Tuesday, September 27, 2016

these stories

via pinterest
cry of hope: churning ocean waves, Indian arrowheads, lonely seagulls, thick Bibles, salt, gentle brown eyes, canal barges, homesickness, flickering flames, death's presence, stiff frozen fingers, sunsets, luscious red earth, crushing fear, chapped lips, hope.

sensical nonsense: chocolate milk, the Golden Gate bridge, whimsical dancing, thick rimmed glasses, little white rats, Christmas trees, poetry, clunky cars, "wouldn't it be nice", musty libraries, teddy bear bread, yellow shoes, giant rain puddles, public transportation, soul mates, nonsense.

ain't we got fun: star-filled skies, wobbly ice skating, glasses of milk, messy curls, trains, Kansas prairies, church steeples, handsome journalists, vibrant cities, red hair, comforts of home, "Little Women", many coffee cups, sisters, twisted ankles, wildflowers, daydreams, fun.

little red kites: soda parlors, giant oak trees, rusty pickup trucks, cloudy days, jitterbugs, blue-green dresses, air raid drills, valedictorian speeches, telegrams, soulful blue eyes, crippling memories, soldiers, sunflower fields, college libraries, falling in love, little red kites.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

the start of something new

via
Help! I've forgotten how to write!

Or so it feels. Having been at college for a year as well as living out a lazy, crazy summer, I've hardly typed out a single creative word. Oh, of course, I've written a couple short stories, a handful of papers, and even a full program on the making of a short film, but that is the full extent of it.

I've started working on a new novel. It's absolutely darling, especially as I adore the era in which it's set. I love the idea behind the story, I love the setting, and I'm learning to love the characters. The heroine and I have similar flaws and tastes, and there's also a typical big brother figure that I love to write. Somehow, however, I've managed to hit that road block only thirteen pages in. It's not quite writer's block. I think I'd label it writer's discouragement, stemmed from rereading previous paragraphs too much.

Whenever I finish a novel or novella, I'm always struck with a fear that I will never write another novel again. That haunting fear that... well, that this is it. There's no more creativity left in me. Or at least, not enough talent to be able to pound out the ideas that seem so grand in my head.

I've resorted to my usual remedies. Chocolate. (Sorry, Em, haven't actually tried the coffee trick yet.) I've listened to dozens and dozens of inspiring songs. I've surfed Pinterest. Somehow they only stamp me deeper into this rut. Seeing so many astonishingly beautiful creations of other people only makes me long to make something beautiful even more, and it slams lies into my head that I cannot and will not ever make something as beautiful as they have. And perhaps I won't. Perhaps I can't.

I think I've stumbled across the answer I need. I think the answer is the exact verse Nike keeps repeating to us. Just do it. Just write. Keep writing and don't look back. Editing will happen later. Polishing will happen later. Rough cuts are specifically rough cuts. Write and enjoy it. It doesn't have to be perfect. It never will be. But it can be beautiful anyway.

So I think I'll just keep swimming. Just keep writing. Someday, Little Red Kites will be a completed novel. And on that note, I'll leave you with this darling clip. Pretty sure I've unashamedly developed a crush on Fred Astaire.


If you have any tips for overcoming this familiar writer's block, 
I'm more than eager to hear them!

Thursday, September 8, 2016

frostbite

I've discovered that collaborating with other writers is sometimes a lot more fun than writing on my own. (Ain't We Got Fun, anyone?)

My friend, Andrew, is a writer. He is, however, a writer of screenplays. So awhile ago, when he asked to take my character, Jeremiah Frost, and attempt a short story on him, I was partly excited and partly worried about handing over my dear Frost to him. (Any other writer ought to understand this. Our characters are our children.)

Well, Andrew took my character and scribbled out a pretty intriguing story. And quite accidentally, it took on a more script-like form. Because of this, I then asked to take my character back, along with his story idea, and I twisted it to fit a flash fiction style.

So without further ado, I give you Frostbite. 

via
Well, this was a nice piece of luck. I kicked the tire of my motorcycle, growling. The air was cold on the mountainside, and the woods thick. I could barely see pass the bend in the road ahead as it disappeared into a fog of pines.

Unsure of what to do, I sat down on the side of the road to think. A snowflake fluttered down from the dark sky, sizzling as it dropped onto the warm engine of my beastly bike. I pulled my leather jacket closer, biting my lip as I considered walking to the next town. How far was it? I hadn’t passed a road sign in miles. Running away seemed like a good idea at first, I thought. Now it seemed to be the end of me.

Suddenly a mournful hum filled the air. I froze. It wasn’t the eeriest sound I had heard that day, but it sounded like the absence of hope itself. On the contrary, however, it sent a surge of hope through me, and I leapt to my feet as the sputtering jeep rounded the bend and into sight. I waved my arms above my head, slightly crestfallen at the sorry picture. This was to be my rescue?

I bound forward as the jeep ground to a halt next to me. The door was pushed open, and the shadowy figure of a man stepped into light. I blinked, finding myself staring up at a tall, thin fellow. I guessed he could be called an average man at first glance, but something about his eyes caught me off guard. They weren’t shady by any means. No, they were sad. Very, very sad.

I almost thought I recognized him.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, his gravelly voice quickly fading in the thick woods.

