The path of the writer.
The question I always inevitably get asked is: “What made you want to become a writer?”
This is an incredibly odd inquiry. Why not ask me why I want to walk on two legs instead of flapping around the ocean like a penguin? I am a writer. I have not become a writer, nor have I somehow learned some secret which nobody else knows.
Perhaps it would be easier explained by me calling myself a storyteller. I have, since emerging from my mother’s womb, been a storyteller. This does not mean I have lied and created stories about who I am or what I do. Reality is still firmly in place for me, and those who know me will tell you I am one of the bluntest and most honest people around. I say it how it is.
No, being a storyteller is something else completely. Imagination has constantly battled within me to break free of the confines of my mind, and it was only when I found the release of writing that I realized what my true calling was.
I remember lying awake at night, creating worlds within my mind, stories I fled into, realms no other could enter. This was my escape from things I had no control over, especially after my father was killed and I began to lose control of my external world – but that’s another story altogether.
These imaginary lands were my escape. Words weren’t my expression then, merely imagination, and I exercised it innately in ways I am astounded I was able to tap into. I was then able to turn these realms into words, another skill I have always found simple.
Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t have my head up my ass and think I know all the answers, because there’s a mountain of stuff for me yet to learn. I’m not blind to reality and know my weaknesses even more than my strengths. I work daily to learn more and more about my craft in the hopes that one day my words might rise up to sit beside those of the greats. What I am saying is that the passion was always there, for as long as I can recall.
I suppose actors might go through similar experiences, as would anyone in the arts. There is a fire inside that burns beyond the barriers that hold others back. There is no time limit, no final goal, merely the need to create more and more, hoping each one is better than the last. Because there is no going back, no quitting, no matter how hard the road seems and regardless of how many tears are shed along the way.
I am a writer. There is no other way.
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Topics: Personal, Serious, Writing | 9 Comments »
The Anticipation.
As some of you have no doubt realized, I’ve just released to an unforgiving world my latest child, a novel named BLACKLISTED. You can read all about this novel on my website if you’re interested. For now all I will say is it centers around the premise of using criminals to fight terrorism; a sort of fire-against-fire concept.
What I would like to discuss with you today is the anticipation of setting free such a thing to fend for itself. Sure, like any doting parent, I can watch over it in the hopes no harm befalls my child, but ultimately the readers hold its life in their hands. They alone can keep alive the dream I envisioned between those pages.
And such a thing is daunting to the extreme.
Any published writer will know what I mean when I say that it’s like sending a child through a daisy field where rabid dogs often roam. At any moment your creation can be savaged and torn to shreds by an unforgiving beast when it merely wishes to exist in the sunlight for a time before moving on.
The only way to protect your creation is to empower it with an inner strength which will shine forth against all odds, regardless of what assails it. Spelling and punctuation help, but they are like armor for the legs but none for the head; good characters are invaluable, but if left without direction they constitute a lance without a point . No, a surviving story combines many factors and a veritable rainbow of devices before it will even come close to enduring in the bitter wilderness of the reader kingdom.
Does mine contain this rainbow? I sure hope so.
But how does one truly know?
Like anything, the true test resides in the real world, not some assessment playground. Sure, I could give it to a test group of a million readers and get back a million glowing responses, but that still wouldn’t be true. For these people haven’t sought out my story of their own volition, haven’t paid out their own, hard-earned money to read my words. No, those testers are merely puppets constrained by rules. The real trial begins now, when my creation is set loose to live or die on its own worth.
Wish me luck!
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Topics: Books, Personal | 9 Comments »
Meet a half-demon created by author Lynn Rush.
Lynn Rush is a wonderful writer from Arizona and her debut novel, WASTELAND, is now published by Crescent Moon Press. I asked Lynn to introduce us to one of her characters in an attempt to get a feel for her writing, and the result is below. I hope you enjoy it and please support this incredibly talented new author who smiles far too much.
MEET DAVID SADLER:
My name is David Sadler, and I’m a half-demon. Before you frown and cast me aside, hear me out.
I did not choose this life. My mother did. More than four centuries ago, she signed my soul away to…better her station in life.
She was a slave. Unhappy with the life Fate dealt her. And, in turn, she sealed my Fate as a soul runner for the devil.
Upon her death, which happened to be the day I was born, my demonic enslavement began. Master raised me in the ways of Lucifer, and like her, I do not like my station in life. But her blood on the contract along with Lucifer’s have indentured me for eternity.
But I will not give them all of me. No. Since my mother was human, I, too, am part human. And I cling to that half of my being with all my strength. I do not always stay in control, and I cannot refuse my Master’s orders, but I can keep from turning fully demon just to spite them.
