We worry often and usually from day one. Our worrying begins when the blank page stares at us and dares us to scrawl or type an opening sentence, paragraph and/or page that will hook our readers.
Tentatively we type a word, then delete it and start again.
We worry about how to begin, where to begin and when to begin.
Do we start with an ominous sentence?
We consider it, because then our readers worry about our protagonist and are therefore inclined to want to read more.
Wait. Hmm…perhaps we should begin with a sentence that displays our mastery of prose.
No, there’s no time for that. We have to hook our readers immediately and can’t risk having them lose interest while we describe the way the sun spills over the horizon.
Do we begin mid-moment, when our main character is running for her/his life?
There’s a plethora of alternatives and an infinite number of ways that we may word such circumstances.
Upon crossing that threshold into our make-believe world, we worry about what we’ll do next! Sometimes we will take a few tentative steps along that journey until we find our rhythm and lunge into a sprint of storytelling.
We’ll write a few chapters, following the path paved by our characters then suddenly we will feel lost.
“Where are we?”
“How did we get here?”
Abandoned, we begin to feel doubt and wonder what we’ll do next. We worry that our story has lost its excitement and worry that it isn’t interesting enough. We question ourselves and wonder: “Will anyone even want to read this?”
Our worrying hinders our progress and ushers in that thief of creative thesis, Writer’s Block!
After a few days, weeks or even months of thunderous silence, we begin to worry if we will ever recapture our momentum. And when our imaginary friends offer no hint of returning, we worry if we will ever finish our story.
Quit worrying, my friends! Shed that robe and pick up that pen -or keyboard- and get back to doing telling your story.
Read –see previous post "Write, Write, Write...Right?" AND Write. Allow your mind to relax in order to find clarity and allow the winds of inspiration to linger through the valleys of your imagination.
In the end, you’ll reflect on it and admit that you did all that worrying for nothing.
“Let no feeling of discouragement prey upon you, and in the end you are sure to succeed!” Abraham Lincoln
The Romantic on The Romance Reviews
Friday, November 9, 2012
Friday, November 2, 2012
Show AND Tell
Danny Harris once said, "Storytelling: the world's second oldest profession."
I'm inclined to agree, yet I can't help but feel that the world's earliest storytellers didn't do it for profit. Theirs, I believe, was a desire to share a wonderful experience -even if sometimes it was merely an imaginary one- that would be passed down through the ages.
Oral traditions that later came to be etched on the walls of the earth, leaving an indelible impression that would stand the test of time.
Have you ever heard the adage: "If these walls could talk..."?
Well, if they could talk, what would they say?
It could be argued that walls indeed have spoken when we consider the rock art found around the globe from ancient times. The painted symbols from stories on cave walls left by the Australian Aborigines; the cave paintings which date back more than 40,000 years found throughout Europe; the cave art dating to Neolithic times in what is the modern-day Sahara desert that depict lush grasslands and flowing rivers, reveal religious rituals and communicate the details of the lives of our ancestors. Walls have even divulged the passage into the Afterlife as depicted within the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs. Silence has proven golden as the whispers of the dead have echoed across millennia to tell us stories of memories long forgotten.
Our purpose as storytellers could be debated as a matter of subjectivity but our goal remains the same: to fulfill a need of our species, which longs to tell and hear/read tales that whisk us away into another realm...a parallel universe that is sometimes quite different from our world.
The evolution of storytelling has gone from oral traditions to visual art, from tales of a bard to the prose of The Immortal Bard, William Shakespeare. Thus, it is imperative for modern storytellers to recognize what is necessary to achieve our end.
To put the matter compendiously, we must show AND tell.
We must utilizes our senses and communicate with our readers through our senses to draw them INTO our stories. Robert Olen Butler, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction who teaches graduate fiction at Florida State University, best described this as "sensual writing."
In the book, From Where You Dream:The Process of Writing Fiction, Janet Burroway shares with us his lectures where he emphasizes that "the point of contact for the reader is going to be an emotional one because emotions reside in the senses."
We must keep this in mind when we're describing our scenes, because if we want our readers to join us then we must do more than merely invite them into our story, we must lure them in. Utilizing our senses to show them the scene, show them the story, not simply tell it, and to do this effectively it is essential that we be a fly on the wall.
The following is an excerpt from my mythopoeic fantasy novel, Magical Universe:The Amulet of Alamin...
An icy breeze rushed through the cave that only Inanna felt, and she knew it was the demon lurking in the shadows for her child. Fear took her; their voices faded, as though she was under water, and suddenly the cave was cloaked in complete darkness. She was suddenly aware that they weren't alone, and the presence she felt, she knew was unnatural. Her breath fogged as it escaped her, and the darkness pressed against her soul like heavy stones upon her chest.
There was no sound. She trembled, looking up to see a grimacing, cruel face looming before her with two eyes piercing her heart; they were cold, and sharp, unblinking. A grip, frozen and unrelenting, seized her throat. The icy touch chilled her to the core and she struggled to breathe while attempting to scream.
Far and faint, the voices of her family called out to her frantically. They seemed to echo from high above, like a lover's last call trapped in a dying dream. Her stare strained against the gloom, but they continued calling more and more anxiously until she escaped the trance and their voices were clear, again.
"Your son must wear this amulet at all times to protect him from the Edimmu, Lilitu, and other demons!" Ereshki said, hastily fastening a leather cord around his neck.
Inanna caressed the Cuneiform script incised on the tiny tablet attached to the cord. She sought comfort in the spell; the presence of the demon vanished as her cousins helped her to her feet. Ereshki tore strips of cloth from her own garments and carefully, but quickly, wrapped it about the child as he fed. Etana extinguished the flame, and for a brief instant, only their nervous breathing could be heard. The trickle of water along the walls of the tunnels fell behind a curtain of shouting amongst the soldiers who hurriedly searched the caves for them.
End scene.
Don't simply TELL your readers where they are...you must SHOW them where they are if you want them to join the journey and remain entranced by your story. Account for minute details because the smallest things will make the biggest difference, however it is imperative that not over do it. Tell your readers JUST enough detail, show your readers JUST enough detail, and allow them to fill in the blanks with their own imagination.
Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the 1982 Nobel Prize in Literature recipient, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the author of One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the time of Cholera, is also "noted for leaving out seemingly important details and events so the reader is forced into a more participatory role in the story development."
