Author Unknown

9-30-2012


There is a particular author who has been a great inspiration to me. I will not name this author, the name is not necessary, but for the sake of form we will call this author, he. This does not imply that the author is male, nor does it imply he is not.

The brilliance of his writing has been debated by many. I am inclined to believe he is, in fact, brilliant. Otherwise, where would the motivation lie? His descriptive abilities, his vocabulary, his uncanny ability to make you feel inside the world he has created improved my writing skills tenfold.  I consumed his works over and over. Oh, I knew his stories, but I did not know the art.

 Perhaps the author I speak of would not move you . You might find his works outrageous, cumbersome, boring. You might find my work the same. Such is the delight of the written word. One can always close the book, minimize the computer page, trash the whole works. There are numerous author's who have added to my knowledge of the written word. My psyche grows fat on the mental gluttony yet I starve, insatiable in my passion for words.

I would like to thank him, this author who has inspired me to push the limits of my abilities. I would like to thank him for motivating me to higher standards. In doing so I thank every author whose words have blown over the dieing embers of my confidence, their breath fueling a flame.

The following piece was provoked by several different works of his, this author. It is a weak attempt at a style not my own. It was a self-imposed exercise to push myself, to step into the shoes of a fellow wordsmith. If you have read his works, the title may tip you off as to who it is. If you know, I hope you find this piece a tribute to his work. If you do not know him, I hope you find this piece intriguing enough to make you wonder. Till next time....

                                                                   Savage Eden                                                          

 They met face to face on a moonless night, their eternal desire for confrontation arising again.  Eternal foes scrying the mind, one of the other, anger flaring and hatred burning within the belly of providence newly aroused. 

The dark haired one strutted around his nemesis. Cynically eyeing  the glowing golden creature, he laughed a laugh of mockery that echoed through space and time. “You with the crystalline eyes what strengths do you possess that could vanquish me? What knowledge have you gained as you moved through time that will raise you to the pinnacles you seek? You in your ancient, tattered wardrobe, a vision from another time; what words can you say to make me bend the knee? I have no fear of your yesterdays. What can you tell me of my tomorrows?” 

Casually indifferent the golden one reclined; arms crossed at the chest, unmarred boots cocked at the ankle, eyeing the darker with amused disdain. A wicked smile lay upon his ruby lips spitting venomous words in a whispered caress. “What do you know of tomorrow when all your days are today's, when yesterdays are never remembered and all you know is now. Why should I fear you? My tattered clothes are of no consequence. My strengths run deep and if you are wise, you will fear them. As for pinnacles, they are for falling from. You, dressed as an undertaker, smelling of decay freshly pulled from the ground, dare to criticize me? The paths I have followed have enlightened me and left you to the devil, or yourself. 

The two beheld each other for the longest while. Suns came and went, civilizations rose and fell, yet they stood at impasse. The winds of eternity howled through the annals of time yet dark would give no leeway to light, and light would not dim for the dark.  

The battle rages still.

 

I knew It!

Well, I did know it.....I knew that if I started a blog, somewhere along the way I was going to mess the whole thing up! I consider deleting not only the post I was working on, but the former post as well, messing up.

Fortunately, messing up is something we all do, especially people who write. If pressed I would have to say that most authors rewrite their books, novels, poems etc at least three times. And if you edit your own, well that's a long time, that's all I can say. So, big deal, I mess up. Hope you got to read the first one and if not, here's another for your perusal.

Why write? I write because no one will sit still long enough to listen to me ramble. I write because I am bipolar and my mind never shuts up so I have to have some sort of outlet or bad things happen. I write because I live in a world that does not exist, that changes moment by moment with heroes and villains, dragons and magic. Watching the sun shine through my crystal candle holder can send me to another dimension. I write to stay stable. I write the words of my soul. Some of you will understand, some will thing it rubbish. That's ok.

I would like to share a piece with you that I wrote about a year ago. It is about writing and other things Let me preface that when I put pen to paper I never really know what the ink will say. Truly, no jest. The words flow from my soul, to my mind, to my hand, through the pen and onto the page. It;s part of my other world......till next time.

                                                                    Sweet Dreamer
                                                                          8-23-11

     My dream is to write professionally. I have been playing at it for years but in the past decade a torch has been set. Profit would be nice, fame not necessary, notoriety delightful. I keep looking but cannot seem to find a way into the ever sprawling field. I'm an ok writer, sometimes good, potentially great. I persevere, all the while fearing it will go the way of most of my dreams. Why does the desire still burn so hot if God does not wish it for me? The request, made so many years ago, to lower the burn, has been declined. Perhaps not only will my body turn to ash but my spirit as well.

     Where is the way? Novels so cleverly lead their antagonists forward providing insight and clues. Although thwarted and diverted, it seems the results are always, or mostly, the fulfillment of the goal. Love and passion co-exist, lies lead to honesty, faults forgiven, old woulds heal, and bonds grow tighter. A sound reason for calling it fiction. It doesn't work that way.

     Lies are compounded by more lies, honesty is a myth. Forgiveness is conditional and love and passion never join. Love is dependence, eating away at personal sovereignty while passion turns to anxiety as dreams quiver in death. Destruction has many faces and the destroyer many masks. I may be helpless to control others but not myself. I cannot bring or give purpose to someone else, they must find it on their own. One need not force the willing yet the unwilling will not be moved.

     I will not quit. I will preserver even when others do not. I will not walk away or turn my back but I will step aside and leave others to their choices. I will follow the barely visible deer trail and find sustenance and shelter there. I will make my way and those who wish are welcome to come. Only time will tell who will choose.