Friday, 30 October 2015


Phobias are weird.

When I was younger I was always afraid of the dark. Now that I'm older that has lessened a fair bit, but I still sometimes find it just a little bit frightening. To me, though, that's not unreasonable. It's not the dark that's frightening, after all, but what could be inside the dark, and of course with this overactive imagination, anything I conjure up could be.

It's not often a hot date, sadly.

Insects on the other hand, I know don't make a whole lot of sense. Oh having them in your face or near your ears or being worried some might bite or sting you is understandable, but...I actually like bumble bees. I mean, they're big and fuzzy and don't bother anyone, not really. Not like wasps, evil buggers those.

It's funny then as, after a particularly amusing incident, I was reminded by my brother of a time long ago where they didn't bother me at all. Where indeed, I used to save bees with flowers. More interesting indeed is the setting he described, a place with dorm like beds and wooden balconies that connected the rooms. I have scant recollection of that place...

It gets me thinking, though, of all the half-dreams and remembered imaginings. Of places long forgotten or never been and dreamt of. How much is real, how much is a dream?

I read a book called "Pawn's Dream" when I was young. I remember finding it absolutely fascinating, having featured a protagonist who would awake in his dream in another world. By day he was in the 'mundane' (absolutely beautiful) world we know and by night he was in another, strange and new place.

I always think I won't forget that first scene in the book, where the protagonist wakes up in something like a monastery, overlooking an impressive and alien city. The only problem is that the scene bears next to no resemblance to my memory. Oh sure the salient points are similar, but the details are completely different. And then I remember...

Dusty and windswept, I walk along the outer rim of the mountain, my companion and mentor by my side. The oval openings in the sandstone wall to my right overlook a landscape turned red with sand. I can see little past the gusts, but my mind has little time for remembrance as I struggle to keep my footing as the wall ends.

The path continues, now not a corridor but a most desperate ledge following along the rough and rocky outskirts of a stronghold raised far above the land. A mis-step would undoubtedly be fatal. Why am I here?

My mentor is telling me something. A change is coming, and I must prepare for a journey. To what, neither of us know, but I must go swiftly lest I be blocked. We are on this perilous ledge to reach some sort of sanctum where he will gift aid me. My mind fills with a blue glow, an indistinct round object, exotic and mysterious...but no knowledge fills me at the recollection.

The rippling sandstorm threatens to tear me from the cliff face, but my mentor's steps seem steady even as I fight against the wind. How can that be so? Something streams to me then, as I shift in my bed. You are not he. But it feels real, and I desperately scream in my mind to stay. I want the adventure, the excitement, even the danger. I can feel an epic journey spinning from my grasp and I struggle, scratching and clawing against it.

You are being selfish. The thought ripples out to me. You are not he. Those are the last words I hear in my mind before the sandstorm picks me up like a child's toy and rips my consciousness from that world.

And I awaken. The years pass. The dream folds into my mind and is lost like a long forgotten treasure.

Except when I think of Pawn's Dream.

And my mind asks...what is that other me doing? And a little part of me wants to smash through the fabric of the 'verse just to have another chance at that moment.

And the largest part of me says...this is why I write. This is what I should be writing. Every fractured dream of another life. Every adventure I imagined as a child. Every passionate desire I long ago folded away.

And a part of me wakes up and never was a dream.

Tuesday, 27 October 2015

Talky Marks

And here we join our writer to find...he's still really no good at English :p

Apparently I've been doing speech tags wrong for a long time. At an age where I should know better, my punctuation is apparently off, and instead of using commas to end the speech and using lower case 'he said/she said', I've been taking that as another sentence.

So instead of: “Shall we?” he asked, turning to Keruni.
 I still have: “Shall we?” He asked, turning to Keruni.

This is a big deal for me, because up until now I thought my punctuation was largely correct, though my grammar has always been touch-and-go at best. I'm going to have to go through all my stories and edit these corrections in now. Though as a side effect, some of those more glaring "said" moments have softened a little.

Well, better late than never. I'm not really sure if I should be chagrined or glad that I'm still learning at this phase.

I guess I'll settle for neither, and just get my act together.

Oh, and side note, the dreaded Nanz0rd or legend is coming up soon. What will I do...

Friday, 23 October 2015

All About You

Writing is really a selfish practice.
While many may dream of changing the world, of changing hearts and minds through it, it really is selfish. You put yourself in a room and lock everything else out of your mind except what you want to say, the one time when you can say exactly what you want and have people hear you. Make sure it's your voice they hear. Keep it selfish, because writing is really one of the more selfless selfish things out there.