He'll describe the heat, stench, and poverty-striken neighborhoods of a Carribean port where his stories take place, but the name of the locale isn't provided. In the minds of some this is a seemingly trivial truth, however it remains true and effective because in a strange way I find that it adds to the mysteriousness that draws me into his world.
I admire and strive to emulate the method in which he provides meticulous details that paint a perfect picture in the cinema of my mind: "There was no sleeper more elegant than she, with her curved body posed for a dance and her hand across her forehead." Garcia-Marquez describing Fermina Daza in Love in the Time of Cholera.
I'd like to stress that the phrase "cinema of the mind" is how Robert Olen Butler advises writers to write. Utilize your senses: sight, touch, smell, taste, and sound...think of how you remember things in your memory and your dreams, then translate it with your creativity. When you do this, you will reveal the necessary details that bring your story to life, and will do more than tell your reader a story, you will show them where they are.
Perhaps your prose will paint a picture that will whisper across time.
"In many shamanic societies, if you came to a medicine person complaining of being disheartened, dispirited, or depressed, they would ask one of four questions: When did you stop dancing? When did you stop singing? When did you stop being enchanted by stories? When did you stop finding comfort in the sweet territory of silence?" ~Gabrielle Roth, American dancer and musician
I'm inclined to agree, yet I can't help but feel that the world's earliest storytellers didn't do it for profit. Theirs, I believe, was a desire to share a wonderful experience -even if sometimes it was merely an imaginary one- that would be passed down through the ages.
Oral traditions that later came to be etched on the walls of the earth, leaving an indelible impression that would stand the test of time.
Have you ever heard the adage: "If these walls could talk..."?
Well, if they could talk, what would they say?
It could be argued that walls indeed have spoken when we consider the rock art found around the globe from ancient times. The painted symbols from stories on cave walls left by the Australian Aborigines; the cave paintings which date back more than 40,000 years found throughout Europe; the cave art dating to Neolithic times in what is the modern-day Sahara desert that depict lush grasslands and flowing rivers, reveal religious rituals and communicate the details of the lives of our ancestors. Walls have even divulged the passage into the Afterlife as depicted within the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs. Silence has proven golden as the whispers of the dead have echoed across millennia to tell us stories of memories long forgotten.
Our purpose as storytellers could be debated as a matter of subjectivity but our goal remains the same: to fulfill a need of our species, which longs to tell and hear/read tales that whisk us away into another realm...a parallel universe that is sometimes quite different from our world.
The evolution of storytelling has gone from oral traditions to visual art, from tales of a bard to the prose of The Immortal Bard, William Shakespeare. Thus, it is imperative for modern storytellers to recognize what is necessary to achieve our end.
To put the matter compendiously, we must show AND tell.
We must utilizes our senses and communicate with our readers through our senses to draw them INTO our stories. Robert Olen Butler, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction who teaches graduate fiction at Florida State University, best described this as "sensual writing."
In the book, From Where You Dream:The Process of Writing Fiction, Janet Burroway shares with us his lectures where he emphasizes that "the point of contact for the reader is going to be an emotional one because emotions reside in the senses."
We must keep this in mind when we're describing our scenes, because if we want our readers to join us then we must do more than merely invite them into our story, we must lure them in. Utilizing our senses to show them the scene, show them the story, not simply tell it, and to do this effectively it is essential that we be a fly on the wall.
The following is an excerpt from my mythopoeic fantasy novel, Magical Universe:The Amulet of Alamin...
An icy breeze rushed through the cave that only Inanna felt, and she knew it was the demon lurking in the shadows for her child. Fear took her; their voices faded, as though she was under water, and suddenly the cave was cloaked in complete darkness. She was suddenly aware that they weren't alone, and the presence she felt, she knew was unnatural. Her breath fogged as it escaped her, and the darkness pressed against her soul like heavy stones upon her chest.
There was no sound. She trembled, looking up to see a grimacing, cruel face looming before her with two eyes piercing her heart; they were cold, and sharp, unblinking. A grip, frozen and unrelenting, seized her throat. The icy touch chilled her to the core and she struggled to breathe while attempting to scream.
Far and faint, the voices of her family called out to her frantically. They seemed to echo from high above, like a lover's last call trapped in a dying dream. Her stare strained against the gloom, but they continued calling more and more anxiously until she escaped the trance and their voices were clear, again.
"Your son must wear this amulet at all times to protect him from the Edimmu, Lilitu, and other demons!" Ereshki said, hastily fastening a leather cord around his neck.
Inanna caressed the Cuneiform script incised on the tiny tablet attached to the cord. She sought comfort in the spell; the presence of the demon vanished as her cousins helped her to her feet. Ereshki tore strips of cloth from her own garments and carefully, but quickly, wrapped it about the child as he fed. Etana extinguished the flame, and for a brief instant, only their nervous breathing could be heard. The trickle of water along the walls of the tunnels fell behind a curtain of shouting amongst the soldiers who hurriedly searched the caves for them.
End scene.
Don't simply TELL your readers where they are...you must SHOW them where they are if you want them to join the journey and remain entranced by your story. Account for minute details because the smallest things will make the biggest difference, however it is imperative that not over do it. Tell your readers JUST enough detail, show your readers JUST enough detail, and allow them to fill in the blanks with their own imagination.
Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the 1982 Nobel Prize in Literature recipient, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the author of One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the time of Cholera, is also "noted for leaving out seemingly important details and events so the reader is forced into a more participatory role in the story development."
He'll describe the heat, stench, and poverty-striken neighborhoods of a Carribean port where his stories take place, but the name of the locale isn't provided. In the minds of some this is a seemingly trivial truth, however it remains true and effective because in a strange way I find that it adds to the mysteriousness that draws me into his world.
I admire and strive to emulate the method in which he provides meticulous details that paint a perfect picture in the cinema of my mind: "There was no sleeper more elegant than she, with her curved body posed for a dance and her hand across her forehead." Garcia-Marquez describing Fermina Daza in Love in the Time of Cholera.
I'd like to stress that the phrase "cinema of the mind" is how Robert Olen Butler advises writers to write. Utilize your senses: sight, touch, smell, taste, and sound...think of how you remember things in your memory and your dreams, then translate it with your creativity. When you do this, you will reveal the necessary details that bring your story to life, and will do more than tell your reader a story, you will show them where they are.
