Greg Dickens
First Post
Mega it has been awhile since we have heard from you so from your SH fans lets get to it and update.
Under A Darksun Part II New Allies
megamania
Hero
UNDER A DARKSUN
SEGMENT 134
“The Arena of Balic”
Mania looked across the octagonal tiled surface of the arena. If he was supposed to be impressed he was not. He rubbed absent mindedly at the cuffs on his wrists as he watched two elves walk out onto the field. It was obvious these elves were exceptionally graceful and skillful.
“Watch. Watch and learn” he was told.
He watched and sighed deeply. He was just beginning to think about Cosa when a horn sounded and the two elves began to run …no… hop across the field. It was strange. Then he saw why these veterans of this arena moved this way. Each tile was in truth the top of a large five-foot column that through either magic or psionics moved up and down. There was no sense of reason to the pillars. Some rose or fell slowly. Others rapidly. Some changed direction within a few feet and others rose as much as fifteen feet into the air.
“You have got to be kidding me! You can’t fight on that!” says Mania in shocked awe.
“You can and you will. It is the will our king. It is the will of your owner.”
Owner.
How Mania hated slavery …especially when he was a slave himself. It was the first time and may not be the last time. He was going to get his freedom back however. That was certain. Psionics or not- he was going to escape.
A horn blew again and the pillars slowly receded until they were at the original level. The elves bowed and waved for Mania and the other neo-gladiators to join them. Mania knew what would happen. He and the others were to be beaten and broken by the elves. It would teach them survival. It would teach him how to survive on this unusual arena and how to survive fighting.
“In the beginning, we will go easy on you. We will have no weapons. You will have the clubs. You must collect the flag on the far wall and return to this point.” The elf spits onto a tile. It sizzles and dries up within three seconds.
Mania looks at the others. Most of them would not live long in a standard arena. The mul may in a fair fight but he lacked the grace and wit this arena would require. He knew that for these others to survive, he had to retrieve the flag and quickly.
The two elves went to the center and stood several tiles apart. Mania, the Mul and three other humans lined the wall near the slave entrance. The horn blared and the columns began to rise and fall.
The Movement was surprisingly smooth. Mania rode the column for a few moments. The mul snarled then screamed as he was catapulted by a quickly rising column and he bounced several times on the landing afterwards. The others dropped to their knees and held on. One wetted himself in fear.
The elves began to laugh. They were slowly stepping towards them. They were stepping from one block to another as it rose or fell before them. Sometimes to Mania they were lost from sight then towered above everyone.
Mania began the same movement. He found the movements rough on his knees and back when he stepped from a slow to a fast block. He wanted so much to fight the elves at this point. A rage was growing but he kept it in check. This arena was the greatest adversary ..not the elves.
Mania had moved about 12 blocks into the field before one elf caught him completely off guard. The elf kicked at his legs and successfully tripped him. Mania fell hard but remained on the block. The elf looked down and went to stomp on him. Mania used a rapidly rising column to brace himself as he allowed it to yank him up and he then kicked off it smashing into the rock hard elf. Rock hard yes. Elf no. He missed and was beaten rapidly to his knees. Spitting blood, Mania grabbed his foot and held on.
“What are you?!? A dog in heat! Get off of me dog!” snarls the elf in amusement. He begins to kick at Mania with his free foot as he had hoped. Once the elf was on one foot he tore at the ankle causing the elf to fall back into a falling away column space. The sick thud was good to Mania’s ears. The snarling string of elven curses soured his moment. He made for the flag.
He heard several yells and screams before the elf caught up with him again. The elf was still haunty and superior to him but kept wary and on the defensive. The elf stared at Mania and suddenly the column was very wet then slippery. Psionics! The elf was using psionics to make the column slippery.
Mania lasted all of 18 seconds once he fell back and had the wind knocked from his lungs failing onto a rising column.
Mania awoke later in his cell. His wounds and injuries were treated but not cured. Pain tolerance would also be part of the tests he would endear. Mania was quickly coming to hate arenas as much as slavery in general.
