There is a strong connection between exercise and my mental wellbeing. After about of month of not working out or doing anything to really get my heart rate up, I went for a run with a friend. It was painful. My lungs hated me. I had a stich in my side. I'm sore. But its amazing how well I slept that night. Weirdly when I write stories, running ends up being a part of how I write and think about my characters. Its part of the reality of the worlds I create. In epics like Lord of the Rings, running is part of the story. The great race of the three hunters in the beginning of the Two Towers. Of course we tend to not thing about that hardness of what the characters are doing. I don't know what the equivalant is, but I have always imagined it was like running a marathon a day for several days in a row. People have done this, it is not impossible. It is however an amazing feat.
I normally think of my characters as either in shape or out of shape. Those that are in shape, could run 3 to 5 miles with very little problem. The out of shape would be hard pressed to do one mile. However, there is a third group, the extordinary. This group could run a marathon today, fight and win agaist 2000 tomorrow, and not appear to be tired. I almost never write about characters that are this outside the normal, possibly because it seems so impossible. I like writing about normal people doing things outside of what they, or others, think they are capable of.
One thing that I have never done is write about a character practicing or working out. But the more I think about it, the more I realize this is a problem. If I want to write about things that are based in reality, I need to make sure that I keep reality in mind. To often I get in the world of a story and I forget about rooting it in some sort of reality. But the reality of the story is so important to the understanding of the reader.
Its like building a house. If you see the foundation of the house once its built, you can't see all of it. You almost forget that it is there. But since the house (story) is built on that foundation, every time you see a bit of the foundation, it shouldn't throw you off, it is part of the house. It belongs with the house and the house belongs on the foundation. Without the foundation, the house would fall apart. So my reality of the world in which I write, of the characters I create must be placed on an understandable, recognizable foundation.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Processing Power
There is a constant need to process data. There is a scary amount of information being thrown in our direction every minute of every day. Pictures, music, facebook posts, phone calls, texts, posters, conversations, movies, TV, I could go on. Back technology alluided to a better kind of armor or a new mill, people didn't have as much to process. Yes they had to process their enviroment, but they could really study it. How many people do you know who can actually tell direction by the stars? How many people do you know who can tell when its going to rain or whether the sun will come out?
Of course we have GPS to tell us directions and Weather.com to tell us when its going to rain. In a way we have gotten better at doing things through technology and in others we have become worse. We know rely on the technology that was built by other people. We now just learn how to use that technology, live with the technology, we have to figure out how to process like the machines that we use to make our world 'easier' to understand. The problem is that perhaps, we really would be better off if we didn't try to act like machines. We're human afterall. We shouldn't rate ourselves based on our processing power.
I wrote a couple of days ago that I gather inspiration from all over. That I process a lot of data and fingure out what is useable. But there are days, like today, when I don't want to process data. I would rather not search for or look for inspiration. I want to exist and interact with things that are tangible, human, and failable. Human reactions are dirty, unpradiable, and take a lot more work then a simple facebook update. But we're not really meant to interact via facebook. It might be a great tool, but you can't replace real community and relationship. Because Facebook lets you get away from the dirt and grim. In life, dirt and grim is a part of who and what we do. We don't really need more processing power, we need to learn when to use the processing power we have and when to use that power for something else: Tangible Life.
Of course we have GPS to tell us directions and Weather.com to tell us when its going to rain. In a way we have gotten better at doing things through technology and in others we have become worse. We know rely on the technology that was built by other people. We now just learn how to use that technology, live with the technology, we have to figure out how to process like the machines that we use to make our world 'easier' to understand. The problem is that perhaps, we really would be better off if we didn't try to act like machines. We're human afterall. We shouldn't rate ourselves based on our processing power.
I wrote a couple of days ago that I gather inspiration from all over. That I process a lot of data and fingure out what is useable. But there are days, like today, when I don't want to process data. I would rather not search for or look for inspiration. I want to exist and interact with things that are tangible, human, and failable. Human reactions are dirty, unpradiable, and take a lot more work then a simple facebook update. But we're not really meant to interact via facebook. It might be a great tool, but you can't replace real community and relationship. Because Facebook lets you get away from the dirt and grim. In life, dirt and grim is a part of who and what we do. We don't really need more processing power, we need to learn when to use the processing power we have and when to use that power for something else: Tangible Life.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Finding Inspiration
The thing about being an artist is that you are consistently looking for inspiration. Things that are fresh and new are built on the foundation of things that are tired and over used. T.S. Elliot said that 'good poet’s barrow, great poets steal'. I feel like I'm forever barrowing ideas, but I hardly ever have the guts to steal. The Greeks had Muses, who gave them inspiration. It’s an interesting concept; that inspiration comes from some mystical, un-seeable force. However, I think inspiration means hard work.