Perhaps your prose will paint a picture that will whisper across time.
"In many shamanic societies, if you came to a medicine person complaining of being disheartened, dispirited, or depressed, they would ask one of four questions: When did you stop dancing? When did you stop singing? When did you stop being enchanted by stories? When did you stop finding comfort in the sweet territory of silence?" ~Gabrielle Roth, American dancer and musician
Friday, October 26, 2012
Write, Write, Write...Right?
Stephen King once said, "If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that."
As writers, we journey along a path filled with ideas, adventures and breathtaking scenery. On occasion, we find ourselves alone on a dirt road with open fields of dead crops. There are moments when our imaginary friends converse with us, offer us trinkets of plot twists and a sip from a creative concoction like gypsies that come and go as they please, and we indulge to our hearts' content.
What happens when our friends desert us for days, weeks or months at a time? When they choose not to talk with us and linger along another road to avoid crossing our paths, we are left to wander aimlessly along the valleys of our thoughts.
It gets lonely.
Some might say that a writer who isn't a recluse isn't a writer at all, and there is some truth to that, because we usually prefer that time alone, we need that silence to be able to hear the whispers of our imaginary friends and carry on that conversation. We need that undisturbed block of time to lose ourselves and find that hidden treasure that others will want to lose themselves in too!
But when we can't bear the silence, and when we feel abandoned by characters that saunter into our stories to remind us that they exist, even if only in our imagination, then we must read!
This may sound counter-intuitive to a writer, since our primary objective is to write. Write, write, write. Right?
It's who we are, it's what we do!
Then it happens. We become parched. We thirst for that creative juice that ignites our fanciful ideas, much like that person who gets drunk and thinks that they're ex-lover wants to hear from them in the middle of the night, and we write everything that comes to mind.
When this doesn't happen, however, then we have to be open to the alternative.
Read.
Read something that pertains to your story. I have found that research material i.e. mythology, ancient history, or physics helps to lure my imaginary friends out of hiding. They catch that scent of inspiration and quickly return to add their "two cents," because they can no more resist the urge to return than we writers can resist the urge to write.
So read, my friends. Read whatever you can get your hands on, feast your minds on those countless pages that someone else wrote while their imaginary friends talked with them and you may just find what it is that you need to write!
"Writers Block: When your imaginary friends stop talking to you." ~Linda Nee
Friday, October 19, 2012
Escape the Inescapable
You need to cease reading this particular post and plot your escape! Go. Now. Quickly. Before it's too late!
You can't do it, can you? It's not as easy as it sounds, is it?
Want to know what is even more difficult?
Escaping the conundrum of writing yourself into a corner.
Yep, that is correct. Here I am, with two of my main characters in my latest novel; wandering through the mountains east of Egypt on a journey to the Red Sea when a fierce wind swept over us with heavy rolling clouds and the low rumble of an angry god warning us to seek cover. We raced into a cave just as a downpour drenched the region, illuminated by flashes of light in the sky and we found ourselves cornered by a mysterious figure that shadowed our every move since our arrival in the mountains.
The predicament?
Well, first, we are losing time now being trapped inside a cave and roaming deeper into the earth when we should be continuing our journey east to the sea. Our goal is to travel north by boat and arrive at the ports of Egypt along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. Once there, we have to concoct a plan to infiltrate the country & find Kanika, but how will we manage this when my Nubian friends aren't permitted to enter the Two Lands?
When you write yourself into a corner, do not fret, my friends. Take a step back, breathe, and read. Yes, you heard correctly. Read.
Read something that pertains to your frame of mind, or read a novel that you enjoy escaping into. You can't unlock a lock by using the Force. Believe me, I've attempted this feat and almost had an aneurysm! To unlock a lock, you need a key -or a safety pin for those of you with rather unscrupulous methods- and you must insert that key, and turn.
Fortunately for me, I have a vast personal library of books on Ancient Civilizations, Mythology, Deities and Demons. I escaped this realm and fell into the legends of the past...I essentially journeyed through inter-dimensional space and time to unlock the lock.
Do I thank God, the gods, the fates or just plain old good fortune? I'm not quite sure, yet, but certainly I am grateful for what transpired. I figured out how to evade the dreaded dead-end by weaving together fact and myth, with a wave of my "soft-tip red-ink Bic" wand. (Sorry to say that it does not possess a phoenix feather at the core). I formulated a new plot twist to strengthen my story, increase the intrigue and make matters worse for my protagonist.
I achieved my escape without leaving my seat. Come to think of it, I've often been an escapist. Just ask my teachers. I often daydreamed in class, writing or drawing, and seldom did my homework because my mind was always somewhere else in some other realm. Imagining a story or reading chapters in my history books that I wasn't supposed to read because I needed to escape...I needed to learn more than what I was being taught. Even then, I was formulating a plan for how I would flee from the stagnant world I knew to create a better life for my family.
It isn't easy, but despite my life choices, scripting my fate and writing myself into a corner, I'm still writing and I will successfully emulate Houdini's act of escaping the inescapable.
"All the best stories are but one story in reality - the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times, how to escape." ~A.C. Benson
You can't do it, can you? It's not as easy as it sounds, is it?
Want to know what is even more difficult?
Escaping the conundrum of writing yourself into a corner.
Yep, that is correct. Here I am, with two of my main characters in my latest novel; wandering through the mountains east of Egypt on a journey to the Red Sea when a fierce wind swept over us with heavy rolling clouds and the low rumble of an angry god warning us to seek cover. We raced into a cave just as a downpour drenched the region, illuminated by flashes of light in the sky and we found ourselves cornered by a mysterious figure that shadowed our every move since our arrival in the mountains.
The predicament?
Well, first, we are losing time now being trapped inside a cave and roaming deeper into the earth when we should be continuing our journey east to the sea. Our goal is to travel north by boat and arrive at the ports of Egypt along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. Once there, we have to concoct a plan to infiltrate the country & find Kanika, but how will we manage this when my Nubian friends aren't permitted to enter the Two Lands?
When you write yourself into a corner, do not fret, my friends. Take a step back, breathe, and read. Yes, you heard correctly. Read.
Read something that pertains to your frame of mind, or read a novel that you enjoy escaping into. You can't unlock a lock by using the Force. Believe me, I've attempted this feat and almost had an aneurysm! To unlock a lock, you need a key -or a safety pin for those of you with rather unscrupulous methods- and you must insert that key, and turn.
