January 21, 2011

Summertime Shades

As of late, I have been dreadfully delinquent in adorning this little place of mine with new posts. Unfortunately, though it would have made a good excuse, it is not because I have been up to nothing of value. Rather the opposite; my days are long and full with experience and adventure, but the inspiration — and motivation — to record their highlights onto these pages has been lacking, as of late.

However, I shall make a conscious attempt to allow this ignorance to proceed no further, for the joys of having a properly updated blog are immense! So, starting tomorrow, I shall attempt to update this space more often!


Tousled Tales

July 16, 2010

A Memory
Image by rayewillow.

To a seamstress, the art of weaving paper tapestries with words is an addiction; once the eye of the needle has been threaded; once the pen has been filled with ink, there is no stopping the flow of words until all ink has been transformed into characters on paper and opened doors to new dimensions and worlds that only just became.

My inner seamstress of stories and tales has been sewing words onto papers for almost half a year; meticulously and thirsting for more — for a tale does not exist until it can be read. Adventures have unfolded in her lap, as the tapestry has grown increasingly ornate. And eventually, the time she had longed for appeared — the day when she was to admire her story as a whole; when the tapestry was to be hung and flaws about to be corrected.

The tapestry with its glimmering words and whispering thread was a magnificent sight, and she felt her heart pound with a creator’s pride. Stroking the smooth surface, allowing her hands to caress her beloved characters, her fingers however caught hold of a loose thread; a mistake that did not belong.

Determined, she pulled the thread that should not be and removed it, only to find it entangled three other threads. She pulled those too, only to find that the tapestry of her tale fell to pieces before her eyes. In a cloud of dust the words fell off the pages and the tapestry lost its glossy sheen. All of a sudden, the tale and its tens of thousands of words were no more. And the seamstress disappeared — disappointed — into oblivion; unable to sleep nor eat, knowing her tale had been tousled beyond recognition.

A few of the threads, the ideas and words, were still sparkling as she held the stumps up to the light; but most of her creation was fouled and had to be brushed away. With only a few crooked threads in her lap, my inner seamstress is now absent-mindedly staring out the windows of my mind, seeking inspiration to conjure her glossy threads anew and begin to embroider a new tapestry, reminiscent albeit better than the old her strife for perfection tousled and lost.

Beware the man of one book
Image by pyth0ns.

I did not start to think of myself as an amateur writer until a few years ago — shall I be honest, it is not more than two years ago, perhaps three. A friend remarked on a short story I described a picture with, that it would make the perfect beginning of a book. That, in addition to my friend being a writer, inspired me to follow her advice and turn the few lines into a book.

It proved hard, to not say impossible. I worked on and off on the plot for almost two years until deciding it was a hopeless case and that I should leave it and pursue other projects. And so I did; my next story currently growing one chapter at a time whenever inspiration strikes.

Yesterday, however, I remember the story I had abandoned and all but forgotten. I was on the train, riding through the most wonderful beech forests and rolling hills, when I all of a sudden realised that was the very kind of world my very first story was supposed to have been set in.

And, no sooner than I had thought that though, the main character of my forgotten story waltzed into my consciousness with pleading eyes, wondering why she had not heard from me in such a long time.

At that moment, I wondered the very same thing.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realised I am not over her story; I simply do not know how to handle it. In order for her story to be written a fair amount of research is due, but due to the nature of the story itself, I am unsure whether the final product will be worth the effort I would be required to invest in it.

It is food for thought, indeed!

I do have to admit, that I am one of those dreadful people who likes to see results. I do not undertake a project unless I know some success can be derived from it. If I spend hours and hours without end contemplating a story, and months painfully typing it down, I would like to one day see it being enjoyed by others; justifying my hard work.

My forgotten story is however not the kind of story I think would have any chance of ever reaching the hands of others, which brings me to the dilemma which made me abandon my character the first time around; I love her and her story, and I want everything I intended to happen to her to come true, but I don’t believe in the story per se.

It’s painful, to say the least!

But, I am curious, if any of you who read this are writers, have you ever been in the same situation which I have found myself in? How did you solve it? Is there a point in completing a story for personal satisfaction alone? Anything else that comes to mind? Or, do you think some stories are best left short, allowed to speak for themselves?

The Story:

A heavy book lies on a table, its cover says it is several centuries old.
As it is opened, it screams, blinded by the light its pages have been hidden from for so long.
A cloud of dust rises from the ancient pages, the old parchment fragile and dry.

From one of the pages, a face looks out on the world.
It is the drawing of a young woman, who studies the world with interest.
When she was shut inside the book for the last time, the world was so different from what it is now.
She wants to be part of it, but can not as the parchment she is drawn on is the only border she never will be able to cross.