SEGMENT 134
“The Arena of Balic”
Mania looked across the octagonal tiled surface of the arena. If he was supposed to be impressed he was not. He rubbed absent mindedly at the cuffs on his wrists as he watched two elves walk out onto the field. It was obvious these elves were exceptionally graceful and skillful.
“Watch. Watch and learn” he was told.
He watched and sighed deeply. He was just beginning to think about Cosa when a horn sounded and the two elves began to run …no… hop across the field. It was strange. Then he saw why these veterans of this arena moved this way. Each tile was in truth the top of a large five-foot column that through either magic or psionics moved up and down. There was no sense of reason to the pillars. Some rose or fell slowly. Others rapidly. Some changed direction within a few feet and others rose as much as fifteen feet into the air.
“You have got to be kidding me! You can’t fight on that!” says Mania in shocked awe.
“You can and you will. It is the will our king. It is the will of your owner.”
Owner.
How Mania hated slavery …especially when he was a slave himself. It was the first time and may not be the last time. He was going to get his freedom back however. That was certain. Psionics or not- he was going to escape.
A horn blew again and the pillars slowly receded until they were at the original level. The elves bowed and waved for Mania and the other neo-gladiators to join them. Mania knew what would happen. He and the others were to be beaten and broken by the elves. It would teach them survival. It would teach him how to survive on this unusual arena and how to survive fighting.
“In the beginning, we will go easy on you. We will have no weapons. You will have the clubs. You must collect the flag on the far wall and return to this point.” The elf spits onto a tile. It sizzles and dries up within three seconds.
Mania looks at the others. Most of them would not live long in a standard arena. The mul may in a fair fight but he lacked the grace and wit this arena would require. He knew that for these others to survive, he had to retrieve the flag and quickly.
The two elves went to the center and stood several tiles apart. Mania, the Mul and three other humans lined the wall near the slave entrance. The horn blared and the columns began to rise and fall.
The Movement was surprisingly smooth. Mania rode the column for a few moments. The mul snarled then screamed as he was catapulted by a quickly rising column and he bounced several times on the landing afterwards. The others dropped to their knees and held on. One wetted himself in fear.
The elves began to laugh. They were slowly stepping towards them. They were stepping from one block to another as it rose or fell before them. Sometimes to Mania they were lost from sight then towered above everyone.
Mania began the same movement. He found the movements rough on his knees and back when he stepped from a slow to a fast block. He wanted so much to fight the elves at this point. A rage was growing but he kept it in check. This arena was the greatest adversary ..not the elves.
Mania had moved about 12 blocks into the field before one elf caught him completely off guard. The elf kicked at his legs and successfully tripped him. Mania fell hard but remained on the block. The elf looked down and went to stomp on him. Mania used a rapidly rising column to brace himself as he allowed it to yank him up and he then kicked off it smashing into the rock hard elf. Rock hard yes. Elf no. He missed and was beaten rapidly to his knees. Spitting blood, Mania grabbed his foot and held on.
“What are you?!? A dog in heat! Get off of me dog!” snarls the elf in amusement. He begins to kick at Mania with his free foot as he had hoped. Once the elf was on one foot he tore at the ankle causing the elf to fall back into a falling away column space. The sick thud was good to Mania’s ears. The snarling string of elven curses soured his moment. He made for the flag.
He heard several yells and screams before the elf caught up with him again. The elf was still haunty and superior to him but kept wary and on the defensive. The elf stared at Mania and suddenly the column was very wet then slippery. Psionics! The elf was using psionics to make the column slippery.
Mania lasted all of 18 seconds once he fell back and had the wind knocked from his lungs failing onto a rising column.
Mania awoke later in his cell. His wounds and injuries were treated but not cured. Pain tolerance would also be part of the tests he would endear. Mania was quickly coming to hate arenas as much as slavery in general.
Greg Dickens
First Post
No problem those are understandable issues. I know from other threads that writers sometime need encouragement to go on. Just making sure you understand that I think you have great style and depth to your writing and wanted you to keep entertaining all of us that take the time to read.
megamania
Hero
UNDER A DARKSUN
SEGMENT 135
“After the Burning”
She ached from head to toe. She could still smell the burnt embers in her hair. But she was alive. She survived the test.