Fortunately for me, I have a vast personal library of books on Ancient Civilizations, Mythology, Deities and Demons. I escaped this realm and fell into the legends of the past...I essentially journeyed through inter-dimensional space and time to unlock the lock.
Do I thank God, the gods, the fates or just plain old good fortune? I'm not quite sure, yet, but certainly I am grateful for what transpired. I figured out how to evade the dreaded dead-end by weaving together fact and myth, with a wave of my "soft-tip red-ink Bic" wand. (Sorry to say that it does not possess a phoenix feather at the core). I formulated a new plot twist to strengthen my story, increase the intrigue and make matters worse for my protagonist.
I achieved my escape without leaving my seat. Come to think of it, I've often been an escapist. Just ask my teachers. I often daydreamed in class, writing or drawing, and seldom did my homework because my mind was always somewhere else in some other realm. Imagining a story or reading chapters in my history books that I wasn't supposed to read because I needed to escape...I needed to learn more than what I was being taught. Even then, I was formulating a plan for how I would flee from the stagnant world I knew to create a better life for my family.
It isn't easy, but despite my life choices, scripting my fate and writing myself into a corner, I'm still writing and I will successfully emulate Houdini's act of escaping the inescapable.
"All the best stories are but one story in reality - the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times, how to escape." ~A.C. Benson
Friday, October 12, 2012
Keep Moving Forward
Have you ever attempted to create a ball with a handful of sand?
It's quite different than with packable snow and that's the challenge we face as writers. Realistically, that's the challenge we all face in life. A desert of words stretches far and wide beyond your starting point -a blank page- but what do you do with what rests at your feet?
Words must be chosen carefully, whether we are writing or interacting with people on a daily basis. The path we decide must be considered prudently because if we embark on a journey in the wrong direction, we risk losing our sense of direction -our sense of right and wrong- and lost beyond assistance.
We'll hope for that oasis to alleviate our torture, to assist us in redirecting our path in the right direction, but too often a mirage proves illusory and we arrive at place that resembles our point of origin. What then?
Sometimes, we scrap the paper or delete the page and begin anew.
Sometimes.
Yet, there are other moments when we have developed an attachment to our characters, to our worlds, to our stories and we are reluctant to merely vanquish them from our lives. We have invested too much of ourselves into them, and to simply press delete sometimes feels like we've eliminated a part of ourselves.
Is this how we die? Bit by bit, piece by piece? Word by word, mistake-by-mistake, rejection letter by rejection letter? How do we overcome the obstacles that arise? How do we climb that dune, find more desert spanning beyond the horizon and still find the energy to keep moving forward? How do we face these trials and decide that our dream must live?
I find myself on the mountain of my life's dreams. I have continued to climb despite the avalanche of recent setbacks and I do so with a heavy heart.
I miss my children, but I talk with them as often as I can and make the most out of our visitation weekends so that we have memories to last a lifetime. I strive to achieve validation as a writer in my pursuit for publication whilst I tend to the wounds of my pride with repeated rejection letters for representation.
I work longer hours to make ends meet, and squeeze in time for revisions on my completed manuscripts while committing time to my newest projects in the middle of the night when I should be asleep.
To ensure my children have everything they need, I've sacrificed as much as I could but find myself unable to afford my medication for my diabetes. So I make adjustments in my eating habits to avoid the dangers to which I'm at risk. I formulate solutions rather than dwell on the circumstances I created, yet at every turn the mountain grows steeper and my legs grow more tired. The air grows thinner, and my heart grows heavier.
I am a man that is flawed and ambitious, confident in my abilities yet insecure with issues of abandonment but still willing to keep moving forward. Still hopeful that I will achieve the pinnacle of my dream because I'm convinced that I was born to accomplish this task; born to be the father I am to my children and provide them with the life of security and love they deserve.
I will continue to carve my stories into this mountain, I will continue to stare down that blank page that lingers before me like a desert that threatens to exist as a daunting task, and I will continue to develop my craft and become the writer I'm destined to be, because if a universe is capable of existing by the accumulation of minute strings -see String Theory- then surely I shall one day create a ball with a handful of sand.
It's possible with water. Anything is possible with faith in yourself, and in what you are determined to achieve.
"Many of the great achievements of the world were accomplished by tired and discouraged individuals who kept moving forward."
It's quite different than with packable snow and that's the challenge we face as writers. Realistically, that's the challenge we all face in life. A desert of words stretches far and wide beyond your starting point -a blank page- but what do you do with what rests at your feet?
Words must be chosen carefully, whether we are writing or interacting with people on a daily basis. The path we decide must be considered prudently because if we embark on a journey in the wrong direction, we risk losing our sense of direction -our sense of right and wrong- and lost beyond assistance.
We'll hope for that oasis to alleviate our torture, to assist us in redirecting our path in the right direction, but too often a mirage proves illusory and we arrive at place that resembles our point of origin. What then?
Sometimes, we scrap the paper or delete the page and begin anew.
Sometimes.
Yet, there are other moments when we have developed an attachment to our characters, to our worlds, to our stories and we are reluctant to merely vanquish them from our lives. We have invested too much of ourselves into them, and to simply press delete sometimes feels like we've eliminated a part of ourselves.
Is this how we die? Bit by bit, piece by piece? Word by word, mistake-by-mistake, rejection letter by rejection letter? How do we overcome the obstacles that arise? How do we climb that dune, find more desert spanning beyond the horizon and still find the energy to keep moving forward? How do we face these trials and decide that our dream must live?
I find myself on the mountain of my life's dreams. I have continued to climb despite the avalanche of recent setbacks and I do so with a heavy heart.
I miss my children, but I talk with them as often as I can and make the most out of our visitation weekends so that we have memories to last a lifetime. I strive to achieve validation as a writer in my pursuit for publication whilst I tend to the wounds of my pride with repeated rejection letters for representation.
I work longer hours to make ends meet, and squeeze in time for revisions on my completed manuscripts while committing time to my newest projects in the middle of the night when I should be asleep.
To ensure my children have everything they need, I've sacrificed as much as I could but find myself unable to afford my medication for my diabetes. So I make adjustments in my eating habits to avoid the dangers to which I'm at risk. I formulate solutions rather than dwell on the circumstances I created, yet at every turn the mountain grows steeper and my legs grow more tired. The air grows thinner, and my heart grows heavier.