“Yeah, my darn bike ran out of gas,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets and ignoring the burning embarrassment that seethed in my head. It was the bike’s fault, I tried to convince myself, however silly that was. Not mine.

The man merely stared at me. Was he … was he teasing me for my ignorance? I shifted uncomfortably, trying to avoid his gaze. He was searching me, I decided. Did he think I was planning to rob him? Finally I said, “I know I’m the one stranded here, but you seem to be the one lost, mister.”

The man shook his head, giving me a half-hearted smile. “No.”

I waited for an explanation, but that was all he said. He continued to stand there, outside his jeep, with his hands in his jean pockets. I tried again. “I’m Dawson,” I said. “And you are …?”

“Jeremiah Frost.” He held out his hand, and, relieved, I shook it. “It’s good to see you, Dawson.”

He said it like he knew me, and that sent a strange haunting sensation up my spine. More so, I felt I knew him. His name niggled my mind. But I still couldn’t place that face. I was certain I had never met him in my life.

“Well,” I said, after a moment, “could you give me a lift to town, Mr. Frost? My bike isn’t doing me a lick of good, and it’s getting dark.” Already the orange streaks above the trees had vanished, and the purple haze of dusk was settling in. The darkness among the forest seemed darker now than before. I squinted, trying to see deep into it as I went to grab my knapsack from the back of the motorcycle. “Could you give me a lift to the next town?” I asked again, as he hadn’t replied before.

“No,” came the surprising answer. Frost turned, walking to the back of his jeep.

I blinked and then lunged forward, swinging the knapsack over my back. “Please,” I begged, just as I used to beg Dad when he refused something to me. He always refused me. “Take me to town. I’ll pay you. I’ll …” I noticed him pulling a gasoline can from the back of the jeep.

“I always take this with me, in case of emergencies,” Frost explained, handing it to me. I swallowed, breathing again, as I took the rusty can from him. I fingered the handle, looking down. “I’d consider this an emergency.”

“Thank you,” I said. And I meant it.

He nodded. I didn’t see him nod, but I knew he did. I turned back to my bike, setting the can on the ground as I strapped my knapsack again to the back. I heard Frost’s jeep rev up, choking and sputtering as if it wouldn’t keep going. But it did.

I turned, watching him climb back into the beat-up vehicle. He turned his head toward me, and in the darkness, I saw tears glinting on his cheeks. I fought back the choking sensation that unexpectedly welled up in my throat, and I called, “Goodbye. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Dawson.” Then the jeep sputtered and carried him around the bend.

I turned, pouring the gasoline into the tank on my bike. I frowned as the feeling that I had met this man before grew stronger in my mind. Then I dropped the can as it suddenly rushed back to me.

Hurriedly, I tore open my knapsack and pulled out the book. I squinted, trying to see in the thin light. Its cover and pages were worn; I must’ve read it a dozen times. And now, as I looked at the author’s biography, I saw the face. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t seem to know how to smile. He looked younger, for there weren’t as many years of toil and care etched into his skin then. But there was great wisdom in his blue eyes, and sorrow. Much sorrow. And there was no denying it was the same man in the jeep.

Surely that fact should have shocked me enough, but as I read the dedication in the front, a chill crept into my very soul. “To all those lost and worn, with no way forward and no way backward. To those stranded, and to those with no hope. May these stories help you find your way.” — Jeremiah Frost

Friday, September 2, 2016

the beginning of fairies

via
What is life?

Life is a series of spilled milk and gooey cookies. Life is bare feet on the summer lawn and nightmares in the eerie dead of winter. Life is snowflakes and rental bills and Fourth of July fireworks and all different kinds of smiles. There are and always will be little girls with an affection for ponies and stars that light up the night sky and dreams that crash to earth and boys who leave. Headaches and belly laughs go hand-in-hand in this broken, fed-up, beauty-filled world.

In this twenty-first century, first world country, grownups get jobs and make families. Babies giggle and wail, children anticipate summer camp, and teenagers do ridiculous things because they think they can.

In this twenty-first century, first world country, I write. I dream. I laugh. I cry. I weep because my heart breaks, and I bask in the glorious moments that float my way. I've leapt off cliffs into lakes, I've written three novels, I've become characters in many plays, and I've traveled. I've visited castles and floated down lazy rivers. I've eaten snow cones, and I've watched one too many Office episodes.

Life is a precious thing. Sometimes I feel as if it's so precious that I cannot stand to let the moments leave me. I can't bear to let them out of my sight or thrown out into the world to be trampled upon. This is my life, and I want to live it.

But I also write. I write to taste life twice, as a wise author once stated. I write to collect my wild thoughts and add a pinch of coherency to the madness. I write the things I feel comfortable sharing, and sometimes I bare bits of my soul simply to reach out to other humans who think, feel, fear, and hope. Just the same as me. It's simultaneously comforting and terrifying opening up to a stranger.

So hello, world. You've seen me in this corner before. I've sat here on my bed, typing up various stories that came to mind. Or talked about the simple realities of life. I've hopped from “A Thousand Words” to “Entirely Bonkers” … and now I'm introducing myself in this bubbling corner called “Second Star.” It's full of flying books and Neverland dreams; frothy lattes and broken wings. There will be stories and ideas scattered across the coming posts, and there will be laughs, and maybe there will be a miracle or two.

Welcome to my new corner. Welcome to Second Star.