire he could and leaping through the stuff he couldn’t avoid. As he reached the top of the stairs that lead to the first floor he stared in horror at the raging wooden beam that laid on it and then the floor underneath him splintered and he and the child he was holding collapsed onto the ground floor.

Wulfa got up slowly everything was painful and hot, he was sweltering in the heat. Julian stood coughing nearby as he tried to avoid the licking flames. Wulfa whined and scooped him up coughing and snorting smoke himself as he looked for the passage way to the back door. He spotted it through the smoke and noticed the roaring file that was in his path. He whined loudly and wheezed as he turned around, he hadn’t ever gone through the front door before, but through the smoke he spotted a path to it. It shined through the smoke with the promises of safety and Wulfa rushed for it, ignoring all the fire and falling timbers he could as he clutched Julian to him and reached the door.

He stumbled outside panting heavily, as he tried to breathe in all the air he could. Gingerly he looked at Julian who was coughing loudly and he placed him on the ground, and then finally he looked up. A crowd of people stared back. Voices muttered through the crowd as they all stared at him and he stared back. He looked at them all fearfully as a sharp crack echoed in the air and a support beam splintered behind him blocking his way back into the house and showering him in sparks. Instinctively he huddled down to protect himself but as he a number of burly men pushed their way through the crowd. As one made his way to the front of the crowd he looked at Wulfa eagerly as more pushed their way past.

“Halt monster!” One exclaimed as he drew a sword. Wulfa did the only thing he deemed smart. He ran.

He fled from the crowd and the men followed, throwing comments at each other. They were fast, but not nearly as fast as Wulfa though. The rain continued to pour and lightning crackled in the air, striking around the house. Wulfa turned a corner treacherously, he was used to hiding in the house so he had only one other option, the tree.  He turned another corner and saw the tree. He had gained some distance on the men. He skidded to a halt in the mud and scampered up the tree as far as he could. Saving the child through the fire had taken it all out of him. He was burnt, he was sore, he was exhausted, but that wasn’t the least of his problems. Lightning slammed into the tree and Wulfa flew off. The last thing he remembered was the burning house and tree.

Wulfa didn’t know how long he had been asleep for, or if what had just happened was all a dream. Wulfa tried to stand up but realized he was covered in a net. He struggled against it to no avail and whined as unpleasant noises echoed. A pair of feet clomped in front of him and he was hauled up.

“The magic academy is going to have a field day with you.” A frightening figure laughed as he looked him over. Wulfa struggled against the net. “You’ll fetch a fine price to any wizard or-.” He continued to only be stopped by a thunderous amount of thunder. “Damned storm.”

Wulfa struggled against the nets as the man turned and returned to his chair. Another roar of thunder echoed and the door slammed open bringing rain and a number of men inside.

“Something got that old man stirred up.” One muttered as he took off a cloak. “He came down to the house to have a look around himself. Did you know that it was his grandson that the beast had with him?”

“Maybe that’s why he was so angry last night?” another chuckled, “He looked pretty cheesed off at what happened to the house though.” The man shuddered. “Even though it’s being rebuilt stone by stone. Are you sure we should have-” a knock on the door interrupted him. “Who could that be in this storm…?” He muttered and swiveled on his foot and opened a hatch on the door. A muffled curse echoed and he leapt aside.

The door shattered and showered the room with splinters. Wulfa closed his eyes as deafening thunder echoed and then slowly dulled. When Wulfa managed to gather the bravery to open his eyes again, there was silence. The silence was much more frightening for him then the men had ever been. Thunder didn’t just appear, it only happened when it rain. Wulfa began to struggle against the net anew in hopes of escaping until he noticed the smell of rain in the air.

He looked up to see three figures silhouetted against the back of the glaring sunshine outside, two large, one small, the tallest one stooped down a shine of metal glinted in the light as the net fell down around him. Wulfa slowly got up and looked around him. The shadowy figures watched him. Wulfa sniffed the air, amongst all the ash that was still in his muzzle and the smell of rain, he sensed a smell that was familiar. He gingerly looked up at one of the figures and focused. A vastly older man stood there looking happily around him, satisfied with what he had done. He knelt down next to Wulfa and placed a calm hand against his brow and ruffled his hair slightly. He smelt of rain Wulfa noticed as the figure made a gesture the other who merely nodded and disappeared out of the room.

Wulfa looked at the old man who merely smiled and lifted his palm. He looked unfamiliar but smelled the same as the child did. In order to confuse him even further the child rushed to him and enveloped him in a hug. The old one smiled as he patted the child on the head happily and pulled something from his clothes. To Wulfa it was something known but it what it was escaped him. In reality it was a loaf of bread, the old one tore it into three chunks and passed one to the child and offered another to Wulfa. Wulfa took it gingerly unsure with what to do with it until the young child began to eat it.

“Bread?” Wulfa struggled hesitantly as he remembered something like it; his friend had used to bring him it. The old one smiled and nodded, Wulfa looked slightly relieved as he gingerly took a bite.  It was tasty. “Good.” He struggled and the old one smiled before producing a piece of fruit. Wulfa recognized it immediately as the fruit from the tree outside his home. The old one smiled as he snatched it eagerly and began to eat it along with the bread. It was by far the tastiest fruit Wulfa had ever gotten.