I am a man that is flawed and ambitious, confident in my abilities yet insecure with issues of abandonment but still willing to keep moving forward. Still hopeful that I will achieve the pinnacle of my dream because I'm convinced that I was born to accomplish this task; born to be the father I am to my children and provide them with the life of security and love they deserve.
I will continue to carve my stories into this mountain, I will continue to stare down that blank page that lingers before me like a desert that threatens to exist as a daunting task, and I will continue to develop my craft and become the writer I'm destined to be, because if a universe is capable of existing by the accumulation of minute strings -see String Theory- then surely I shall one day create a ball with a handful of sand.
It's possible with water. Anything is possible with faith in yourself, and in what you are determined to achieve.
"Many of the great achievements of the world were accomplished by tired and discouraged individuals who kept moving forward."
Friday, October 5, 2012
The Sacrificial Lamb
I had to kill him.......OFF!
It was necessary, because he wasn't necessary. After having beta-readers read my manuscript and offer their feedback, it became evident that one character in my novel was merely just along for the ride. Ultimately I arrived at the realization that he -like many of the nameless faces throughout the course of human history- did nothing to enrich the story, to leave his indelible mark and became unforgettable.
This didn't make him any less important, because a person who lives a short life is still capable of doing important deeds. Although I had originally envisioned him to play a role in my story akin to C-3PO or Peregin "Pippin" Took, as the twists and turns burrowed deeper into the legend of my novel like a river cutting through the terrain of the earth, he became more obsolete and needed to be eliminated.
Characters, like the story itself, have this uncanny ability to "come to life" for a writer, and impose their will. Wodinaz the Wizard, Inanna and Dumuzi -the parents of Alulim, Manu and Aya the Immortals all flourished and BECAME real, they all took action and became essential by shaping the course of events that unfolded in Ancient Sumer, circa 2300B.C.E. however this other character, he never did that. I came to the realization that the story could be told without his presence, and as a result he had to die.
It wasn't that he lacked bravery or that he wasn't noble, because when the moment came and it was imperative for the sake of Inanna's safety, he took action and made a decision to die a warrior's death. In that regard, he made a valuable contribution to the legend, but that is where his role in the script of destiny came to an abrupt end.
And to quote Hector when he prepared to do battle with Achilles at the gates of Troy, remarking on the fallen cousin of the legendary warrior's cousin, Patroclus: "I gave the dead boy the honor he deserved."
And to quote Achilles in response, "You have him the honor of your sword!"
Yes, I gave this one character the honor of a warrior's sword, but at least he went down fighting.
To quote one of the greatest warriors of legend once more, I recall a scene from the epic war film Troy when Achilles was summoned to fight Boagrius, when a boy spoke with Achilles about the Thessalonian warrior:
"The Thessalonian you're fighting, he's the biggest man I've ever seen...I wouldn't want to fight him."
Achilles turned to the boy and said, "That's why no one will remember your name."
Perhaps the character in my story will be forgotten, lost like a scent in the breeze of time, and as my series develops into the 20 books that I'm currently projecting, his actions may be eclipsed by grander deeds, but at least he will not be remembered as a coward. Someday, I hope, that they will reflect upon his one decisive moment, the moment that defined his presence in my novel -however short-lived it was- and realize that his sacrifice allowed for the story to continue and for destiny to be fulfilled.
"They never fail who die in a great cause."
~George Gordon Byron
It was necessary, because he wasn't necessary. After having beta-readers read my manuscript and offer their feedback, it became evident that one character in my novel was merely just along for the ride. Ultimately I arrived at the realization that he -like many of the nameless faces throughout the course of human history- did nothing to enrich the story, to leave his indelible mark and became unforgettable.
This didn't make him any less important, because a person who lives a short life is still capable of doing important deeds. Although I had originally envisioned him to play a role in my story akin to C-3PO or Peregin "Pippin" Took, as the twists and turns burrowed deeper into the legend of my novel like a river cutting through the terrain of the earth, he became more obsolete and needed to be eliminated.
Characters, like the story itself, have this uncanny ability to "come to life" for a writer, and impose their will. Wodinaz the Wizard, Inanna and Dumuzi -the parents of Alulim, Manu and Aya the Immortals all flourished and BECAME real, they all took action and became essential by shaping the course of events that unfolded in Ancient Sumer, circa 2300B.C.E. however this other character, he never did that. I came to the realization that the story could be told without his presence, and as a result he had to die.
It wasn't that he lacked bravery or that he wasn't noble, because when the moment came and it was imperative for the sake of Inanna's safety, he took action and made a decision to die a warrior's death. In that regard, he made a valuable contribution to the legend, but that is where his role in the script of destiny came to an abrupt end.
And to quote Hector when he prepared to do battle with Achilles at the gates of Troy, remarking on the fallen cousin of the legendary warrior's cousin, Patroclus: "I gave the dead boy the honor he deserved."
And to quote Achilles in response, "You have him the honor of your sword!"
Yes, I gave this one character the honor of a warrior's sword, but at least he went down fighting.
To quote one of the greatest warriors of legend once more, I recall a scene from the epic war film Troy when Achilles was summoned to fight Boagrius, when a boy spoke with Achilles about the Thessalonian warrior:
"The Thessalonian you're fighting, he's the biggest man I've ever seen...I wouldn't want to fight him."
Achilles turned to the boy and said, "That's why no one will remember your name."
Perhaps the character in my story will be forgotten, lost like a scent in the breeze of time, and as my series develops into the 20 books that I'm currently projecting, his actions may be eclipsed by grander deeds, but at least he will not be remembered as a coward. Someday, I hope, that they will reflect upon his one decisive moment, the moment that defined his presence in my novel -however short-lived it was- and realize that his sacrifice allowed for the story to continue and for destiny to be fulfilled.
"They never fail who die in a great cause."
~George Gordon Byron
Friday, September 28, 2012
Who Are You?
I recently posed the query: "Who are you?" ...& it has led others to inquire: "Is it the things that you do, or the person that you are, who make you, you?"
Many have provided insight into their own perspective... commenting that:
"The things you do stem from the person you are, and who you are can change based on what you do. It's an endless loop."
...or...
"It's the things that you do that make you the person that you are."