I find my inspiration in knitting patterns, stories I grew up on, new stories I read, movies, music and most importantly online news. I read Wired.com and BBC News everyday at work. I read reviews on new equipment and fill my brain with new knowledge on science and technology, I learn about the history that is being written now in the world. Amazing how much technology can give you a base for imagining a different world. I'm writing a Novel based in a different universe. A universe where there are parallel worlds and a government that is controlling and surveillance heavy. The technology of surveillance is perhaps one of the scariest and most interesting subjects I come a-crossed on regular bases. What's scarier then the government watching you and tracking your every move?
It took me a while to realize that what I take in, what I research for fun, and what I experience in life, is the bases for my creativity. Somehow, from all the information and curiosity of my mind, I am able to create something uniform. The overload of everything floating through the ethos becomes a single stream of conscious thought. All the various ribbons of dancing light gather into one string. What I create is stronger because it is based on so much.
Of course the difficulty in this world where information is only a Google search away, is too much information. You have to decide which information to use and what to throw away. Finding usable inspiration is like finding a needle in a dung heap. T.S. Elliot says to be great you must steal, but I would say a great poet (writer, artist, and performer), must know what to steal. And here we get back to the work. Art, creativity, is something that you have to work at. People are not born with the ability to draw or write or even sing. Sure some have the natural ability to do those things. But its only those who grow and work that ability that ever have a chance to go somewhere. And its a slim chance. Plenty of people with no ability as are working hard to have the same chance. Finding Inspiration is Work.
I find my inspiration in knitting patterns, stories I grew up on, new stories I read, movies, music and most importantly online news. I read Wired.com and BBC News everyday at work. I read reviews on new equipment and fill my brain with new knowledge on science and technology, I learn about the history that is being written now in the world. Amazing how much technology can give you a base for imagining a different world. I'm writing a Novel based in a different universe. A universe where there are parallel worlds and a government that is controlling and surveillance heavy. The technology of surveillance is perhaps one of the scariest and most interesting subjects I come a-crossed on regular bases. What's scarier then the government watching you and tracking your every move?
It took me a while to realize that what I take in, what I research for fun, and what I experience in life, is the bases for my creativity. Somehow, from all the information and curiosity of my mind, I am able to create something uniform. The overload of everything floating through the ethos becomes a single stream of conscious thought. All the various ribbons of dancing light gather into one string. What I create is stronger because it is based on so much.
Of course the difficulty in this world where information is only a Google search away, is too much information. You have to decide which information to use and what to throw away. Finding usable inspiration is like finding a needle in a dung heap. T.S. Elliot says to be great you must steal, but I would say a great poet (writer, artist, and performer), must know what to steal. And here we get back to the work. Art, creativity, is something that you have to work at. People are not born with the ability to draw or write or even sing. Sure some have the natural ability to do those things. But its only those who grow and work that ability that ever have a chance to go somewhere. And its a slim chance. Plenty of people with no ability as are working hard to have the same chance. Finding Inspiration is Work.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Darkness Quickening
Darkness Quickening
Darkness awakens
the light may be shimmering
Darkness is waiting
waiting or willing, but holding
Back
the light may be glimmering
Darkness is shadowing
crowding and wondering
Darkness quickening
a line between shadow and
the light may be flickering
Darkness is gathering
clasping and grabing, but growing
Strong
the light may be lustrous
Darkness isn't worried
Darkness is quickening
Darkness awakens
the light may be shimmering
Darkness is waiting
waiting or willing, but holding
Back
the light may be glimmering
Darkness is shadowing
crowding and wondering
Darkness quickening
a line between shadow and
the light may be flickering
Darkness is gathering
clasping and grabing, but growing
Strong
the light may be lustrous
Darkness isn't worried
Darkness is quickening
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Long Time Waiting
Amazing how long it has been since I have written to you all. I have been writing. I promise. I been like a greedy child in the corner with a stolen cookie. I'm about 60,000 words into a novel. A novel that has taken most of my writing energy and thought. To be honest the only reason that I am now writing here is because I am, once again, stuck.