“Nice.” He announced and the child nodded happily and continued eating the bread and fruit in unison. The old man merely watched as he ate a vague look of sorrow in his eyes as he did. Wulfa finished what was left but the minute his hands were free the child tackled him with a laugh and began to wrestle. Their laughter painted the room as they began to play. As they did the old man silently sidled out of the room.

Outside the sun shone brightly as a well armored man rushed towards him.

“Father.” the man began as the old man nodded at him. “I’ll be billing you for the door you understand…” thunder echoed softly and the skies darkened the sounds of laughter from inside drowning out his muttered reply. “Is my s-“

“He’s fine.” The old man retorted harshly. “Wulfa is in there with him and their playing.” The man’s eyes grew wide and he rushed past the old man and a very audible gasp exhaled. “Still think I’m senile?” the old man chuckled mirthlessly “That I was trying to get my grandson to believe that he was real for my own amusement? No. Wulfa has always been here, ever since I came into the gift. Why do you think I let him run free in that house? Everyone needs a familiar face… It’s just mine also happened to be my imaginary friend…”

About the Dreamer

Chris Ashworth is an accounting superstar and web enthusiast who lives in Adelaide. He has no previous publications but he organizes the local Adelaide NaNoWriMo chapter.

Fully Awake Dreamers – Ru Tripodi

Introducing Fully Awake Dreamers

Welcome to the new segment on my blog. It’s all about finding out about those people who sit around behind the computer screen and make things, they also are predominant writers and my friends! I’d love to be able to branch out and interview people who were not friends or I knew of but, one thing at a time. So without further ado I introduce the mind of Ru! You would have seen her beautiful words on Friday. Make her feel welcome!

Tell us a little about yourself and what you write.

Hello! My name is debatable, but I go by Ru a lot of the time. I like to write fantasy, sci-fi, historical, romance, horror and whatever else tickles my fancy at the time. I’ve been known to write bad poetry upon occasion.

What is your burning writing desire about?

It changes at any given time, to be perfectly honest? Sometimes I’m twitching to write fantasy, other times I could really use a nice romance. I’m extremely unfocused, as a writer. But then, that’s nothing new? I’ve been writing, drawing and just generally living in my head since I was a kid. Creating places and populating those places with people who all have their own thoughts, feelings and motivations has always been the driving force behind everything I do.

Are you working on anything right now? Can you give us a little bit of a sneak peak?

Yes – several things, actually. No. //pokerface!!// …. loljustkiddingMandiwillkillmerooofffllll~ Here’s something I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything with! Enjoy:

 

The fog closed in thickly around them, as the last shreds of moonlight ducked behind the abnormally thick cloud cover above. Dark, winding tendrils of barren trees reached for the old, cobblestone roads clicking under their feet, the sounds all the more hollow for the desolate atmosphere. The faint glow of enchanted orbs illuminated the immediate area before them, but did little to nothing to penetrate that nearly opaque wall of spider-silk hued ill will. Somewhere behind her, she could hear the soft grumbling of the group’s resident diplomat, Lord Lucaeus of the Silver Accord. Also a vampire, which she didn’t feel any which way about, really. Being undead, with blood that had dried up in her veins some several centuries ago, it wasn’t as though it made much difference to her one way or another. Although admittedly, there was a kind of novelty factor she found refreshing about the whole thing, in not being the only creepy critter around, that is.

“It’s too quiet,” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper, yet even that seemed loud compared to the utter silence that surrounded them.

“Dampening spell.” That remark had come from a dark shrouded figure, whose very form seemed to phase in and out of existence, like a faintly glowing shadow. High Mage Weiss, of Dark Weaver infamy. There were few who knew their stuff quite like that guy, so when he said things which made utterly no sense to someone whose powers were innate enough that she never paid much mind to what she was tossing out, it forced a certain amount of attention upon the situation. What could she say? In life, she’d been a fighter and in death, not much had changed, save for her heavy affinity for runic mayhem.

“So, they’re rollin’ out the red carpet for us.” Faint murmur from the heavily armored Dark Wraith, her armor clinking pointedly, while she reached around to draw her sword. “Whatever floats their boats, for all the good it will do them.” Overconfident? Not like she didn’t have reason to be.

Frowning though, from the diplomat. She didn’t even have to turn to look, to know it was happening. He was the sort of guy whose voice betrayed a great deal of what he was thinking or feeling at any given time and the beginning of his lecture couldn’t hide his exasperation at her attitude regarding this mission.

“This is not an assault. It is a diplomatic meeting. Please, bear that in mind, before you get all kill-happy. Our first order of business is to make contact with these people; not create an international incident.”

Dry, faintly eerie laughter came from the shadowed mage, now moving up beside the knight herself. “Save it, whiny. We all know what direction this encounter is going, so let us simply be prepared for the inevitable.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to go in there with the attitude of–”

“–of what? Wanting to stay in one piece? I have no intentions of ending up someone else’s spell components this night, Sir. We will do what we came here to do, but I assure you, at the first sight of violence, this place will become a crater. I dare not risk the consequences, should something befall you.” They were there to protect the diplomat, after all and their instructions were very clear. Protect him first: mission second. Nice to know they were on the same page, but to be fair, she and Weiss generally were. “For your conscience’s sake, I hope you’re as smooth a talker as they say you are.”

Aeria laughed outright, the sound far too echoed and disjointed to ever have come from a living thing. “Darlings, darlings. You both have great hair, your shoes are cute and definitely neither of you looks fat in those jeans – now can we please focus on the fact that they have us totally surrounded and two more steps will put us in a binding circle?”

