Hello, World! I’m back with a short post today because I’m ironing out the revisions for Part 4 of Rue From Ruin.
In the meantime, something exceptional arrived in the mail today. You could call it an early birthday present.
I recently ordered some swag from K. M. Alexander‘s website, and this is the first day I got to hold it in my hot little hands. I haven’t reviewed K. M.’s books here, although I have on Amazon and Goodreads.
I can sum his work up in two words: READ IT.
The world of Waldo Bell is so wonderfully realized and beautiful. Upon reading The Stars Were Right I immediately despaired that I would ever achieve such mastery in the craft of writing. I asked K. M. how he got everything so perfect, and I’ll paraphrase his response: “My work wasn’t always this good. The books are what they are as the result of a lot of hard work and practice.”
The words had the intended effect and I continued to work on my writing.
It goes without saying that he is also incredibly attentive to details. Any work K. M. puts his name on is delightfully fantastic. To illustrate this point, I’m going to share some unboxing photos I took today.
My lesson for the day (mainly for myself) is that great art requires a creative, attentive, and detailed mind. It is inspiring to see what can be produced by someone who has honed these skills.
Enjoy the pictures and please ignore the fact that I’m a horrid photographer.
Envelope with the stamp of the City of Lovat.Look what’s inside!The patch I ordered and a caravan employee registration form to go with it. It even has Waldo Bell’s signature!Bookmarks, stickers, and pins. Such cool swag!
There are so many distractions,
The world conspires.
Writing is a priority,
Don’t get that wrong.
Found enigma of obsession,
In minute non-art.
Writing shall fail to come to be,
Feels confronted.
Bring forth the life of life undone,
To eat feast of not.
Writing nourishes the me,
Of harmony.
Advancement of self consumes much,
but this too shall pass.
Writing in the night sets mind free,
To wander now.
WLM
—-
A poet I’m not. This one brought to you by the need for focus. Consider it my form of doodling. I’m going to have a new installment of Rue From Ruin for you this Friday. I’m editing right now. Well. I’m editing this post. I’m also editing Rue Part 3. It’s close.
If you’re feeling like me, it might be a good time to go back and read about The Law of the Bamboo Tree.
Yesterday morning (yes, 2:00 AM counts as morning) I read an article by David Farland. The clickbait on Twitter was something along the lines of: “All the Internationally Bestselling Authors I Know Use This One Neat Trick”.
Mr. Farland has mentored incredibly successful wordsmiths, including some of my favorites, so I clicked the link. In the post, he goes on to say:
Over the past three decades, I’ve helped a number of writers reach the point where they’ve become international bestsellers, and I’ve spotted a trend. Most bestsellers attract an audience in part because they are charismatic.
-David Farland
So, most authors who’ve achieved worldwide fame and fortune are very charismatic. Great. I don’t want to be a celebrity of any kind, although a little fortune might not hurt.
I don’t disagree with Mr. Farland’s statement. He also draws parallels between charisma and four characteristics he says comprise it: competence, willingness to show vulnerability, confidence, and friendliness. If you have the right minimums, he says, you can be anywhere on the scale with each. For example, super competent people don’t need to be as friendly and vice versa. Incredibly friendly people don’t have to show as much vulnerability, etc.
To me, this was the saving grace of the article; I’m not the most friendly person… I’ve been told that sometimes I come off like a jerk because I don’t regularly think before I speak.
It’s true.
Other times, my brain takes off in a wholly different direction from the conversation at hand, because someone mentioned a problem my cerebrum thinks it can solve. Yes, I have “squirrel syndrome”. The awkwardness sets in when I start to get excited about a side quest in my head, and I can’t stop myself from interrupting to tell people about it.
So, I will continue to practice writing, and hopefully I’m getting better. I need to get higher on the competence and confidence scales, because no one will think that buying my books is a good idea based on shining good nature alone!
This post brought to you by an animation of a few of the many pictures I took of a squirrel in Washington DC last year. Yes, surrounded by breathtaking monuments in our nation’s capital, I was taking photos of a squirrel.
Today I had the pleasure of reading A Psalm Of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The following is the last line:
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Recently, Richie Franklin shared this beautiful psalm by Longfellow with my writer support group. Regretfully, I couldn’t read it when he posted the poem, but I opened it in a browser tab for future perusal. I’m a terrible tab hoarder and will keep as many as 50 open at once.
Time passed, as time does, and soon at least a month had gone by — I know, I’m pathetically busy at times. Today I had a little more time on my hands than usual, and I started closing out ancient tabs by reading them or by deciding they weren’t important and killing them without wasting my time. I’m so glad I was able to be in the right state of mind to read and enjoy this beautiful work.
Much more eloquent than I could even aspire to be, Longfellow reminds us to be present in the present, work hard, be patient, and enjoy the fruits of our labors. Oh, and make the best of everything life has to offer.
Wonderful advice for this era of near-instant gratification.
