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Meanderings of an Untamed Mind

(AKA, a writer’s blog)

The young girl, no older than ten or twelve, is running through the thick, damp, forest with the heedless abandon of one chased by nightmares. The thick bed of fallen leaves help to muffle her footfalls, but also hinders her momentum. She can’t run as fast on the soft ground, plus I know in an omniscient sense, the freshly rain on the leaves could betray her feet, and send her tumbling to the ground. I watch the frightening scene below me with rapt attention, but I’m unable to help, call out, or give direction of any kind. I am but a formless, silent observer hovering above, unnoticed, invisible.

Behind her something massive crashes through the underbrush and unleashes a sinister, hungry snarl. I’m reminded of the scene from The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle, where the huge Red Bull is barreling through the forest, chasing the Unicorn. The frightened girl whips her head around, her eyes bulge in increased terror, but she continues to run. I can’t see what is after her, nor do I know why, but I share her crippling fear. “Don’t turn around, don’t fall, just run for your life!” I scream but the words only echo in my head, nothing else can hear me.

Her breathing is getting heavier, the puffs of steam expelling from her mouth look like old coal driven locomotives when they belch forth the white smoke as they chug along the tracks. She is getting winded, but to stop means death. Still she runs through the forest. I cheer her on silently from my unobtrusive balcony, while simultaneously cursing the thing behind her. As she continues to sprint through the woods, I realize the creature that was hot on her heels, only a moment ago, has disappeared. The crashing, snarling, branch snapping monster is silent. I don’t have time to wonder if it has disappeared, or if it’s simply waiting, biding its time before the final strike, because the girls feet tangle in something. The only sound is the rustle of wet leaves as she hits the ground and slides across the forest detritus. She turns around to see what tripped her. I beg her to keep moving, don’t stop for the monster is surely only waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But she knows something I do not. For a brief moment, I get a glimpse of this unknown girl’s thoughts. When she sees the object she tripped on she thinks, “Oh dear God… It got my brother.” I feel the weight of leaden despair and my heart breaks for her. The last remaining member of her family is dead, lying face down, partially obscured in a demeaning, shallow grave. Her agonizing sobs get swallowed by the trees, but she crawls to the young boy’s body.

“Don’t!” I yell, trying my best to reach out to her thoughts. I don’t want her last vision of her brother to be the horrific sight that surely awaits her if she turns him over. Truth be told, I am even afraid of what I’ll see.

I don’t know why I am witnessing something so distressing. I am impotent to help or intervene in any way, and yet I am unable to leave or turn my vision away. Her trembling hands grab his shoulders and lovingly roll him over into her lap. The ghastly sight we are greeted by is so abhorrent that I am jolted out of my sleeping stupor.

My eyes bolt open and I see the dark silhouette of my room. The forest floor is replaced with carpet, the trees and open sky are gone, instead I see walls, a ceiling fan and the window that looks out to the neighborhood. It was just an extremely vivid dream. My heart races from the rueful scene which is now starting to dissipate from my consciousness like morning fog under warm sunlight. I know I need to keep this dream, it will be significant one day. I grab the notebook and pen from my bedside table, and in the sill of deep night, I frantically scribble down the scene I had witnessed. Thus started my writing hobby.

I had to know this girls story. What was her name? What happened to her family? Most importantly, what, and why was that nightmare-beast chasing her? The only way to answer these questions was to start writing. I had to get into her head, her world, I had to become this girl and create her story.

The need to put words on paper had bitten and infected me like a rampant virus. Antibiotics would not cure this fever, not that I wanted a cure from creativity. From as far back as my memory files are kept, I have had the desire to creating. Whether it was images sketched on paper, paint splattered across canvas, or molding lumps of clay into semi-recognizable shapes, I needed to create things from nothing. Now let’s add writing to that growing list.