What nourishes your dreams besides writing?

Drawing, coffee, listening to music, coffee, daydreaming… cupcakes?

What inspires you?

Music is a big inspiration for me. Also doing a lot of reading into other genres. I try pretty hard to not limit myself to one arena or one style of writing. Different stories and different worlds might require different styles of storytelling, to get the right feel across to the reader.

 

What’s the biggest ting you’ve learned from writing?

Not to give up. Not to automatically hate everything, just because it’s mine. You ever do that? Just assume that because it’s your writing, that it’s not good enough to share? Or even good enough to continue working on? I’m still learning how to cut myself a little slack and just trust in my own process. It’s slow going, but I’m getting there.

What’s the hardest thing you’ve had to overcome when it comes to your writing?

Uuuhhhh… Consistency. What I mean there is, writing on a regular basis. I tend to go on these binges where I’ll write chunks of chapters at a time, crank out 10k words at a clip, then… Take months to return to it. Or worse, never return to it at all! I get so frustrated with myself when that happens!! I honestly do need to just make sure I write something every day. Even if it’s just a couple hundred words. Even if I hate it. Just something. You can’t edit something, if you’ve never written it in the first place.

What advice can you give to buddying writers?

WRITE. That’s my advice. Just plain write. I don’t care if you don’t like it! I don’t care if that scene isn’t working! I don’t care if you can’t find a different word for ‘said’! I don’t care if your head hurts and your arms feel like jelly and the cat is lying on your keyboard and that gif set on Tumblr is freakin’ hilarious! Write. Whether it’s one word or one thousand – just write.

Are you dreaming fully awake and how did you get there?

Psshhh! Of course! I’ve always been this way! We’re going to blame my mother. Pretty sure this condition is genetic…

 

 

About the Dreamer

Ru Tripodi is a varied writer, whose attention span likes to wander far more than what is likely conducive to finishing any given project.  She lives in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains, Pennsylvania, with her daughter, her cats and a collection of assorted ‘other’ strays she’s managed to pick up along the way.  Sometimes she likes to draw things, most times she likes to drink coffee and when they’re in season, she has an unhealthy obsession with persimmons.  They are the perfect muse food.  Seriously.

Sharing Sunday – Awakening – Part Two

Awakening – Part two

 

It seemed that Saria’s latest mood swing included not waiting for her mistress to make her mind up, and before Lothiriel could do anything, the deathsteed had begun in the direction of the screams. A few tugs on the reins were fruitless and she relented quickly, knowing that Saria would not stop and was making the right choice. Her personal feelings were not more important than saving someone’s life, and from the continous screams Lothiriel was sure the owner of them was in dire need of help.

As the screams grew closer Lothiriel slowed, eyes and ears searching for what was happening. It didn’t take long for her to find the problem. A young female night elf had been attacked by a group of thugs, most likely to mug her. As she moved closer she was able to identify the robes of a priest, and while Lothiriel had met some priests that could give a warrior a run for their money, this young one certainly was not a fighter. She had spirit though and was giving it her all, and was making her captors’ lives a misery. They had finally managed to silence the little hellion, and as soon as a knife was pulled on her Lothiriel was moving.

The deathsteed crashed through the underbrush in a very unsubtle entrance that did exactly what she had intended; distract the thugs. The young priestess was able to bring a foot down heavily on the toes of the man holding her, and managed to squirm free.

“Get out of here,” Lothiriel roared at her as she came to a halt a few feet away from the one that appeared to be the ring leader. There was always a leader, and that was always her first target. Once they were down the rest would scarper back to the dark pit they had crawled out from.

“Be patient Death Knight,” the leader sneered, rounding to face her, “Your time will come once we have dealt with the little elf pest. I wouldn’t want to miss a opportunity to rid Azeroth of another of the undead that plagues our lands. You were foolish to interfer, light will always prevail. ”

“Arrogant? Holier than thou attitude? Spouting nonsense they don’t understand about the light?” Lothiriel stated as she dismounted, and gave the man a grim smile, “I thought that by now the Scarlet Crusade would be a thing of the past.”

The Scarlet Crusade. It had been a long while since she had encountered there kind and still they made her feel sick to the bottom of her stomach. In principle their cause was a noble one, however, they were zealots through and through. They made no exceptions and believed that the ends justifed the means. Countless innocents had died while the Crusade had fought it’s unending battle against the scourge, and of course it was not surprising that the Knights of the Ebon Blade were not on their Winter Veil card list.

That had caught the man’s attention though, and his eyes glistened with hate as he simply stared at her. “You are the one that knows nothing about the light!” he exclaimed as he charged at her.

There were two things that Lothiriel did simutaneously at that point. Her hand reached for the runeblade at her back that marked her as a Knight of the Ebon Blade, and instictintively she reached for that chilling power of frost that used to fill her with dread. Now she embraced it as she had once done with nature, pulling it to her and then thrusting it in the direction of one of the other thugs that was heading for her. Her sword came up to deflect the leader’s blade, and she spun out of it to launch her own attack. A quick glance about told her that the frost had done it’s task and had frozen one of the thugs in place, leaving only a third to listen to his leader as he screamed for him to get the girl.