...&...
"The person you are generates the things you do, which makes you the person you are.... Make sense?
Which leads Me to ask...
...but what makes a person DO those things that which make them who they are?
& is THAT the key to the riddle?
For example: We all know Michael Jordan was a great basketball player, a tremendous athlete & a fierce competitor.
Yet many of Us (at least those fans who followed his career, read his biographies, & such) have heard that he's been a competitive individual since his youth, long before he was a great basketball player, & tremendous athlete.
By process of elimination, We may conclude that he was a fierce competitor before he DID what he did, to be known as the other two things: great basketball player, tremendous athlete.
So now We face the conundrum that requires elucidation.
What made him a fierce competitor? What innate quality or trait may We attest this competitiveness to?
What made him a competitor before he was known as a competitor?
What makes an artist decide to pick up a paint brush & decide to create an image to share? But doesn't a creative person already possess an innate inclination to be creative, since it's obvious there are many who don't?
What drives a philosopher to ponder profound thought?
What ignites the inquisitiveness of a physicist to seek out the equation, that tiny one-inch equation that will grant Us a glimpse into the Mind of God? (Akin to Einstein's famous equation - E=MC~squared - that explains the macrocosm of Our existence, & gravity).
Taking that a step further, let Us look at the Christ. Everyone knows I'm not a religious zealot. My idea of Holy Water is in a bottle of scotch! However, if We were to apply the question/answer to this historical figure: "Is it the things that U do or the person that U are, that make U, U?"
Was Jesus the Son of God prior to His "miracles" & crucifixion, or was he only a deity after doing the things that people have attributed to his status as a divine figure?
If these individuals are who they are: thinkers, artists, musicians, competitors, romantics, writers, mathematicians, etc., prior to being known as such, then they are who they long before they do what they do.
Which begs the question: "Who Are You?"
Many have provided insight into their own perspective... commenting that:
"The things you do stem from the person you are, and who you are can change based on what you do. It's an endless loop."
...or...
"It's the things that you do that make you the person that you are."
...&...
"The person you are generates the things you do, which makes you the person you are.... Make sense?
Which leads Me to ask...
...but what makes a person DO those things that which make them who they are?
& is THAT the key to the riddle?
For example: We all know Michael Jordan was a great basketball player, a tremendous athlete & a fierce competitor.
Yet many of Us (at least those fans who followed his career, read his biographies, & such) have heard that he's been a competitive individual since his youth, long before he was a great basketball player, & tremendous athlete.
By process of elimination, We may conclude that he was a fierce competitor before he DID what he did, to be known as the other two things: great basketball player, tremendous athlete.
So now We face the conundrum that requires elucidation.
What made him a fierce competitor? What innate quality or trait may We attest this competitiveness to?
What made him a competitor before he was known as a competitor?
What makes an artist decide to pick up a paint brush & decide to create an image to share? But doesn't a creative person already possess an innate inclination to be creative, since it's obvious there are many who don't?
What drives a philosopher to ponder profound thought?
What ignites the inquisitiveness of a physicist to seek out the equation, that tiny one-inch equation that will grant Us a glimpse into the Mind of God? (Akin to Einstein's famous equation - E=MC~squared - that explains the macrocosm of Our existence, & gravity).
Taking that a step further, let Us look at the Christ. Everyone knows I'm not a religious zealot. My idea of Holy Water is in a bottle of scotch! However, if We were to apply the question/answer to this historical figure: "Is it the things that U do or the person that U are, that make U, U?"
Was Jesus the Son of God prior to His "miracles" & crucifixion, or was he only a deity after doing the things that people have attributed to his status as a divine figure?
If these individuals are who they are: thinkers, artists, musicians, competitors, romantics, writers, mathematicians, etc., prior to being known as such, then they are who they long before they do what they do.
Which begs the question: "Who Are You?"
Friday, July 27, 2012
Heart of a Man
For as long as I can remember, I have been in love with you. I mean, truly, passionately, unconditionally, head-over-heels… in love with you. I knew this even before we met because love sees with the heart, long before the mind sees through the eyes.
While the cynic may not believe in love at first sight, the romantic understands that it is simply the recognition of a soul mate. It's the difference between loving & living from being in love & feeling alive. It's possible, just not always salient to everyone.
Think of life…life, which existed long before we lived, just because we didn't experience it, doesn't mean it did not exist. However, once we draw our first breath, once we exhale a piece of ourselves, only to be inhaled by each other…our new life begins & the expression of how we have always felt becomes the love we live. I feel it, I crave it, I know it…I always have, because for as long as I can remember, I have been in love with you.
Before I saw you, the canvas of my heart was missing the most essential beauty of a masterpiece. Instead all I had were the transparent images that attempted to stoke the fires of my daydreams with paint-less brushes. Colors didn't exist & sight truly saw no vision through my eyes. My senses wasted away in the long hours of the day & the loneliness of quiet nights. What hope felt as "should have been," had yet to be; & what was a reality, I hoped was nothing more than a terrible dream. Alternatively, I realized that the dreams I dreamt were all I had to hold on to. Destiny was on a string & I was hanging on by a thread.
I was about to let go, I was on the verge of allowing myself to fall into the bottomless realms of hopelessness when you appeared; seemingly, out of thin air. Suddenly, I experienced a change of season…& the beauty of winter became the comfort of spring. You smiled at me once & I danced in the rain of April. I imagined the feeling of being in your embrace & I was swept away by a summer breeze. You said "hello" & autumn dawned…my green turned to gold & the falling of leaves represented so much more. You were an arm's length away & yet I could not touch you. I heard your voice yet I was not permitted to listen to your thoughts. Circumstances dictated fate, instead of it being the other way around. Still, regardless of what stood between us, it was beyond love at first sight; it was a re-kindling of emotions. My heart recognized yours & love simply made that connection. A connection that could not be, a connection that would not be…& it wasn't because we didn't want it to be; we just knew it shouldn't be, not under the circumstances. Seasons changed & we lived our lives a heart beat apart. Once again, I was about to let go…but then I realized that I was unable to let go of someone I never even held.