She and two other young women with light colored hair were tied to a post a few nights before. The two women screamed and cried endlessly. Cosa merely waited for the enemy to expose himself again and hopefully a weakness to exploit.
They were underground in a warm room that smelled of sulfur and ash. She was uncertain if she was still in Balic or a town nearby. The burnt undead man (?) came in. The two women cried again and wailed in terror. Cosa was becoming angry with the women more than this “Sirus”. They needed to grow up was all she could think of. The creature had a jug of foul smelling oil and poured it on each of the three women. He hesitated before each as if to study them. Cosa tried to kick at him but found her legs were tied too well to kick with. Then came the woman again she had seen before. She had a bowl with orange colored power on it. She would pick up a handful and blow it onto each woman in turn while chanting something. Cosa knew it dealt with magic but could not determine what kind.
Then came seven robed persons. They walked in silently and created a circle around the women. From under their folds of their robes they held out flasks and poured them onto the floors. Unnoticed until then, there were grooves cut into the floor that brought the fluid to the base of the three women. Cosa could smell the magic and burning smell of it. Fear was finally rising in her chest. One woman passed out as the next and final person walked in – Sirus.
He was chanting and almost dancing in small steps and short hopes and bounds. Cosa had never seen anything like it before. He chanted then began to pour oil onto himself. Then tossed a bit of powder into the air that landed on him. Then he poured fluid onto his feet. With each step the chanting the others gave rose. It began, as an unheard whisper was becoming very loud.
Cosa felt the heat rise within her now. Something was happening. Something powerful and frightening. Then a torch was thrown onto the fluid and flames chased down the three women and Sirus. His laughter was drowned out by the screams from Cosa and the lone awake woman. Maniacal looks were on the cultist faces. Flames began to consume the two women.
Sirus merely smiled. Smiled and watched as Cosa seemed to not be harmed. She was in fact beginning to calm down.
Her mind raced and raced. She had heard of these kinds of tests. Elemental followers, the clerics, sometimes went through tests like these. To survive met one was destined to become a cleric of the element being used.
Her last thought was- “I am a preserver..a mage. Not a cleric.”
Now, two days have since passed and she wonders. Was she to become a cleric of fire? Why? She had no special feelings or belief for the element. Why would she be chosen?
The events of the last few days were traumatic.
“Where are you Mania? Belinda?” she sobs as she falls asleep again.
SEGMENT 135
“After the Burning”
She ached from head to toe. She could still smell the burnt embers in her hair. But she was alive. She survived the test.
She and two other young women with light colored hair were tied to a post a few nights before. The two women screamed and cried endlessly. Cosa merely waited for the enemy to expose himself again and hopefully a weakness to exploit.
They were underground in a warm room that smelled of sulfur and ash. She was uncertain if she was still in Balic or a town nearby. The burnt undead man (?) came in. The two women cried again and wailed in terror. Cosa was becoming angry with the women more than this “Sirus”. They needed to grow up was all she could think of. The creature had a jug of foul smelling oil and poured it on each of the three women. He hesitated before each as if to study them. Cosa tried to kick at him but found her legs were tied too well to kick with. Then came the woman again she had seen before. She had a bowl with orange colored power on it. She would pick up a handful and blow it onto each woman in turn while chanting something. Cosa knew it dealt with magic but could not determine what kind.
Then came seven robed persons. They walked in silently and created a circle around the women. From under their folds of their robes they held out flasks and poured them onto the floors. Unnoticed until then, there were grooves cut into the floor that brought the fluid to the base of the three women. Cosa could smell the magic and burning smell of it. Fear was finally rising in her chest. One woman passed out as the next and final person walked in – Sirus.
He was chanting and almost dancing in small steps and short hopes and bounds. Cosa had never seen anything like it before. He chanted then began to pour oil onto himself. Then tossed a bit of powder into the air that landed on him. Then he poured fluid onto his feet. With each step the chanting the others gave rose. It began, as an unheard whisper was becoming very loud.