“Saria! The girl” was the Death Knight’s own response as she parried another thrust of her opponents sword, managing to get a kick into his stomach as she did so. As the thug leader stumbled backwards Lothiriel was granted a quick reprieve to see that Saria was heading for the girl, who for some reason was very close to the action for someone she had told to run away. There was no time for her to worry about that now, she trusted Saria to take care of the third thug. She needed to concentrate on dispatching the leader before the second one came out of the frost she had flung at him.

Lothiriel knew what she needed to do, she needed her blade to taste his blood. Even a small nick would be enough for the diseases on her blade to penetrate his body and weaken him enough for her to go in for the kill. The trouble was this was no ordinary thug. As already demonstrated he had at one point in his life been a member of the Scarlet Crusade and had the training of a Knight it seemed. Thankfully for her he fought like a zealot, wasting all his energy on attacks rather than thinking with his head. He was also certainly not in his prime any more, and while Lothiriel wasn’t either, she was no longer mortal and old age was not something that pained her.

Aha, there it was, the opening she had been waiting for and Lothiriel did not hesitate to take it. Her blade slid downwards through an opening in his defense to catch his thigh, nothing fancy just enough to cut through clothing and skin. It caused the former knight to dance backwards swearing an oath and something about the light as the sting of the diseases kicked in. He attempted another lunge and Lothiriel was able to step out the way and let the thug leader land in a pile behind her.

Her battle instincts took over, and she turned on the balls of her feet to drive her sword home and end the battle.

“NO! Stop!”

Something in the girl’s voice stopped Lothiriel, her blade stopping inches away from the thug’s chest. It hovered above his heart for a few moments before she swore and backed away, turning her anger to the young priestess.

“Are you insane? He would have quite happily killed you if I hadn’t arrived.”

“That does not mean you need to kill him in return,” the girl said in a soft tone as she reached to touch Lothiriel’s arm, “You’re better than that.”

Oh for Elune’s sake, who did this girl think she was? She was no more than five decades old, which was not even close to her own true age even before she had died. And here she was being lectured about a code of ethics by a little girl who was probably having her first experience of violence right at this moment.

Roughly pulling away from the girl’s arm, Lothiriel took inventory of the three thugs. One was still frozen, although she didn’t know for how much longer, the third was being held trapped against a tree by a very unimpressed Saria, and the leader was still motionless on the ground.

“Look little girl, you’re safe, so let me finish what needs to be done,” she told her firmly, her hand gripping the pommel of her sword tightly.

“It doesn’t need to be done,” her rescued priestess persisted, and with a look from her savior she realised that the tactic was not going to work, “They’re incapacitated right?” Once Lothiriel nodded she continued, “I really need to get these supplies to a village, there’s been an outbreak and only the Molesina flower that grows out this far will complete the antidote. If I don’t get it back now people are going to die. You have a mount and can get me back to them faster than I will on foot. And saving those people is more important than spending the time to kill three worthless thugs!”

The girl was literally out of breath by the time she had finished her tirade, and clearly the girl had been given some form of blessing by Elune because she had pushed the right buttons to get Lothiriel to relent. The only thing that would have swayed her from her path was the thought of being responsible for the deaths of innocent people.

“Fine,” she grumbled, sheathing her sword in her back brace and ignoring the girl as she headed to the only thug that wasn’t unconcious.

“Please! I’ll go, I won’t follow you!” the thug pleaded helplessly before Lothiriel could even utter a word of warning, his gaze never leaving the angry deathsteed guarding him. Clearly Saria had made some form of impression on him while she had been fighting her own battle.

With a nod Lothiriel gestured to Saria to release him, and true to his word the thug hightailed it out of there as fast as he could. The horse watched him go, and Lothiriel could have sworn she was sad to see him go. This was the most action the pair of them had seen in a long time, and she couldn’t deny the sweet taste of adrenaline that was still lingering in her system.

Swinging herself up into the saddle, she led Saria over to the girl and her package. That at least explained why the girl had refused to flee the scene completely, she had found that priests often had a tendency to put others before themselves. Paladins were the same, and considering the insanity of the Scarlet Crusade Lothiriel was seriously beginning to wonder if being so attuned to their sacred ‘light’ was all it was cracked up to be.

“Where to?” she asked once the girl was seated behind her and her package of Molesina flowers were safely stowed in her saddle bags. The fresh carcases she had slain for food had been left behind for the forest creatures to eat. Saria was weighed down enough as it was with a second package, there was no way she was going to be able to carry the dead weight and get to the village as fast as possible. It seemed as though it would be stewed roots for dinner after all.

“A village just west of Raynewood Retreat.”

“Hold on tight,” was all the Death Knight said, spurring Saria into a gallop as she headed in the direction.

Lothiriel would have prefered for the ride to have been quiet, unfortunatly her young companion did not know the meaning of the word. By the time they had reached their destination the priestess had finally given up trying to pry anything from her, but not before relaying her entire life story to her. Lothiriel listened politely, giving a nod or a ‘hmm’ to show she was listening, otherwise she remained quiet.

Roughly an hour later they reached the village, and Lothiriel came to a halt on the outskirts, a safe distance away from the sight of any of the villagers. Wisely her companion, who she now knew as Iria Moondancer, did not chide her or attempt to get her to come along. Lothiriel was grateful that she was at least respecting this part of her wishes.

Lothiriel was just turning Saria away when she heard a call from behind her.

“Wait!” it was Iria, and Lothiriel waited patiently until the girl reached her, “Lothiriel I have a message for you.”