All these years' later, circumstances changed & still, we can't be together. Your smile haunts me when I close my eyes & your voice brings me comfort when I listen to you speak. Conventional wisdom warns that our conversations are forbidden; yet we disregard the cautionary whispers of our conscience. The sun sets on our pillow talk & a new dawn blankets our days of this distance, all while our thoughts dance to the serenade of our voices. Laughter chimes in on the occasional moment when we recollect the sweetness of yester-years memories & a silence lingers comfortably as we hope these dialogues don't end. Your soul makes love to my senses when you speak & your eyes kiss my heart when you smile…this is an intimacy that only you and I share. From this distance, from a safe distance, this is as close as I have ever been to you; & while circumstances change, my need to feel for you remains the same.
An ageless beauty, a timeless love, an endless dream…the essence of perfection that is you has captured my imagination & stolen my heart. The years will pass, time will continue to count the seconds into the inevitable of tomorrow & a piece of me will still reach out to you; knowing that I may never embrace you in my arms. A summer breeze will brush me with the scent of heavenly you & I will reminisce on what almost was. I will walk in the rain on a warm spring day & a flowerbed will remind me of the morning I watched you sleep. I will age with the trees & look upon the coming of autumn with a changed perspective, finding new beauty in the gold of each fall. A piece of my soul will escape me in a breath & you might see it in the crisp cool air on a winter day. You will return to me one night when the snow falls in the cold of December, kissing me on the forehead & melting into the depths of my mind. You will remind me of the love I feel, you will remind me of the life I lived. Not destined to have you in this lifetime, I will surely find you in the next. Although my heart will age & beat slower as I reach the senectitude in this cycle of life, I shall never grow tired of loving you because this feeling will never grow old. I will need you in my ripe old age as I needed you before we met & as I need you now. This isn't about, wanting what I can't have, this is simply about loving a lover with this heart of a man.
****So why did I write this piece? Well, for the most obvious of reasons...conflict! Stir up conflict, establish it & allow it to drive deep into the emotions of your characters. This is what makes us relate to them, root for them and believe they exist. Make them flawed, heartfelt individuals who care about others & suddenly your readers will want to accompany them along their journey. They will want to see them through this conflict in anticipation of the climax. Create the conflict and then determine how you will paint the picture of "happily ever after." If, that is, how you want it to end.
"The hottest love, has the coldest end." ~Socrates
While the cynic may not believe in love at first sight, the romantic understands that it is simply the recognition of a soul mate. It's the difference between loving & living from being in love & feeling alive. It's possible, just not always salient to everyone.
Think of life…life, which existed long before we lived, just because we didn't experience it, doesn't mean it did not exist. However, once we draw our first breath, once we exhale a piece of ourselves, only to be inhaled by each other…our new life begins & the expression of how we have always felt becomes the love we live. I feel it, I crave it, I know it…I always have, because for as long as I can remember, I have been in love with you.
Before I saw you, the canvas of my heart was missing the most essential beauty of a masterpiece. Instead all I had were the transparent images that attempted to stoke the fires of my daydreams with paint-less brushes. Colors didn't exist & sight truly saw no vision through my eyes. My senses wasted away in the long hours of the day & the loneliness of quiet nights. What hope felt as "should have been," had yet to be; & what was a reality, I hoped was nothing more than a terrible dream. Alternatively, I realized that the dreams I dreamt were all I had to hold on to. Destiny was on a string & I was hanging on by a thread.
I was about to let go, I was on the verge of allowing myself to fall into the bottomless realms of hopelessness when you appeared; seemingly, out of thin air. Suddenly, I experienced a change of season…& the beauty of winter became the comfort of spring. You smiled at me once & I danced in the rain of April. I imagined the feeling of being in your embrace & I was swept away by a summer breeze. You said "hello" & autumn dawned…my green turned to gold & the falling of leaves represented so much more. You were an arm's length away & yet I could not touch you. I heard your voice yet I was not permitted to listen to your thoughts. Circumstances dictated fate, instead of it being the other way around. Still, regardless of what stood between us, it was beyond love at first sight; it was a re-kindling of emotions. My heart recognized yours & love simply made that connection. A connection that could not be, a connection that would not be…& it wasn't because we didn't want it to be; we just knew it shouldn't be, not under the circumstances. Seasons changed & we lived our lives a heart beat apart. Once again, I was about to let go…but then I realized that I was unable to let go of someone I never even held.
All these years' later, circumstances changed & still, we can't be together. Your smile haunts me when I close my eyes & your voice brings me comfort when I listen to you speak. Conventional wisdom warns that our conversations are forbidden; yet we disregard the cautionary whispers of our conscience. The sun sets on our pillow talk & a new dawn blankets our days of this distance, all while our thoughts dance to the serenade of our voices. Laughter chimes in on the occasional moment when we recollect the sweetness of yester-years memories & a silence lingers comfortably as we hope these dialogues don't end. Your soul makes love to my senses when you speak & your eyes kiss my heart when you smile…this is an intimacy that only you and I share. From this distance, from a safe distance, this is as close as I have ever been to you; & while circumstances change, my need to feel for you remains the same.
An ageless beauty, a timeless love, an endless dream…the essence of perfection that is you has captured my imagination & stolen my heart. The years will pass, time will continue to count the seconds into the inevitable of tomorrow & a piece of me will still reach out to you; knowing that I may never embrace you in my arms. A summer breeze will brush me with the scent of heavenly you & I will reminisce on what almost was. I will walk in the rain on a warm spring day & a flowerbed will remind me of the morning I watched you sleep. I will age with the trees & look upon the coming of autumn with a changed perspective, finding new beauty in the gold of each fall. A piece of my soul will escape me in a breath & you might see it in the crisp cool air on a winter day. You will return to me one night when the snow falls in the cold of December, kissing me on the forehead & melting into the depths of my mind. You will remind me of the love I feel, you will remind me of the life I lived. Not destined to have you in this lifetime, I will surely find you in the next. Although my heart will age & beat slower as I reach the senectitude in this cycle of life, I shall never grow tired of loving you because this feeling will never grow old. I will need you in my ripe old age as I needed you before we met & as I need you now. This isn't about, wanting what I can't have, this is simply about loving a lover with this heart of a man.
****So why did I write this piece? Well, for the most obvious of reasons...conflict! Stir up conflict, establish it & allow it to drive deep into the emotions of your characters. This is what makes us relate to them, root for them and believe they exist. Make them flawed, heartfelt individuals who care about others & suddenly your readers will want to accompany them along their journey. They will want to see them through this conflict in anticipation of the climax. Create the conflict and then determine how you will paint the picture of "happily ever after." If, that is, how you want it to end.