Sometimes writing a story is like writing a love letter. You write from your heart. You want the words to be true and fit perfectly. You want the reader to fully understand what you feel. There is a relationship in a letter, a sure connection between the writer and the reader. There is a set understanding of the reality and although there might be questions, you at least both know what the questions are. In a story you must write as if the other person knows the world of which you write. And yet you must also teach them more about your world. Its a strange balance. But more then this writing a story is like writing a letter to the characters you have created. The characters know the world in which they live, they understand what the norm is. The characters know what you tell them and do what you say. But they don't know the author, well not unless the author writes themselves in the story.
So I have been sitting in the corner with my story or my love letter or what ever you want to call it. It is far from finished, but a year a go I at only the begining of it. I had the smallest understanding of the characters and the story. I knew where the story was headed, but the meat was still missing. This year is the year to finish the meat, to get it ready for cooking. At some point I will prepare it and let you all eat up the glorious feast (hope it is worth the wait). To get back to my story is my hope and my nightmare. I can feel that the end is near. I'm cooking and can almost taste the meal. But I'm not there yet.
They call its writters block, but it feels more like trying to get out of the way of a run away train. The story is almost more important now then it ever has been. I am in a way a slave to it. And yet the words, which have so long so easily flowed through my typing fingers, have stopped. I can tell my brain is working out what to do next. I knit and think about the characters and the ending. Yes I'm knitting, have to do something. And I write, even if its just a blog entry or a short poem. Anything to get the words tumbling out of my stuck brain. Anything to get my fingers roaming along the key board. Anything to be able to steal another cookie and return to the corner to sulk with my treasure.
Sometimes writing a story is like writing a love letter. You write from your heart. You want the words to be true and fit perfectly. You want the reader to fully understand what you feel. There is a relationship in a letter, a sure connection between the writer and the reader. There is a set understanding of the reality and although there might be questions, you at least both know what the questions are. In a story you must write as if the other person knows the world of which you write. And yet you must also teach them more about your world. Its a strange balance. But more then this writing a story is like writing a letter to the characters you have created. The characters know the world in which they live, they understand what the norm is. The characters know what you tell them and do what you say. But they don't know the author, well not unless the author writes themselves in the story.
So I have been sitting in the corner with my story or my love letter or what ever you want to call it. It is far from finished, but a year a go I at only the begining of it. I had the smallest understanding of the characters and the story. I knew where the story was headed, but the meat was still missing. This year is the year to finish the meat, to get it ready for cooking. At some point I will prepare it and let you all eat up the glorious feast (hope it is worth the wait). To get back to my story is my hope and my nightmare. I can feel that the end is near. I'm cooking and can almost taste the meal. But I'm not there yet.
They call its writters block, but it feels more like trying to get out of the way of a run away train. The story is almost more important now then it ever has been. I am in a way a slave to it. And yet the words, which have so long so easily flowed through my typing fingers, have stopped. I can tell my brain is working out what to do next. I knit and think about the characters and the ending. Yes I'm knitting, have to do something. And I write, even if its just a blog entry or a short poem. Anything to get the words tumbling out of my stuck brain. Anything to get my fingers roaming along the key board. Anything to be able to steal another cookie and return to the corner to sulk with my treasure.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Office Space Clutter
Dozens of desks, line to line
Chairs on swivel, clutter
pictures of family, vacations, friends
posters of kittens, 'hang in there'
plants, a splash of growing green
contained to grow in half light
balls of rubber bands, cups
cold coffee, half drunk sodas
fans, phones, staplers, headphones
strange figurings and toys
Darth Vader, the Stay Puff Man
the walking dead zombies.
A childerns book on Wookies
a hang over two big gulp cup
pens and note bookes
chicken scratch and post it notes
the impersonal clashing with individualism
red bull, hand sanitizer and paper towels
everything all gumbled randomly together
Chairs on swivel, clutter
pictures of family, vacations, friends
posters of kittens, 'hang in there'
plants, a splash of growing green
contained to grow in half light
balls of rubber bands, cups
cold coffee, half drunk sodas
fans, phones, staplers, headphones
strange figurings and toys
Darth Vader, the Stay Puff Man
the walking dead zombies.