No. Not just to spite them. To keep a part of me that the darkness cannot touch. Because I hold hope that some day, some how, I will find a way out of my contract.
Maybe that day is today…
Short Bio:
Lynn Rush began her writing career in 2008. She has both an undergraduate and graduate degree in the mental health field and has enjoyed applying that unique knowledge to developing unique characters.
A former inline speed skater and mountain biker, Lynn has been known to test the limits of her athletic endurance. So, when she’s not writing, she spends time enjoying the Arizona sunshine by road biking nearly 100 miles per week with her husband of fifteen years and going on jogs with her loveable Shetland Sheep dogs.
Catch the Rush: www.lynnrush.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/LynnRushWrites
Twitter: www.twitter.com/LynnRush
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/k6NAZa
Amazon: http://amzn.to/pavzwE
Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/pbigOg
All Romance Ebooks: http://bit.ly/nujjjp
You Tube Trailer: http://youtu.be/k-KRE1yMiNk
Book Blurb:
Bound by the blood contract his human mother signed four centuries ago, half-demon, David Sadler, must obey his demonic Master’s order to capture fifteen-year-old Jessica Hanks. But as he learns more about her, he realizes she may be the key to freedom from his demonic enslavement.
The only obstacle—Jessica’s distractingly beautiful Guardian, Rebeka Abbott. He must not give in to their steamy chemistry, or he will lose his humanity. But fresh off a quarter millennia of sensory deprivation as punishment for not retrieving his last target, he may not be able to resist temptation long enough to save what’s left of his human soul.
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Topics: Writing | 15 Comments »
Rejection of a writer’s soul.
I remember rejection in high school, talking to girls and getting my emotions thrown back in my face. Regardless what they said it was always like a hand made of ice had clawed its way through my ribs and wrenched my heart from my chest.
This is so much worse.
Every writer trying to get published knows the anguish of rejection. It’s part and parcel of the traditional route – still the ultimate goal of authors despite the ease of the much improved self-publishing route. And in order to gain the interest of a big publisher, a writer needs a fantastic agent, but unfortunately these are in short-order and the demand is high; thus each person trying this route will ultimately feel the sting of what I speak – and it hurts worse than acid on your soul.
As a writer, you expose a part of your innermost self to the world, like carving open your flesh with a knife as strangers wander past, and they have it in their ability to either caress your wound or pour vinegar upon it.
A rejection letter is like drowning you in gasoline and lighting a match.
It never gets better, no dulling of the edges, no softening of the blow. If anything it becomes worse, each rebuff an axe-blow against your confidence, drawing inexorably closer to the one which will topple you completely. That’s why so few survive, why the successful number less than one percent of the hopeful.
And so the successful writer, indeed any kind of artist, is indeed the wisest fool; a true glutton for punishment. For each blow they push forward, for each cut they ask for more, until their enemy falls and they stand victorious atop the mound of corpses who fell where they stood firm, who gave up when they forged ahead, who changed course when it hurt too much, unable to stand the conflagration of their heart when their soul in words was not enough.
For me there is no question, no option of retreat. This is not something I do, it is what I am, and to give it up because of rejection would be like cutting off my legs because walking was too difficult. I am writing, it defines me and makes me whole, and eventually my words will reach those who matter. Not the ones sitting at desks or punching numbers, but the ones who will feel my song and understand it. They are my readers, my fans, my followers. That is who I write for, and I will not fail.
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Topics: Serious, Writing | 13 Comments »
The Power of an Author
This is something I wrote a while ago but decided to repost it on here for those who may have missed it.
There are many things from my past which I remember with shame. My agent believes this is the reason for my characters’ need for redemption in my stories, I don’t know. The turning point for me was, emotionally, a very painful one. It was a tearing separation with my past self with whom I had relied upon heavily for confidence and strength through aggression and violence.
During this time I found strength within one man’s words. A man I had never met. A surrogate father, whose wisdom shone a beacon of hope through the darkness of my life. This man’s name was David Gemmell, and his writing opened a window into a type of life I had never imagined.
David Gemmell, now sadly passed away, was Britain’s foremost author in heroic fantasy whose stories often utilized flawed characters thrown into impossible situations. LEGEND, for instance, saw an aged warrior battling to protect a decrepit fortress against a veritable ocean of warriors intent on invading their land. Another set of stories was of WAYLANDER who, like Vain in THE DARK PATH, rebels against his nature in order to battle evil.
Anyway, like I said, David Gemmell’s books were like a life preserver to me during that dark time, which I clung to as though my life depended upon it. I will never forget the power his words had, and continue to have, upon me and his death struck like the loss of a close friend.
When I began writing, I remembered this effect. The power an author has to help somebody; the strength of their words moving and inspiring the most powerful thing in a human being – their spirit. I’m not saying that my books have this power, but I would like to think so.