“How do you know my name?” she asked, frowning deeply. Had this been some sort of game all along? She had never mentioned her name to Iria to keep her privacy, and now she realised that the priestess had never actually asked her for it.

“The one that gave me the message told me,” Iria insisted, and continued when Lothiriel fixed her with a disbelieving stare, “I was told to tell you to stop worrying. The Moon Goddess has not abandoned you, and she will call again on you soon.”

For a moment Lothiriel was speechless, and then she managed to stammer something out. “Is this a joke? Who told you this?”

“Elune.”

Lothiriel was left staring at Iria’s retreating form, and soon she was gone from view, disappearing into the village to save the villagers she had risked her life to save. A snort from Saria eventually broke Lothiriel from her reverie, and she shook her head in wonderment before urging Saria home.

She could not have been more than ten minutes away from the village when her vision blurred, a pain striking at her heart. With a yell she slipped from the saddle, falling into the damp undergrowth of the forest. Lothiriel did not even notice, all she could feel was an overwelming sense of destruction. It was not her own pain, it was that of Azeroth itself. Something was literally tearing the world apart as it freed itself, and whatever it was would change the face of Azeroth forever. Lothiriel had thought that nothing could compare to the devastation of the Lich King and his scourge, she had been so very wrong. Everywhere nature cried out in pain, and she felt that pain as if it was her own.

Tears rolled down the Death Knight’s cheeks. They were tears of sadness, but also joy. She could feel nature, she could hear it’s heart beat and she rejoiced in that. Iria had been correct twice over; Elune had not abandoned her and she would need all her warriors now more than ever. Whatever was happening was like nothing Azeroth had ever faced before, and to survive this cataclysmic event all the races would need to come together to face a foe the likes of which they had never seen before.

The spirits of nature usually whispered, but now they screamed. One message over and over again.

Deathwing the Destroyer had returned.

 

About the Dreamer

Heather is a History of Art graduate and a current English Literature student at the University of Glasgow. She has been writing, drawing and painting all of her life and has steadily transfered her skills to website design and photography. Since the age of thirteen she has created worlds and characters from her extensive imagination and as of November 2012 she has begun work on her first novel; Soul Destiny.

Sharing Sunday – Awakening – Part One

 

Today’s dreamer is a friend I met online! Heather is one of those rare gems you find who you can chat at and get what you’re saying, even though there’s an ocean separating you. Her story Awakening is fan fiction for World of Warcraft. It’s a long one so I’ll be posting it in parts today!

Awakening

The dream started the same way again, and despite knowing what was to come she was swept up in the beauty and the joy of it. It was unavoidable; she could not deny the warmth of mother earth, of being one of Cenarius’ children. The beauty of the newborn foal as it took it’s first few steps under the watchful eye of it’s mother. The sheer serenity of the forests of Ashenvale and Teldrassil. And then she was moving, running and then suddenly gliding as her body shifted into the form of a storm crow. Each moment was a blur, slipping from one memory to another before finally settling on the final scene.

The world grew colder with the chill of evil and everything that was unnatural. It was the complete opposite of the Goddess Elune and the power of Cenarius, and she immediately shrank back from it in disgust. Behind her fear was the lingering feeling of knowing; this evil had to be stopped. It had a name; the Scourge and it was as devastating, if not more so, than the burning legion that had come before it. It was those demons that had originally created this horror, thinking they could control it and bend it to their will as they tried to destroy Azeroth. Their leader, the Lich King, had broken from them, and now with demons banished, the people of Azeroth found themselves contending with those that once served them.

The dream shifted again, showing her a momentary glimpse of the Lich King himself, and the night elf tensed in her sleep, knowing that the end of the dream was near. Fear crept through her as she witnessed the destruction that lay in the wake of the undead. Everything was leading up to the inevitable final confrontation, and in the back of her subconscious the elf laughed at how proud and over confident she and her companions had been. So many had fallen to the Lich King and his powerful sword, the infamous Frostmourne. How had they ever hoped to win against such a power?

Nevertheless, they had to try and again the dream moved on, showing her the efforts made to beat the Lich King. She had volunteered as had many to fight alongside the newly formed Argent Crusade led by Highlord Tirion Fordring, a former paladin of the Silver Hand. She had admired his aim to unite the two factions, the Horde and the Alliance, to fight the Lich King, recognising that such a feat was not possible if they continued to fight amongst themselves. Of course, some did fight, and some like herself buried the hatchet and worked for a common goal.

She had been with a small group of other fighters, on a simple reconnaissance mission that had gone wrong. It was supposed to be safe, but the Scourge had tricked them. The joy and warmth that she had earlier felt were long gone now, and her dream showed her the true horrors of the scourge. Loved ones of those they had known, friends who had died in battle, all risen up to fight them. She watched in desperation as she saw her companions die all over again, the mage Aurelia struck down by one of the undead magi. Their healer, a Paladin called Benjamin who was barely into his twenties, was desperately trying to save them and failed as the scourge caught up with him.