"The hottest love, has the coldest end." ~Socrates
Friday, June 22, 2012
Missing My Muse
It's been quite a long time since I've watched a sunset. I miss that.
Currently, I work the midnight shift so I'm usually wandering through the realm of my dreams, searching for the muse of my soul to discuss with her my next great idea. Wouldn't you know it, that lately she's been off frolicking with the nine daughters of Zeus when I need her most?! Women!
So here I am, waking up after (take your pick on the name): Atum, of the Egyptians; Helios, of the Greeks; Garuda, of the Hindus; Sunna, of the Norse; Utu, of the Mesopotamians; the sun has serenely drifted beyond the western horizon and allowed the heavens to give way to the beauty of night. I have to get ready for work and while I love gazing at the twinkling of stars, wondering what else lies beyond the borders of our galaxy (or within for that matter) I'm saddened by the thought that yet again, I missed the opportunity to watch the sun silently kiss the day goodbye. After all, you can't have a good night without a kiss, right?
Now, imagine if you will, my frustration as I continue to work on revising and editing my manuscript. Painstakingly combing through each page then stopping and re-reading books on revision and self-editing to make sure I'm doing everything that needs to be done, correctly. Then taking a break from that when words from my well of creative consciousness trickle through my thoughts and bleed through my fingers onto the keyboard. Here's where my multiple personalities emerge (note: I have not actually been clinically diagnosed as such, but I'm sure fellow creative minds will understand what I'm saying).
The perfectionist reads what I type and criticizes every thing! The insidiously insecure individual in me stares at what spilled out of me and lacking in complete confidence wonders if what I've written is even "good enough" to be taken seriously. I begin to worry that my idea is beyond redemption, that my characters aren't engaging enough, that my prose isn't poetic enough and that my plot is a flavorless pretzel!
Here, my muse is where I long for you.
Those who know me will tell you that my confidence borders on arrogance but that has hardly been the case in recent days. I feel like Rocky after he took that beating at the brutal hands of Clubber Lang, "I pity the fool! Grrr...!" in Rocky 3. Shaken to the core and unable to focus on what needs to be done.
I've refrained from further submissions over the past two weeks because I believe it's better to step back, breathe and regain composure to make sure you're doing things correctly than to distractedly send out queries that haven't been polished to perfection (or as close to it as possible).
The same has gone for any writing beyond the first few sentences of my next novel.
I'd love to travel the world and walk on the ancient sites of which I write about in order to have my senses caressed by the scent of legendary regions. I'd journey to Mount Olympus, the heavenly abode of the Greek gods, dwell with the spirits of the past and be revitalized after a conversation with Homer while the sun sets in the west.
Horace once said, "The Muse gave the Greeks genius and the art of well-turned phrase."
Perhaps Apollo may plea with Zeus on my behalf and convinces Kalliope, the highest ranking of his nine Muses, to return my muse to me. Surely, I have not offended them in any way because I dread being cursed to suffer the fate of Thamyris; because my soul has memories that I need to find, my heart has stories that I need to tell. My muse and I have much to discuss.
"The lie, as a virtue, a principle, is eternal; the lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in time of need, the fourth Grace, the tenth Muse, man's best and surest friend is immortal!" ~Mark Twain
Currently, I work the midnight shift so I'm usually wandering through the realm of my dreams, searching for the muse of my soul to discuss with her my next great idea. Wouldn't you know it, that lately she's been off frolicking with the nine daughters of Zeus when I need her most?! Women!
So here I am, waking up after (take your pick on the name): Atum, of the Egyptians; Helios, of the Greeks; Garuda, of the Hindus; Sunna, of the Norse; Utu, of the Mesopotamians; the sun has serenely drifted beyond the western horizon and allowed the heavens to give way to the beauty of night. I have to get ready for work and while I love gazing at the twinkling of stars, wondering what else lies beyond the borders of our galaxy (or within for that matter) I'm saddened by the thought that yet again, I missed the opportunity to watch the sun silently kiss the day goodbye. After all, you can't have a good night without a kiss, right?
Now, imagine if you will, my frustration as I continue to work on revising and editing my manuscript. Painstakingly combing through each page then stopping and re-reading books on revision and self-editing to make sure I'm doing everything that needs to be done, correctly. Then taking a break from that when words from my well of creative consciousness trickle through my thoughts and bleed through my fingers onto the keyboard. Here's where my multiple personalities emerge (note: I have not actually been clinically diagnosed as such, but I'm sure fellow creative minds will understand what I'm saying).
The perfectionist reads what I type and criticizes every thing! The insidiously insecure individual in me stares at what spilled out of me and lacking in complete confidence wonders if what I've written is even "good enough" to be taken seriously. I begin to worry that my idea is beyond redemption, that my characters aren't engaging enough, that my prose isn't poetic enough and that my plot is a flavorless pretzel!
Here, my muse is where I long for you.
Those who know me will tell you that my confidence borders on arrogance but that has hardly been the case in recent days. I feel like Rocky after he took that beating at the brutal hands of Clubber Lang, "I pity the fool! Grrr...!" in Rocky 3. Shaken to the core and unable to focus on what needs to be done.
I've refrained from further submissions over the past two weeks because I believe it's better to step back, breathe and regain composure to make sure you're doing things correctly than to distractedly send out queries that haven't been polished to perfection (or as close to it as possible).
The same has gone for any writing beyond the first few sentences of my next novel.
I'd love to travel the world and walk on the ancient sites of which I write about in order to have my senses caressed by the scent of legendary regions. I'd journey to Mount Olympus, the heavenly abode of the Greek gods, dwell with the spirits of the past and be revitalized after a conversation with Homer while the sun sets in the west.
Horace once said, "The Muse gave the Greeks genius and the art of well-turned phrase."
Perhaps Apollo may plea with Zeus on my behalf and convinces Kalliope, the highest ranking of his nine Muses, to return my muse to me. Surely, I have not offended them in any way because I dread being cursed to suffer the fate of Thamyris; because my soul has memories that I need to find, my heart has stories that I need to tell. My muse and I have much to discuss.
"The lie, as a virtue, a principle, is eternal; the lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in time of need, the fourth Grace, the tenth Muse, man's best and surest friend is immortal!" ~Mark Twain
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