This post brought to you by the most patient dog I’ve EVER SEEN:
Well hi there! I hope you, my three readers, enjoy this next part of my Serial Story. You may have heard it has a title now: Rue From Ruin.
Special thanks to K. M. Alexander and J. Rushing for helping me nail down a name I really like. If you want to know more about the title, shoot me a comment here or a question on Twitter. Extra special thanks to Drew Gerken and my wife Meri for all the proofing/editing help on short notice. I owe you all!
Writers: if you don’t have a writing support group as delightful as these fine people, then your writing will probably be worse than mine. Did I write that? Obviously no one proofed this intro.
If you are wondering: WHAT IS THIS SERIAL STORY THING? GAAAAHH! Please refer to Part 1. There, you will find a beginning. You may also wish to note: Part 2 is not the end. If you only enjoy stories if they end as soon as you read them, come back when Rue From Ruin is done. Without further ado…
Rue From Ruin – Part 2
6:30 AM
I scrunch up my face. It’s a futile attempt to keep a single, dust-filled ray of sunlight from playing directly across my eyes. The air must be filled with pollen and particles. I can smell the hay. Out of reflex, I brace myself to stifle a non-existent sneeze, even though allergies no longer plague me as they once did. I open my eyes a crack to glare at the offending gap in the wall of whatever building I’m in.
Apparently a huge mistake. The sun is low on the horizon. It is waiting there to greet me, and I regret my decision instantly. I flop over, clamping my eyelids down again and feel the sharp poke of what can only be more miserable hay digging into my bare skin. Something gives way beneath me, and I fall a short distance with a thump. Dull pain begins to pulse through my shoulder and hip.
“Ow!” I say. I hear a nearby horse snort and immediately regret the noise I’ve made. If I know anything, I know being discovered naked on someone else’s property won’t win friends or influence people no matter what country you are in. Unless you are trying to influence them to bring out a pitchfork or a shotgun. I lie very still listening for anything and notice only the thumping of my own heart and the sound of birdsong somewhere outside. My ears are much keener than they once were, and they aren’t picking up much until an abrupt electrical buzz like a cattle prod startles me.
Time spent on Grandad’s farm quickly informs me that this is only the sound of a controller for a wired electrical fence. The device is cycling its pulses of power. I remember my older cousins taunting me into touching a live wire. The event spawned a deep appreciation for the way the device cycles so that grabbing hold didn’t cause my muscles to convulse, unable to let go as I slowly electrocuted.
I focus on breathing, forcing myself to relax, and open my eyes.
Immediately, I remember to check my neck, and I am relieved to find the leather strap and pouch containing the ingredients for my tincture are still there. Looking down at my unclothed form, I feel a pang of sadness and regret. There is blood covering my fingers and hands. It speckles my forearms, abdomen, and chest. No doubt my face is covered as well; as I focus, I feel it cracked and dry around my mouth and inhale the strong metallic scent. I grab some hay, trying without success to wipe the blood from my mouth. My senses reach out, frantic, searching for a trail of trauma and find it with ease. The body must be close.
Don’t lead to a farmer or a kid, or some other person, I thought. Let it be HIS blood. Just this once, let luck be on my side.
Cautiously, I follow the trail down the steps from the hayloft where I had been sleeping. I note the horse I heard a moment before in one of the stalls is a black Mérens stud. He rolls his eyes at me and shuffles in his stall but is otherwise quiet. I don’t smell death coming from the stalls and say a silent prayer that it isn’t coming from the house. I silently pad across the dirt floor to the building’s only exit. The few tiny pebbles on the ground don’t bother my feet as much as the clinging layer of filth sticking to their sweaty, calloused bottoms.
Once, I braved the dangers of a Lego-strewn floors with those feet; I would give anything to trip, cursing at the plastic caltrops of parental doom again. A tear finds its way out of my eye and courses down among the dried blood on my face as I remember why I’ll never be swearing at building blocks again.
The electrical fence controller buzzes again, but I’m expecting it now.
Peering out of the slightly ajar barn entrance – I again rely on my heightened senses. There doesn’t seem to be anyone nearby, and people are easy to pick out by smell. A sickly sweet scent is coming from the right of the door, away from the small french-styled rock cottage. I ease the door open and sprint to the edge of the barn, looking over my shoulder as I go. Hoping no one takes notice of the pale, naked, and blood-drenched man running through the barnyard, I dodge around the side of the large outbuilding. The scent of copper is stronger here, mixed with the foulness of something disemboweled. There, farther down the side of the weather-worn barn is the remains of something black and hairy, but not quite so large as a man. I think it’s… a goat?
I breathe a huge sigh; relieved Bordeaux did not pay too dearly for my decision last night. There must have been a reason I came here instead of returning to my clothes.
Right. Clothes… and a bath. Probably not in that order.
Those problems need to be sorted out before picking up the trail. I can’t delay or risk being run-in to a French jail on indécence charges. My window of time is brief. Losing the trail of the Professeur again is not an option.
Finally able to focus, I can see a sign of his passage. The hunt is on.
Stories. Games. Storygames. 