I tried to reach out into the brain ether to find this girl again and tell her story many times, but each time it felt like I was forcing the story. I was wrestling the words, fighting with them to bend to my will. I am the creator, I am the omniscient being that’s breathing life into this world, into this girl and all her surroundings, you will obey me… They did, but I was trying to force a tiger to alter its stripes. With the right tools and lot of bull-headed strength I was able to create the illusion that the tiger was now spotted, but I could tell the story was unsatisfactory. So I let the girl’s story sit in limbo. If that world wouldn’t do what I wanted, then it can sit in the corner for a few years until it shaped up. And that was that. The end… Or was it?

I continued to write other stories, but the girl in the forest still tickled at the back of my mind, letting me know, she was still there, patiently waiting for me to uncover the true story. That’s when I realized that I am not the all powerful creator. I am not always in absolute command of everything. Sometimes I have to switch seats, with the copilot, or even become a passenger to simply observe. Writing a story isn’t just slapping words on paper, or screen, it’s akin to an archaeological dig. You, the author, know there’s something hidden there, but it’s covered up. The author’s job is not to charge in with bulldozers and large machinery to crudely open the story in massive, broken chunks then force the pieces to fit. This may satisfy my desire for control, but it makes an awful story. I learned to carefully remove the layers and find the subtle nuances that are cleverly hidden. There are pockets of missing data that can be imagined into place, but they have to fit the mold. It took years of bad writing to realize this lesson and make it stick.

I would write maybe once or twice a month for an hour or two. It was relaxing, it was fun, but nothing I took seriously until recently. The virus inside me was there, incubating, waiting for the proper moment. Still the girl and her story sat in the corner, biding her time. I had unearthed a large portion of it, and it begged to be revealed, but I was frightened. This had the potential to be a great endeavor, but only in the skilled hands of someone who was a master at this craft. Why did she pick me? I am unworthy. I need much more practice, otherwise I’ll only butcher her story and ruin the magical quality I know resides inside. She gave me her name finally, Jade. Her story is will be epic and long reaching, I only hope to do her justice and have her live in the hearts of readers for many decades to come.

I wrote more and more. I was still the omnipotent creator, imagining worlds, breathing life where there was nothing, but I now allow my creations room to breathe. They can follow their own paths, not the one I have forged for them, and forced them through. Through all this practice, discovery, and learning, writing has become less hobby and more passion. I wake up early every morning before work, and on the weekends, grab my coffee, sit at my desk and cast fuel on the inner fire. This once upon a time hobby is now working on becoming the dream. It is no longer an itch that can be scratched, and it goes away. Writing is a hunger to create. The mind is fed when the words are put on blank page. Like feeding the body, the will to write has to be fed every day to remain healthy. I love the feeling of spinning tales, and weaving worlds with words, especially when I can share my journey with others and have them feel the same emotions I have. That is the magic of it all. That is what makes this human tick, writing is the blood that flows through my veins and pumps through my heart. It calms the senses, writing is my raison detre. I love to tell tales of courage, fear, and magical worlds where anything is possible, then share them for my audience so they too can feel this all the emotions. It will continue for me, until I am ash and dust.

Progress on Plight of the Familiar

The current manuscript was written several years ago. After quite a pause to work on other projects, publish two books and several short stories the work begins again.

This the previous year (2021) I went back into Plight of the Familiar and basically rewrote the book—the first draft was a freaking nightmare of mindless ramblings that was a chore to read. Though at the time I thought it was going to be a masterpiece.

I am now on the third round of edits and there are a lot of changes. The pace has changed, I believe it’s more exciting, there’s more conflict, and “badder baddies.”

The original goal was to have the book out by this spring. That was a pretty tight goal, but I just haven’t been able to keep up with the pace I set for myself. And more importantly, I realize this book needs more edits to be the best it can be.

I’ll have to finish this round of edits—I’m about 3/4 of the way through—polish it again in a 4th round of edits, then find a good professional editor to fix the things I’m artistically blind to lol. Meaning I don’t see the stupid mistakes that others will because of misplaced pride.

All that means this book should be a stellar, exciting, page turner for all the bookworms out there. And, Plight of the Familiar, in case you haven’t been following is the first in a trilogy so the adventure will continue on after this book is done!

Stay tuned for more exciting news as we forge ahead!