The Fall-Down

I stumbled a few months ago. I tripped over my own struggling body. I fell and hurt myself badly.

Now I've rested and recuperated. I've got something in the works, but I'm not quite ready to reveal it to the public yet. It's a secret project, and I get stressed and pressured when I share anything for some reason. So I think I'll leave that gather its words in the document I currently have open on half of the screen (go Windows 7 screen-halving! :D).

I haven't blogged in a long while, but I've been reading other blogs. I felt too horrible to come back and write anything, to try and clear it up, to make excuses--because I don't have any. I just didn't blog and that was that. I didn't write, either. I mostly watched movies and TV shows. Now that I'm back at school, though, I don't have much free time so I've mostly been spending in on just writing and not surfing the web for random junk I don't need.

Well, I guess that ends this very short post, because I don't have anything else to talk about yet, other than that if you want to track my Secret Project's word count, look to the sidebar under SECRET PROJECT. ;)

Bye!

Apologies, New/Old Projects, and Camp NaNoWriMo

It's been almost three months since I last posted. I said I would keep this blog up-to-date. (_ _) *hides face in shame* I'm so sorry. To make up for it, I'll give you a marshmallow. *gives* Are we okay now? :c

On to the next topic (which is sort of two mixed into one . . . well, three . . . kinda)!
I chose to pick up 'Dear Josaline,' as my Camp NaNoWriMo novel (which started today, by the way. Well, technically yesterday). It's going good so far. I'm at 4,000 words so I'm ahead by a day, woo! Robert's character makes me want to punch him a lot, but since I was the mind that he spawned from, I get where he's coming from. < Wow, badly structured sentence or what? Anyway, Camp NaNo's actually looking kinda good this year--I've never won a NaNoWriMo or Camp NaNo, in case you're wondering. I've been participating since 2011, though I'm not sure if I did last year's NaNoWriMo . . . I don't think so. But I did do the camps. I finished 'Gepard Valk' in the first camp, but only wrote 30k on to what I had previously written, just passing 50k. So I'm hoping that this year will be my year! I've got a lot of plot bunnies attacking me lately, too. I mean, I don't mind because I seemed to have a wall between myself and the bunnies for a long time, but do they really have to come when I'm trying to write a novel in 30 days?! Seriously, bunnies, calm yo shiz.

And on that note, I must bid you ado to watch more Avatar: The Last Airbender because it is my life right now. (It's also my reward system for Camp NaNo.) Goodbyyyeeee!

~Sam (who will hopefully write another post soon!)

Teaser Thursday: The Light [1]

This is a new thing I've decided to do. I'll post teasers of projects I'm working on! This is part of the first chapter of The Light which is a re-write of Gepard Valk. Hope you like!

            Taking a breath, Darius, stepped over a piece of broken window that had fallen from the building on his right. A moonbeam bounced off the shard and hit him in the face. Darius flinched and pressed on forward, deeper into the alley. Soon enough, he heard what he had been waiting for: Footsteps.

            Darius didn’t turn around. Instead, he focused on the air around him. It was calm. It was easy to handle. He could feel its cool breath on his fingertips, the slight familiarity he connected with it. He let it take his fingers, his hands, his mind. He focused.

            And then he turned.

            He threw his hands out toward the man who stood there, and air rushed from between his hands. The man was sent flying. He hit the ground and rolled backward, jumping up. The man lunged at Darius. Darius leaped to the wall and pushed his booted foot off the hard cement. His weight was sent upward. He kicked his legs into the air, pushing him in a circle, and landed behind the man.

            Darius thrust his palm into the man’s back. The man stumbled, but quickly turned with a kick. It hit Darius in the side of his face, sending him to the wall. He blocked himself from hitting the cement with his arms.

            He quickly turned, just in time to dodge what would have been a hard blow. The man’s hand connected with the wall and he cried out as something cracked loudly. Darius took the opportunity to roundhouse him in the face. Blood splattered from the man’s mouth. Darius went in with elbows. A blow to the face. A blow to the stomach. A blow to the face. A blow to the stomach.