A childerns book on Wookies
a hang over two big gulp cup
pens and note bookes
chicken scratch and post it notes
the impersonal clashing with individualism
red bull, hand sanitizer and paper towels
everything all gumbled randomly together
Saturday, June 9, 2012
3 Poems
I wrote all of these poems in the same day: two in the morning and the third later that afternoon. I like how they contrast to each other.
i will praise You
there is no breath to fill my lungs
no words to speak, no song to be sung
my feet can not dance, the rhythm done
the hymn is dead, the cord undone
my eyes do not see, my ears can not hear
i'm thoughtless without You near
still hear my soul? its screaming to You
do You hear me? oh i must still praise You
there is no breath to fill my lungs
no words to speak, no song to be sung
the world has forgotten, I am undone
As smoke in a wind, soon I'll be gone
still hear my heart? its whispering to You
do You hear me? Oh i must still praise You
i will praise You.
The Dawn is Coming Soon
The sun is out and it is bright
but my heart is black as night
the rays of light play upon the floor
but I see only shadows, nothing more
why does my heart to darkness sway?
when joy and happiness should be its way?
why does my soul seek out the night?
when love craves for me only light?
I want to dance, shout, sing
but I'm held in silence, languishing
oh this depression is a double curse
I'm kept from You, life's only source
I feel the battle waging within
and know the reason is my sin
Restlessly I wait for You
knowing the dawn is coming soon
Do Good, Seek Life, Find Light
And then the L-rd heard me
My G-d, my salvation
Rose up and offered me a hand
Who am I? a poor, lost wretch
a fool, a child, wayward and helpless
who am I? nothing, mere smoke
Still the L-rd listened to my moaning
the L-rd saw my despair and answered
The L-rd brought light to my darkness
See the one out to ruin me?
See the lies he has sowed?
See the traps laid out before me?
My L-rd, my G-d has protected me
Least of His great creation
He turned the traps against the trapper
He pulled out many growing weed lies
He saved me when I was nothing
Praise G-d all you below
you weak, you lowly, you poor
Praise G-d your savor and friend
who seeks out His flock and rescues them
I will sing to my L-rd for He is great
who can compare to my savior?
He destroyed that which would destroy me
He put me above any harm
He heard the plead of my heart and answered
Take heart, you who would follow the truth
Love the L-rd and you will Live
do good, seek life, find light.
i will praise You
there is no breath to fill my lungs
no words to speak, no song to be sung
my feet can not dance, the rhythm done
the hymn is dead, the cord undone
my eyes do not see, my ears can not hear
i'm thoughtless without You near
still hear my soul? its screaming to You
do You hear me? oh i must still praise You
there is no breath to fill my lungs
no words to speak, no song to be sung
the world has forgotten, I am undone
As smoke in a wind, soon I'll be gone
still hear my heart? its whispering to You
do You hear me? Oh i must still praise You
i will praise You.
The Dawn is Coming Soon
The sun is out and it is bright
but my heart is black as night
the rays of light play upon the floor
but I see only shadows, nothing more
why does my heart to darkness sway?
when joy and happiness should be its way?
why does my soul seek out the night?
when love craves for me only light?
I want to dance, shout, sing
but I'm held in silence, languishing
oh this depression is a double curse
I'm kept from You, life's only source
I feel the battle waging within
and know the reason is my sin
Restlessly I wait for You
knowing the dawn is coming soon
Do Good, Seek Life, Find Light
And then the L-rd heard me
My G-d, my salvation
Rose up and offered me a hand
Who am I? a poor, lost wretch
a fool, a child, wayward and helpless
who am I? nothing, mere smoke
Still the L-rd listened to my moaning
the L-rd saw my despair and answered
The L-rd brought light to my darkness
See the one out to ruin me?
See the lies he has sowed?
See the traps laid out before me?
My L-rd, my G-d has protected me
Least of His great creation
He turned the traps against the trapper
He pulled out many growing weed lies
He saved me when I was nothing
Praise G-d all you below
you weak, you lowly, you poor
Praise G-d your savor and friend
who seeks out His flock and rescues them
I will sing to my L-rd for He is great
who can compare to my savior?
He destroyed that which would destroy me
He put me above any harm
He heard the plead of my heart and answered
Take heart, you who would follow the truth
Love the L-rd and you will Live
do good, seek life, find light.
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