I’d like to hope so….
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Short Story – BLOOD
I’ve noticed my blog getting a little bit too sensitive and flowery for my taste. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I don’t want to suddenly look down and realize I’ve grown a vagina and I’m crying at daffodil commercials. And so I wrote something to remind us all what I truly am. Enjoy.
BLOOD
There was so much of it, covering him, consuming him. He could not escape its cloying effect upon his skin; its bitter, coppery taste as it gagged him.
And he loved it.
Or at least a part of him did.
Part of him rebelled at the things he had done to people he did not know, but the greater part, the stronger part, quashed what little rebellion remained within his mind to such a point he could barely remember his own name anymore. All he knew was the exultation he felt every time he cut open an artery and the hot, crimson liquid of life flowed out and over him.
They would eventually catch him, of that he had no doubt. The lack of control he had shown had resulted in crime scenes thick with evidence – almost as thick as they were with blood – but he didn’t care. The addiction was too strong, the need to cut and tear, maim and chew… he had no control anymore.
In the start he’d had control, or at least thought he had. He could stop himself back then, in fact he had done so on more than one occasion when the morality he still held within had rebelled at his actions.
But no more.
He could no more control these urges than a fisherman could control the tide, and though he might try to stop himself, each time he knew it was futile. Eventually they would catch him, and he would go peacefully, hoping they put him with other prisoners, but if they didn’t… oh well.
For now, however, he had other things on his mind. He stared at the young man who had tried to terrify him in the bar with bravado, mocking him in front of the young man’s friends and prancing like a peacock. He was no peacock anymore, had no cock at all, in fact. The young man had first been angry, then disbelieving, as they all were, then afraid, and now he was terrified.
The crying had finally stopped, but not before he had threatened to slice the man’s eyelids off completely in order to get to the ducts hidden beneath; this was the only way to stop the crying without blinding or killing the victim, and it wasn’t time for killing… yet. He was enjoying this far too much to end it so soon.
For all his bravado, the fight the young man had put up was pathetic in its incompetence. Versed in various forms of martial arts himself, the fact the young man had been so easy to incapacitate and handcuff had been a true disappointment. He had made up for that by slowly severing the man’s feet and sealing the wounds with duct-tape. It really could fix anything.
Such an action was ultimately messy, but he didn’t mind. The blood contained the life, the soul, of the young man, and to be touched by it was like a special kind of sacrament. In a way, what he was doing to the young man was the greatest compliment; he was worshiping his life in a way no other ever would, but the young man didn’t appreciate that, he merely kept trying to scream around the duct-tape sealing his mouth.
The man kept flopping around on the floor like a fish whenever he made a cut, making things difficult. Several times he had come close to nicking an artery, especially when he was working up near the man’s groin, but that was the price he had to pay for working under these conditions. He brandished the scalpel once more and moved forward, deciding this time to take the legs off at the –
SLAM!!!
The door to his storage shed banged open and before he knew it a dozen bodies were converging on him, smashing him into the ground, cuffing his hands behind him. The young man cried out like a bitch as they tore the duct-tape from his lipless mouth.
Stupid cops.
But they’d been smart enough to catch him, and before he knew it he was sitting in a padded cell, restrained in a nice canvas jacket with leather buckles going all the way up his back as well as one which went between his legs. It was very secure.
He was done.
There was no arguing it; he was going to rot in this cell or one exactly like it for the rest of his life. He might not know much, but he remembered the state he was in didn’t support the death penalty, so this was it forever.
No more blood, no more life, no more joy.
Glancing up at the camera, he turned away from it, sitting with his face pointed towards the corner, his legs pulled up towards his chest. This would be difficult to do without getting caught, but those many sessions of yoga would finally pay off, as would his meticulous dental care.
It took a while of nuzzling and digging, but he finally found it and clamped down hard with his incisors, sawing back and forth at the thick leathery texture. On the cameras it would probably look like he was trying to satisfy himself sexually, but by the time they realized what he was actually doing he would be free.
As he felt it start to sever between his teeth, he heard the door open behind him, but they were too late. Once he was free they wouldn’t be able to stop him, not this time. The rushing of feet sounded and he gave a last, final wrench –
And was loose.
The blood from the severed femoral artery in his thigh sprayed hard against the white padding, and he pushed his face into it, savouring the last time, drinking deeply just before hands grabbed him and pushed his face into the ground. But they were too late; the scene was already fading before him.
The last thing he saw was his own blood congealing on his eyeballs, and he licked his lips, savouring the taste for the final time….
Copyright © Luke Romyn 2011
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Topics: Serious, Short Stories, Writing | 7 Comments »