            The man caught Darius’ arm in a block and twisted. It caused Darius to turn. The man pulled Darius against his chest and whispered in his ear.

            “Yah think yah could ever kill me, kid?” His breath was stale of alcohol and something else Darius couldn’t quite think of the name for. Blood, maybe?

            “I did it once before, didn’t I, Bolt?” Darius spat back. He hated Bolt with a passion. Bolt was a mass murderer who had recently revealed he was never actually dead.

            “No, yah din’t.” Bolt pushed him Darius away and kicked him in the back. Darius stumbled forward. Darius heard something like metal being scraped against metal. He turned quickly to see Bolt unsheathing a sword that Darius hadn’t previously seen.

            Darius grinned. Now they were getting to the good part.

            Darius put his hand inside his overcoat and took out his own sword, which was called Saviour. A faint blue hue lit the long, thing sword. Darius gripped the dark hilt and poised the sword at Bolt.

            Bolt smirked and ran at Darius. Their swords clashed, a loud sound emanating from the alley. Darius pushed against Bolt, using his body weight as well as the sword. But Bolt was stronger—he was older.

            Darius fell beneath the man’s weight. He rolled over as much as he could. He jumped up. Something slit his cheek and a burning pain racked through him. But he couldn’t think of that now.

            Darius pushed at the air and it hit Bolt. He stumbled backwards. Darius tried again. Bolt hit the wall and his sword fell. Taking the opportunity, Darius ran at him, blade held out.

            Saviour was about to find its way through Bolt’s throat when Darius’ mind flashed with a heated thought. He dropped his sword and clutched his head. There was a ringing. Like nails on a chalkboard. And they wouldn’t stop!

Mini-Tip Monday: Outlines

*I started a new thing (that probably won't last). It's called Mini-Tip Monday.*

I didn't outline before--I thought it meaningless and felt it took the freedom away. Then I realized I never finished anything (only one novel of utter garbage. And I can honestly say it was utter garbage because I read over it the last day).

I then found a blog by an Inkie (click here) and found that post I just linked. I started using the second method (chapter number, word count goal, sentence about chapter) and it helped so much. That's why I think outlining is brilliant now. I use it for everything now and it's crazy how much writing I've gotten done since I started. (I started only a few days ago and it's already gotten me out of my writing funk.)

In other news, I've started writing BLIND again because of said way to outline and omigoshit'ssofun! Which is why it's been added back on the Projects page.

Good luck with your writing!

Epiphany (maybe?)

I want to do more with my poetry. I want to write it more. And let it be seen more . . . because it’s a brilliant way to let off steam, or just to let your feelings out. Some of my poetry has been rubbish. And I mean R-U-B-B-I-S-H  rubbish. But it got my thoughts and my feelings out, and made me feel better.

               

So I’m gonna write it more. Yup.

I just looked on my computer and found the first poem I ever wrote. Ever! Here it is:

Assassins Die, Death Screams

He walked along the narrow bridge

Looking for his kill

There she was

In all God’s beauty

Crying out in anguish.

He snuck around the few trees still standing

His long hands curling, unfurling the death of more trees

The woman looks to him, eyes longing for forgiveness

He cannot do this, his own pride and joy

Yet he gathered the shadows, and swung them with glee.

She shrieks as they strike her

Piercing her soul

She writhes in agony

Her body lurching

She sees him come close. Death.

He screams at the loss

His own killing machine

How could he do it

Again and again?

A new name on the list. Kill.

That was my first ever bit of poetry, and you know why I wrote it? I was depressed. Severely. And writing normally just wouldn’t help me and I didn’t know what to do—so I randomly wrote the first line of the poem, hoping that this story would finally help . . . and then it turned into a poem because I accidentally pressed the ‘Enter’ button. And thus my poetry was born.

So, as I step up a level in my poetry, why not starts your journey with your own . . . what’ve you got to lose?