In the heat of the battle she had called upon Elune, asking for her blessing and transforming herself into the sacred form of the Moonkin. Normally she was a formidable opponent, but spurred on by the deaths of her companions, of those she was supposed to be protecting, she gave into the blood lust. It was that blood lust that had caught his eye. Arthas. Once a paladin like Tirion Fordring and Benjamin, he was now the Lich King. She was of course no match for him, not alone and tired from battle, and she felt the tip of his blade slice through her flesh. The cold spreading as she screamed…

Bolting up right in bed, the night elf Lothiriel sat there for a moment. Drenched in sweat and with fresh tears sliding down her cheeks, she did not have the luxury of comforting herself with ‘it was just a dream’. No, it had been real, and even now after the death of Arthas almost a decade ago, she found herself living as an abomination. A Death Knight.

To some the term abomination most likely seems to be an over-exaggeration, after all, she was alive, wasn’t she? This was one of the many questions the scholars had asked themselves, now that they had more time on their hands. It was a debate that was still going on. Many of the Death Knights had adjusted to their new life perfectly well, their lust for vengeance for what Arthas had done to them and in turn made them do as his servants, helped them find a place in the world. Lothiriel had ended the Scourge war on the side she started with, albeit a member of the Knights of the Ebon Blade rather than the Argent Crusade. She had been one of the ‘lucky’ ones who had been able to fight the Lich King’s control, and returned to the ‘light’.

Lothiriel did not see it as lucky, in fact, she had been distraught for a good while when she had found out that the light was out of reach. She had become a thing of cold, the warmth and joy of Elune was lost to her. At least when she had been under Arthas’ thrall, she had not thought about what it was like to never be able to commune with nature again. After becoming free she had cried for hours. No matter how hard she tried she would never again feel the wind against her feathers as she flew across the land, or know the magnificence of the Moonkin.

It had been natural for Lothiriel to retreat to the woods of Ashenvale after the defeat of Arthas. However, even the serenity that her homeland brought her could not stop the dreams. Staring into the darkness Lothiriel’s lips pulled into a grim smile as she thought of the lecture her friend Saria would have given her. Dreams were meaningful her fellow druid had said, they were not meant to be ignored. Each druid found their own place in the world, their own destiny that Elune led them to. Naturally, Saria’s had been that of the Emerald Dream. Out of all the casualties of the Scourge War, Saria’s hurt her the most. There had been a few family members that had survived the burning legion, but not many that Lothiriel was close to.

Saria was dead though, and sitting there moping about her would not bring her back. Dawn was beginning to peak over the top of the trees, and with a groan of annoyance, Lothiriel rolled out of bed. She liked her sleep, always had, and the dreams just added insult to injury in that way. She could not remember the last time she had a decent night’s sleep… and a decade was a long time to be so restless. Thankfully, she had very few visitors and when people did come wandering she often avoided them. In the past Lothiriel had her share of good and bad experiences with people. Some shunned her still, and rightly so in her opinion. That she could deal with. It was the small child that had run up to her and asked her to tell her about the glory of war that had froze her to the core. Too many people glorified the brutality of war, perhaps it helped them to sleep at night to hide behind the façade of a hero rather than think of what they had witnessed or what they had done. No one could survive war without getting their hands dirty; Lothiriel had learned that lesson long before she became a Death Knight.

The closest she came to war nowadays was the daily hunt, after all even Death Knights need to eat. Many believed druids to be herbivores, frowning on the killing of animals for any reason. Those that believed that had obviously never known a real druid, and preferred fiction over fact. There were of course those amongst the druids that did follow such a path, but it certainly wasn’t a mandate of their beliefs. Provided that animals were not being killed willy nilly for sport or some other ridiculous notion, the druids of Cenarion Circle left well alone. Part of nature itself was the circle of life, was it not? All creatures were born, lived their life and then died, some giving their life in service to others whether it be war or nourishment so that another life could continue living. They certainly were not supposed to return from the dead…

Snap out of it, she told herself as she pottered around her small hut in her even smaller kitchen. There were those that would claim she was punishing herself just by living such a simple life, submitting herself to such a humble existence for pointless reasons. Another reason why she had headed to one of the most secluded parts of Ashenvale, and why she avoided visitors. She had her own thoughts to berate her, why add anyone else’s to the mix? A simple breakfast of some bread and cheese was all Lothiriel found that she could stomach in the mornings after such a rude awakening. There was nothing humble about her choice of meal it was just logical. She had things to do, there was no time for feeling ill. Not to mention it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. One trait that all creatures had in common; self preservation.

Not every day was the same for the former druid. Some days she would collect fire wood, other days she would replenish her stock of herbs. She rarely stuck to a detailed routine, deciding that morning or the night before what she felt like doing the next day. Many times her tasks would be interrupted, not by her own laziness or others, more often than not it was nature that was the cause of the interruption. A druid she might not be but it still pained her to see nature in distress. When she could, or when nature didn’t flee or recoil from her touch, she did what she could to maintain the natural order of things or aid the creatures of the forest. More often than not this involved helping from afar, such as providing food for an injured animal rather than healing it’s wounds. It was a double edged sword; helping her heal her own wound and at the same time rubbing salt into it.

Today though as the day of the hunt, and if she could Lothiriel would try to take the life of those desperately ill or those who did not have a litter of young ones to feed and protect. She would hunt the predators themselves, contributing to the hierarchy of nature and helping to keep the level of predators equal with that of their prey.

