Stories need a roof over their heads too
Dallas lit a cigarette. Slowly. Deliberate. Hated the damn things, he just couldn’t help himself. He did enjoy the build-up, though. Like busting out his Zippo lighter. Hefted it in his palm. Set it against the base of his thumb, the cold metal pressing into his skin. Thing was more ancient than ancient, really. Only a few spots of red and blue paint remained on the case.
A few days ago, I read an insightful post from a fellow writer, April Dávila, discussing the delicate art of stealing (be sure to check out her blog, lots of great articles there). She might not have used the exact same words, but here’s my takeaway: There’s a thief lurking within every writer. No two ways about it. You just might not have envisioned your fellow writer/author/marketer/publicist this way before.
Continue reading “Thieves in Broad Daylight – Writer’s Toolkit, Part I”
You remember the bowl Dumbledore used to store his memories in? He would use his wand to literally pull them out of his head, silver threads he’d then add to the swirling mass in the bowl. Harry then plunged into it to observe the past and whatnot. A pensieve, it’s called. For some reason, it’s one of the scenes from Harry Potter that stuck with me most, throughout the years. The concept is cool. I mean, who wouldn’t want to store their memories in a safe place and then watch them for entertainment with a bucket of popcorn in hand? The good memories, mind you. Alright, probably not the bad ones.
Anyway, as I was reminiscing about this scene it occurred to me Albus Dumbledore might just be an impersonation of every single writer that’s out there. Read on after the jump, to find out why I think so.
They said he was tall, tall as a mountain. His eyes shone bright as burning coals, they whispered, and his horse’s hooves sent sparks flying whenever it struck the ground. They told stories, of the faceless knight and his black horse, and of how they were four once. Now only the one remained, roaming the land. No one knew what drove him, nor what his destination was. Yet all accounts agree on one thing – he never took off his helmet.
Tucked away amid snow-capped mountains a thousand thousand years old, hidden behind a wall of forest thick and impenetrable and green, there lay a lake, its waters crystal-clear. You could be standing on the tip of any of the seven and one towers rising to vertiginous heights above and you would still be able to see the mountain trout swimming at its bottom, so pristine it was. On starry nights, you’d need but gaze into the waters and the crown of heavens was right there, within reach. Indeed, you have never seen a lake like so, until you rested your gaze on it.
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away there was this charming prince who –
(cue vinyl record rewind sound effect)
Hate to disappoint, but today’s not a day for princes charming saving damsels in distress. Instead, I have a think piece on something that is very dear to me and occupies a lot of my time these days. Languages. More specifically, I’ve a few thoughts on the business of languages. Funny story, actually, how I wound up in it.
Dear Visitor,
It’s been a while, since last we met. You showed up unexpectedly, as you usually do. I’ve come to expect no less from you – your arrival unannounced, no heads-up you’re on your way, then a knock on the door in the middle of the night. For some reason, you never stick around for too long. Perhaps it’s the nights which are too short. Come morning, I can barely recall you came. Your passage is but a fading memory. I wake up wishing perhaps next time it’ll last longer.
I haven’t been spending much time with video games lately. That’s what not having an internet connection at your new home in this age for well over a month does to you (though I’ve certainly been busy with a bajillion other things). I’m itching for a good long playing session, just me, my gaming rig and whatever mob needs kicking its ass or world needs saving. This extended hiatus got me thinking what is it about games that has turned them part and parcel of our lives?
The road goes ever on, that’s how the song goes. Now, I don’t know about you, but I often wonder at its destination. I’m frequently (daily?) asking myself whether I’m on the right track at all. But that’s probably just me, indulging in too much introspection.
I have been meaning to write this for a while now. But, like when you’re about to tell your girlfriend it ain’t working anymore and it’s time to go your separate ways, it hasn’t been as effortless to put pen to paper this time around. Turns out, some ends are just as difficult as starting something new. I need to get this out of the way though and just say it: Paris, I love you.