Cosa felt the heat rise within her now. Something was happening. Something powerful and frightening. Then a torch was thrown onto the fluid and flames chased down the three women and Sirus. His laughter was drowned out by the screams from Cosa and the lone awake woman. Maniacal looks were on the cultist faces. Flames began to consume the two women.
Sirus merely smiled. Smiled and watched as Cosa seemed to not be harmed. She was in fact beginning to calm down.
Her mind raced and raced. She had heard of these kinds of tests. Elemental followers, the clerics, sometimes went through tests like these. To survive met one was destined to become a cleric of the element being used.
Her last thought was- “I am a preserver..a mage. Not a cleric.”
Now, two days have since passed and she wonders. Was she to become a cleric of fire? Why? She had no special feelings or belief for the element. Why would she be chosen?
The events of the last few days were traumatic.
“Where are you Mania? Belinda?” she sobs as she falls asleep again.
megamania
Hero
UNDER A DARKSUN
SEGMENT 136
“Belinda’s Activities in the Past Few Days”
Her first thought was to force her way into the holding area where Mania was. However, there were many guards and one a talented Mindbender. Deciding this course of action would get her captured, Belinda withdrew into the shadows.
She slept in the silt-encrusted allies away from the main city where patrols were regularly done. The last thing she needed was for the Templars and their guards to hound her.
She did some investigation the next day and learned that the right hand man of a rich merchant may have taken Cosa. The merchant’s name was Sirus. She got the sense he was a dangerous and powerful man. It seemed they attracted these types. How she sometimes hated the city and its people.
Strangely enough, it turned out this Sirus had connections with Mania’s gladiatorial group also. It was so convenient that she wondered if a Sorcerer King was not involved. One enemy to battle at two separate fronts.
She needed help.
She visited the Crusted Shell on the third day. This place was nothing impressive but it had a powerful secret. The Veiled Alliance had contacts here. Contacts she knew of.
She went in and saw no one she knew. Cassius was not here. He had once come to the Sentinels looking for help to stop the local giants from attacking the farms. There was no Klijarrii. She, if one could call her that, was a survivor of the Pristine Tower Curse. Once a ½ elf, she was now eight feet tall and had thick chitin armor and an acidic spittle. She had hoped for a cure. There is none for the curse of Pristine Tower.
There wasn’t even Bogar. Bogar was a dwarven barbarian whom wanted help saving his tribe from slavers. The Sentinels did save his family and many tribe members. He came here sometimes as a guide.
After a few hours her mind felt a gentle knock. Due to its gentleness she listened. “We can not talk here. Night fall, the Silt Siren.”
She had no idea who contacted her and where the or what the Silt Siren was. It took her another three hours to learn it was a silt skimmer belonging to a certain Froam Hiltgrip. He was a dwarven captain of a silt skimmer that took the rich and powerful to the islands nearby. The islands were a safe place to go and mages paid a hefty fee guarded it from giants.
As it turned out, a few of these mages were of the Veiled Alliance. There was hope once more.
Using her psionic abilities of stealth, she made her way to the skimmer. Froam was waiting for her patiently on the bow. She got closer then realized what was happening. She caught the glimpse of a few city guards. It was a trap to ensnare persons seeking out the Alliance!
She turned and ran but found a ½ giant in the walkway already. Missing teeth replaced with mica winked at her in the light of the two moons.
“Young lady- you have made a great mistake looking for Sirus and the Veiled Alliance. A potentially fatal mistake.”
Turning to face the new foe, Belinda saw a man dressed in a light colored robe that blended in with the silt. She prepared for the worse.
SEGMENT 136
“Belinda’s Activities in the Past Few Days”
Her first thought was to force her way into the holding area where Mania was. However, there were many guards and one a talented Mindbender. Deciding this course of action would get her captured, Belinda withdrew into the shadows.