 

The Not-So-Interesting Life of Me (Right Now)

My life is so boring. Sigh.

So, Dear Josaline, is going well. First chapter is up on Hexbound (CLICK HERE) so check it out. Um, the play I'm in is on in less than two weeks and I'm freaking out. We are so not ready. I can't even.

I've been dealing with some interesting things lately--first-time experiences and whatnot. I have to say . . . it's nice. Really nice. A warm kind of nice.

Gosh, this post is not about writing and is really boring. To make up for lack of post, I'll gave you a snippet of chapter two:

The funeral was probably the exact same as any other funeral. A coffin. A person in it. A hole. Then the coffin gets put down the hole and it’s covered with dirt.

            “Josaline will be missed by all her friends. I know that I feel a bit lost without her,” some man in a grey suit said. Did he even know her?

            “Josaline was my best friend,” a woman with frizzy blonde hair said, her rectangular glasses sliding down her nose.

            Josaline was nothing of the such, I wanted to say. Josaline didn’t care about you; she probably barely ever spoke to you. I bet someone paid you to speak, or you feel bad for her orphan son.

            “Robert, do you want to say anything to your mother before we end the service?” Karen asked from beside me. She organised the funeral. I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t really care.

            “What would I have to say about our dear Josaline?” I said. I didn’t intend to come out like that—like an attack—but it did.

            Karen sighed. Over the past three days she’d realized I’m quite hostile. She didn’t like it one bit.

            “Look, Robert, it’s going to be your last chance to say a proper goodbye. Just do it.” Karen’s hand was on my back, pushing me up towards the coffin. I turned around and found myself staring eye-to-eye with twenty-or-so people. Josaline definitely did not know all of them.

            I hated staring at them.

            I closed my eyes.

            “Josaline was my mother. And she was . . .” I didn’t know what to say, so I turned around. I opened my eyes and looked down at the coffin. Josaline lay inside there. They had put some make-up on her and had covered her neck with a nice light-blue scarf. The one she’d worn to the opening of the art gallery I’d had a piece of work in.

            “Josaline liked art,” I said, directing it more to myself than everyone else. They all laughed for some reason. “I’ll miss her scarf.”

So . . . yeah. Bye!

End Of My Hiatus

Sorry I've been gone so long! School and personal stuff kinda got the best of me. I'm back now, though, and I'm hoping to stay for a good while. At least for a few weeks. School might stop me from posting every week (which is my goal), but we'll see.

While on my hiatus I realized two things: I can't write dystopians, I haven't been writing for myself, and I need to channel my feelings into my writing more. That's three things. I'm stupid today. Whatever.

So, the dystopian thing. Yeah, I'm just not clever enough right now to think up all the necessary things that a dystopian world (especially the one in Blind) needs. So, that's either scrapped forever or I'll try a re-write in the far future. But because I love Izaac so much, he's going to be in one of my new novels. I don't have a title for New Novel yet, but I'll post about it soon when I know more.

I realized I haven't been writing for myself--to get my feelings and thoughts out on paper, because I love it, because it's my passion and hobby. No, I've been writing because I felt obligated. People were saying stuff and, yeah, I just felt pressured . . . But now I'm going back to writing for myself.  Which is good. Epiphanies help me.

And the third thing: the feelings. I have a lot of feelings. Mostly dark and depress-y. And they always need to be unleashed in some creative way--usually it involves really dramatically silently singing to a song in my bedroom. But it used to be writing. Oh, how it used to be my writing. It would feel SO good just to throw everything I was feeling into a scene and just . . . just get it out somewhere. And I hope to start doing that again.

My hiatus is over now, hopefully. I want to post once a week--not set days, but just at least one day a week. It'll probably mostly be on weekends. I have a lot of stuff to post--new ideas, talking about the Inkies (my writer friends from a site that sadly shut down), and Hexbound (<<

*EDIT* Some of the freaking post got deleted. Not a lot, but still. I had pressed Save like four times just to make sure it would be saved. T.T