Checking for the third time that she had everything in her pack, Lothiriel collected her weapons; a sword, a pair of daggers and a long bow. The latter was not a fighting weapon, it was purely for hunting. Her aim was decent enough to score her some food, while in the heat of a battle it was terrible. In her past life her preferred weapon had been a stave or dagger, while her most powerful weapon had been her magic as a druid. Once cut off from that Lothiriel had to learn the hard way under the tutelage of the Lich King’s army how to use melee weapons and fight in close combat. Her pack also contained rations for the day, a skinning knife and a few other necessary things for survival. Becoming a Death Knight had not removed Lothiriel’s penchant for being prepared for anything.

Leaving the hut that served as home, Lothiriel’s deathsteed was outside waiting for her as usual. She did not have room for a stable, and she honestly doubted one would house her. The horse she had fondly called Saria had not been named after sentiments alone. The mare and her former friend held the same temperament, and Lothiriel firmly believed that without the mare she would have gone insane long ago. The deathsteed remained with her because it chose to due to the bond each Death Knight shared with their mount. Even when she did not want the mare there she would be, butting her nose in literally. Despite their bond Saria was very much a horse, and like all horses she had her own attitude. Perhaps she could tell that her mistress was not in the mood for her antics this morning, for Lothiriel managed to saddle her and be on her way without any trouble.

The solitude of the forest was what had drawn Lothiriel to it in the first place, and as she rode all she heard was the sounds of nature interupted by the sound of hooves moving through the undergrowth. Beneath that was the sound of her own breathing and that of her mount, something which still continued to surprise her considering both of them were technically very much dead. She still breathed, still bled red blood, and could walk and talk, so why couldn’t she let the whole dead thing slide? How many times had she heard that argument? Lothiriel shook her head, a physical attempt at clearing her mind. No hunter got very far with their head full of cotton wool, she chided herself and spurred Saria into a trot. Perhaps a run would clear her mind so she could get it back on the task at hand. The idea of dining on stewed roots for another night was enough to encourage her.

Hours later Lothiriel’s mind had refocused enough for her to successfully bag herself some deer that would provide her with dinner for the next few days. It had begun to drizzle in the past half hour, which was more of an annoyance than an actual inconvenience. Most animals were not as bothered by the rain as people were, and so Lothiriel had pulled up her hood to shield her face and continued onwards. A few rabbits, possibly a worg and she could call it a day. Saria was not as amused by the drizzle and had become noticeably moody since it had begun. However, she had been trained as a war horse and would never admit that something as silly as the rain bothered her.

Movement caught her eye, and Lothiriel slid from the saddle, giving Saria a pat on the neck as she did so. She recieved a grumpy snort in response as if to say not to worry, she knew what to do by now and no, she wouldn’t do anything to spook the prey. Having a mount so attuned to you was beneficial, but at times like this they were just down right sarcastic. Ignoring the attitude as always, Lothiriel prepared her bow and took aim, only to have a shrill scream ring out through the woods and send the worg fleeing. Muttering an oath about idiots running riot in the forest, Lothiriel pulled herself back into the saddle and went in search of another prey.

Again a scream tore through the woodland, and this time it stopped her. Once upon a time Lothiriel would have never hesitated, she would have charged in and saved the day regardless of the risk to herself. The physical risk still did not deter her, it was the risk to her personal feelings that gave her reason to pause. She had lost count of the times since becoming a Death Knight that her attempts at helping someone had not been taken so gratefully. Even this far from civilisation there were a few people who wandered the forests, and everytime she had this argument with herself. Eventually she would give in, either watch to make sure the person was safe or help and then leave again without a word.

About the Dreamer

Heather is a History of Art graduate and a current English Literature student at the University of Glasgow. She has been writing, drawing and painting all of her life and has steadily transfered her skills to website design and photography. Since the age of thirteen she has created worlds and characters from her extensive imagination and as of November 2012 she has begun work on her first novel; Soul Destiny.

Starting at the beginning

A few weeks ago I went to a lunch with some beautiful ladies from the Bright Eyed And Bloghearted course and I was initially very terrified. I didn’t know what to expect and my gut was telling me to pull out because it was afraid, but I went and had a lovely time. All of the ladies I met were beautiful and wonderful. How could I have thought of missing that? We were all chatting one of the lovely ladies gave me the best idea, she had sat down and drafted out like 50 topics she could blog on. I was like “How in the world could you have done that?” And she told me it was easy. She started at the beginning.

It seems like the most logical place to begin, doesn’t it? Yeah. But I was still confused. I was starting at the beginning, but when I grabbed a pen and my trusty notebook (I feel like Blues Clues…) I realised that starting at the beginning meant going right back to the inception of an idea. Then the plotting, characters, world building before all of the writing.

This is where all the magic comes from.

No one believes just how much work goes into a single novel, oh fellow writers do, but the media or the TV watchers and corporate word, just don’t understand it. There is a lot of work, a lot of tossing and froing that no one sees. Which is why I’m here.

I’m going to break it down for you.

All of it. I’m going to start at the ideas point and work forward. I would really love a helping hand from all of you. Let me know about your ideas and how they come to you, what do you do with them? I need your input. Leave me comments and you’ll see the results in future posts.

The Blog Hop: Four Secrets About My Writing Process

So today I’m actually excited and doing something very different. Finally scanning through my reader on here, I found that Tom had tagged me in a blog hop where I’m spilling some close kept secrets (or not, because I had no secrets on this blog, ha!) about my writing process. This is going to be a little jittery but hey, let’s go!

What are you working on?