She slept in the silt-encrusted allies away from the main city where patrols were regularly done. The last thing she needed was for the Templars and their guards to hound her.
She did some investigation the next day and learned that the right hand man of a rich merchant may have taken Cosa. The merchant’s name was Sirus. She got the sense he was a dangerous and powerful man. It seemed they attracted these types. How she sometimes hated the city and its people.
Strangely enough, it turned out this Sirus had connections with Mania’s gladiatorial group also. It was so convenient that she wondered if a Sorcerer King was not involved. One enemy to battle at two separate fronts.
She needed help.
She visited the Crusted Shell on the third day. This place was nothing impressive but it had a powerful secret. The Veiled Alliance had contacts here. Contacts she knew of.
She went in and saw no one she knew. Cassius was not here. He had once come to the Sentinels looking for help to stop the local giants from attacking the farms. There was no Klijarrii. She, if one could call her that, was a survivor of the Pristine Tower Curse. Once a ½ elf, she was now eight feet tall and had thick chitin armor and an acidic spittle. She had hoped for a cure. There is none for the curse of Pristine Tower.
There wasn’t even Bogar. Bogar was a dwarven barbarian whom wanted help saving his tribe from slavers. The Sentinels did save his family and many tribe members. He came here sometimes as a guide.
After a few hours her mind felt a gentle knock. Due to its gentleness she listened. “We can not talk here. Night fall, the Silt Siren.”
She had no idea who contacted her and where the or what the Silt Siren was. It took her another three hours to learn it was a silt skimmer belonging to a certain Froam Hiltgrip. He was a dwarven captain of a silt skimmer that took the rich and powerful to the islands nearby. The islands were a safe place to go and mages paid a hefty fee guarded it from giants.
As it turned out, a few of these mages were of the Veiled Alliance. There was hope once more.
Using her psionic abilities of stealth, she made her way to the skimmer. Froam was waiting for her patiently on the bow. She got closer then realized what was happening. She caught the glimpse of a few city guards. It was a trap to ensnare persons seeking out the Alliance!
She turned and ran but found a ½ giant in the walkway already. Missing teeth replaced with mica winked at her in the light of the two moons.
“Young lady- you have made a great mistake looking for Sirus and the Veiled Alliance. A potentially fatal mistake.”
Turning to face the new foe, Belinda saw a man dressed in a light colored robe that blended in with the silt. She prepared for the worse.
Greg Dickens
First Post
Ok this is kinda long but I thought it might help and no I didn't come up with these just found it on the net.
Writer's Block?
The question of writer's block comes up every time I teach a creative writing class, so I'm going to answer it for once and for all.
If you ever get writer's block, do what I do. Have sex.
Or go watch a movie. Or read a book. Or talk with a friend. Do something. Eat a pizza. Do anything. Just don't worry about writer's block. It goes away eventually, especially since it does not exist in the first place.
Here's the deal. If I commissioned you to write a play about a group of friends united by their love of fried conch, you'd go out and do it because, one, it's a job, and, two, you can write. Piece of cake. Your biggest problem would be doing the research on conch, but the actual writing would be a cinch.
On the other hand, if I commissioned you to go sit down and write a great play and I gave you no further directions, you'd sit on your butt and ponder suicide.
That sitting on your butt and pondering self immolation is what the layman calls writer's block. What do I write? What the heck do I write? My god, I have nothing to write about. My god, nothing is coming out of me. I'm blocked.
No you're not blocked.
Are you deaf? Can you not hear what your inner writer is really saying? I HAVE nothing to write about. Again, there is no such thing as writer's block, but there is such a thing as no assignment.
Writing is a job. Sometimes you have a boss. Sometimes you're self-employed. Either way, you've got lots of work to do. The writer with the boss (journalist, script doctor, ad person, jinglist, jingoist) never has writer's block. Heck, the writer with the boss has too much writing to do.
The self-employed writer, on the other hand, is her own boss, and now I think you see the problem. The self-employed writer has to do TWO jobs: write AND come up with the assignments. When she can't find an assignment, she says she has writer's block. The big lie. That's like a teacher saying he has teacher's block because it's summer and he can't find any kids to teach.
Follow the pen, my brothers and sisters. Follow the pen.
What the self-employed writer has to do, when he can't find an assignment is pick up the pen and write. Just write. It's your job, buddy. So write. Write anything.
"I can't find anything to write about. There is absolutely nothing to write about. The only interesting thing is that story about the dog and the necktie I was putting off to work on over the summer. Actually, that story is pretty good. It kind of reminds me of the way I used to write when . . . ."
And voila! Writer's block is gone, because it never existed.
The other thing you have to remember is that as a self-employed writer, you are not restricted to writing plays--you can write anything. So start following the pen, and maybe it will become an essay, a poem, a page in the journal, some crappy ten pages of ramblings about a mutt and a necktie, a play, a great play, whatever. It doesn't matter because you are your own boss, and thus, the only standard you set for yourself is that you find TRUTH in everything you write.
So . . . if you want to write more and feel less of that thing called writer's block that we both agree does not exist, then you must go out and get yourself a job as a writer (see list above in paragraph 7).
Or give yourself more structure as a
self-employed writer. "I am going to write two pages of dialogue in my new play every day for a month. Then I am going to write a page of synopsis of a future project every night." Then follow your rules. This rigor will work to trick the mind into thinking that you are answering to some boss who requires two pages of this or that each day or she will withhold your paycheck. There are other techniques like that, which you can find in every beginning creative writing textbook.
But, come on, it's all smoke and mirrors, really. You don't need that stuff. Structure. Groannn. Yuck. That's why you're self-employed in the first place! You hate structure. You want the freedom of writing only when it is fresh and original and novel . . . I think the word I'm searching for here is "inspired." You want the freedom to write only when you're inspired. INSPIRATION is your boss. INSPIRATION tells you what assignments to work on.
But sometimes when you sit around waiting for inspiration, you kinda feel like nothing will ever come. You kinda feel like you have writer's block. Here we go again.
Your problem is you want to have your cake and eat it, too. You want brilliant inspiration to flow from your pen, but you're too lazy to treat writing like a job and do it every day so that you get better at it and better at it until every time you pick up your pen the muses obey YOUR commands.
You want to spend months away from writing while you PLAY AT being a writer, in your smoking jacket, at those chic gatherings, where all the cool writers who, like you, have mastered the "writer's look" hang out--and then, finally, when all the parties have ended, you, with your writing muscles flabby from disuse, expect to just sit down and demand brilliance to flow.
Then when, surprise, surprise, it does not come, you claim writer's block.
That's not the way it's done, my brothers and sisters. If you want to be a writer, you'd better pick up that pen.
Every day.
And enjoy the pizza
--Preston L. Allen,
Author of
Bounce
Churchboys and Other Sinners
Hoochie Mama
Come With Me Sheba
Writer's Block?
The question of writer's block comes up every time I teach a creative writing class, so I'm going to answer it for once and for all.
If you ever get writer's block, do what I do. Have sex.
Or go watch a movie. Or read a book. Or talk with a friend. Do something. Eat a pizza. Do anything. Just don't worry about writer's block. It goes away eventually, especially since it does not exist in the first place.
Here's the deal. If I commissioned you to write a play about a group of friends united by their love of fried conch, you'd go out and do it because, one, it's a job, and, two, you can write. Piece of cake. Your biggest problem would be doing the research on conch, but the actual writing would be a cinch.
On the other hand, if I commissioned you to go sit down and write a great play and I gave you no further directions, you'd sit on your butt and ponder suicide.
That sitting on your butt and pondering self immolation is what the layman calls writer's block. What do I write? What the heck do I write? My god, I have nothing to write about. My god, nothing is coming out of me. I'm blocked.
No you're not blocked.
Are you deaf? Can you not hear what your inner writer is really saying? I HAVE nothing to write about. Again, there is no such thing as writer's block, but there is such a thing as no assignment.