Currently I’m working on my first novel’s second draft. It’s been a beast in the making but I’ve also got so many different ideas running through my head. Like today I was walking in the rain and had a cool scene in my head. It may be in another novel or it may be a short story. It’s so hard to sit down and write short stories because I like to explain things and set the scene. Short stories are almost useless to me because of their short nature. I really need to stop thinking that. Oh I’ve also go a passion project going that was a result of a dream.

I also seem to have notes for two non-fiction novels. One is going to be a gift, the other is a gorgeous collaboration with my bestie.

How does your work differ from others in the genre?

I hate genre norms. Hate them. I’m trying to marry about a bazillion things into one. And I don’t hate them because they’re tropes, I just hate clichés. I had my mentor tell me that I had a Bella/Edward/Jacob relationship going on and that actually made me recoil because that is not my genre and I really don’t like the dynamics of that relationship. So I’ve tried to stray away from the typical triangle, it’s still there but I’m trying to make it seem a lot less Twilighty.

Why do you write what you write?

Why do I breathe the way I do? Why do I go to the gym and get results? I feel like this question is such a no brainer. Writing has always kept me sane, even before I realised I loved it. I’ve always wanted to tell a story, it’s like it’s in my blood. I don’t care that I may never make enough money to live off my novels, I strive to make a difference in someone’s life. I know that out there, there is a girl who has felt just like I have, bullied, had the world turn against them, but turning to something as an escape helps heal.

To me writing is an escape. It’s the one place where no one can touch me; where no one can actually tear me down and money worries don’t factor into my life. I can play god and make things happen. The subject matter has never mattered to me (although don’t ask me to try and write outside of my genre, pleaaasee, I will complain and moan but I will do it), being able to make someone feel something is what I am to do. I love making people physically ill with descriptions or make a teacher check my wrists. That is the kind of high that I love.

How was does your writing process work?

This has actually changed. A lot. I used to write just however I felt. I would write out of order and just write to get the story down and while I love this and still do it sometimes. I’ve learned how to write linearly. Basically I need music, I need just the right kind of music and then I sit and write. Some days are hard (action scenes are a bitch to write for me at the moment), some days the momentum is just too great and I can pump out a good chunk of words. But I’m learning that sometimes doing research as I go is a lot easier than doing it all before. It’s hard to really to tell. Each piece is different and I think my writing process changes to reflect that.

I do know that sometimes, or a lot of the time, I procrastinate a hell of a lot more than I should. I need to cut back on that.

 

So there you go, that’s me! Thanks Tom for throwing my name up there. It’s funny that something such as writing can bring some people together, making friends and all that jazz.

Now I’m passing the baton (I feel like I’m back in relay races) to the following lovely ladies:

Mikki at Black Quill Ink

I met Mikki at uni and while she may seem shy and unapproachable she is actually one rockingly strong and beautiful woman. I admire how far she has come and her writing, oh my gosh, I love her writing. She always has a really unique and fresh voice.

Av at Philharomic Heart Strings 

This dreamer (if you haven’t seen it check out her Sharing Sunday post!) is amazing and wonderful all wrapped up in neat tiny person. I love her to death. It’s so easy to talk to her and I really love her writing, even when all I can hear is her voice! Which I guess is a good thing!

Lynda at Reading, Writing and Learning

This might come as a surprise to her (or maybe not) but I was actually intimidated by her, I think it was because she was older and seemed outspoke (I’m really not all that socialable…ha!) but after spending time with her recording her piece for FTCM and spending weekly catch ups during Nano. I’ve learned that she (and her husband) has a charm and wit that I admire. And she’s so gung ho about opportunities too, which is fantastic!

Musically Challenged

There for Tomorrow – Dark Purple Sky

 

I have a confession to make.

I can’t write without music.

It’s almost impossible.

And this book is a beast. It’s been with me for 12 years, in that time I’ve been through a lot, musically.

There are authors out there that I follow that do the same, and some of them, like Laurell K Hamilton, have different sounds for different moments/moods/scenes. Some people find that these are actually boring snippets, but I love hearing about these moments from authors. I can spend hours and house on end just pouring over Twitter and Facebook to find snippets of this. Partly so that I’m not insane and partly because I’m so curious. It’s crazy.

My novel has come through my boy band phase (please Backstreet Boys are still the shit!), my trance stage, my Linkin Park stage, back to my boy band stage before finally whatever writing to whatever song I’m obsessed with. The latter has been the hardest to deal with.

Through November I was writing to Parachute by Lawson on repeat. On. Repeat.

Now most people would be going insane, but I still adore the song and I’m a bit like Pavlov’s dog. Every time I hear the song I want to go and write. So you can figure out how annoying that gets when I’m at the supermarket or on the bus or waiting for a friend and I hear the song. Sometimes I whip out my tablet (samsung galaxy note respectfully) and I start jotting down words in Evernote (LIFESAVER APP!) but most of the time I just ride it out. But this rewrite. It’s a fucking nightmare. I’ve burned through Parachute. Actually burned through. I play it and my brain is like, no. So I switched it up and now I’m struggling to find a song that resonates enough to be played over and over again (and one I haven’t already played to death….Hurricane by 30stm, anyone?). So I’m asking all of you followers out there. Hit me up with some  music requests. I’m picky but I’m open to using new things. Plus I want to hear from you guys.

Does music float your boat when you’re writing? Or doesn’t it and why? Let me know. Leave me some notes!

Ps. if you ever see me tweeting Backstreet Boys lyrics, you know it’s a bad writing day.