Writing is a job. Sometimes you have a boss. Sometimes you're self-employed. Either way, you've got lots of work to do. The writer with the boss (journalist, script doctor, ad person, jinglist, jingoist) never has writer's block. Heck, the writer with the boss has too much writing to do.
The self-employed writer, on the other hand, is her own boss, and now I think you see the problem. The self-employed writer has to do TWO jobs: write AND come up with the assignments. When she can't find an assignment, she says she has writer's block. The big lie. That's like a teacher saying he has teacher's block because it's summer and he can't find any kids to teach.
Follow the pen, my brothers and sisters. Follow the pen.
What the self-employed writer has to do, when he can't find an assignment is pick up the pen and write. Just write. It's your job, buddy. So write. Write anything.
"I can't find anything to write about. There is absolutely nothing to write about. The only interesting thing is that story about the dog and the necktie I was putting off to work on over the summer. Actually, that story is pretty good. It kind of reminds me of the way I used to write when . . . ."
And voila! Writer's block is gone, because it never existed.
The other thing you have to remember is that as a self-employed writer, you are not restricted to writing plays--you can write anything. So start following the pen, and maybe it will become an essay, a poem, a page in the journal, some crappy ten pages of ramblings about a mutt and a necktie, a play, a great play, whatever. It doesn't matter because you are your own boss, and thus, the only standard you set for yourself is that you find TRUTH in everything you write.
So . . . if you want to write more and feel less of that thing called writer's block that we both agree does not exist, then you must go out and get yourself a job as a writer (see list above in paragraph 7).
Or give yourself more structure as a
self-employed writer. "I am going to write two pages of dialogue in my new play every day for a month. Then I am going to write a page of synopsis of a future project every night." Then follow your rules. This rigor will work to trick the mind into thinking that you are answering to some boss who requires two pages of this or that each day or she will withhold your paycheck. There are other techniques like that, which you can find in every beginning creative writing textbook.
But, come on, it's all smoke and mirrors, really. You don't need that stuff. Structure. Groannn. Yuck. That's why you're self-employed in the first place! You hate structure. You want the freedom of writing only when it is fresh and original and novel . . . I think the word I'm searching for here is "inspired." You want the freedom to write only when you're inspired. INSPIRATION is your boss. INSPIRATION tells you what assignments to work on.
But sometimes when you sit around waiting for inspiration, you kinda feel like nothing will ever come. You kinda feel like you have writer's block. Here we go again.
Your problem is you want to have your cake and eat it, too. You want brilliant inspiration to flow from your pen, but you're too lazy to treat writing like a job and do it every day so that you get better at it and better at it until every time you pick up your pen the muses obey YOUR commands.
You want to spend months away from writing while you PLAY AT being a writer, in your smoking jacket, at those chic gatherings, where all the cool writers who, like you, have mastered the "writer's look" hang out--and then, finally, when all the parties have ended, you, with your writing muscles flabby from disuse, expect to just sit down and demand brilliance to flow.
Then when, surprise, surprise, it does not come, you claim writer's block.
That's not the way it's done, my brothers and sisters. If you want to be a writer, you'd better pick up that pen.
Every day.
And enjoy the pizza
--Preston L. Allen,
Author of
Bounce
Churchboys and Other Sinners
Hoochie Mama
Come With Me Sheba
megamania
Hero
wow
didn't see that coming.
I hope set aside some time soon (holiday break) to write Darksun and finish writing Strikeforce. Its not as much writer's block as an inspiration thing. I love Darksun but I have recently gotten into Eberron and my creative jiuces seem to be flowing into that lately.
Throw in the 65 hour work weeks, family and so on and so on.
Thankyou for the time you used to help me. I do apprteciate it.
Andrew aka megamania
didn't see that coming.
I hope set aside some time soon (holiday break) to write Darksun and finish writing Strikeforce. Its not as much writer's block as an inspiration thing. I love Darksun but I have recently gotten into Eberron and my creative jiuces seem to be flowing into that lately.
Throw in the 65 hour work weeks, family and so on and so on.
Thankyou for the time you used to help me. I do apprteciate it.
Andrew aka megamania
