Clean slate

They say confession is good for the soul... Although I don't know if anyone reads these messages apart from my best friends Rachel and Eve and they already know pretty much everything about me. But hey, a confession is a confession, even if there is no one on the other side to listen to it. 

So here goes...

I don't like to be obligated to do something. 

In fact, the more you push me, the more I slow down. Also, I don't like the pressure of the faith people put in me, I'm always afraid of letting them down. Yes, I do not think much of myself, my "products" or my capacities. Which is why I am terrified of writing that last book to my Nellie series: I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint the readers who are waiting for it with passion and eager in their eyes.
I've always been that way: either I cannot believe that someone would like something I have written that much, or if I believe it, then I'm scared I'm going to let them down with the next book. 

Stupid, uh? 

All of that has made writing practically unbearable for me.
But there's more! Now that I'm a "professional" writer, I have all this knowledge about writing, right? (Narrator type, story type, POVs, storytelling, do's and don't's, etc.) My head is filled with a thousand advice on how to write "good books". (Talk about subjective, uh?) I am so full of these advice, that they completely paralyze me when it comes to writing. And if, by means of strong-willed struggle against myself, I do manage to write something down, then I analyze it in its most infinite, intimate details to make sure that it's the best I can produce. I do that for every single word I write...

Can you imagine it?

It's maddening, really!
But I've come to realize that it was a necessary passage because I've learned a valuable lesson because of it... It's best I describe it with an analogy: make-up.

Make-up is a nice way to conceal flaws and highlight beauty, right?
But what happens when you focus on every pore in your face and end up putting on waaaaay too much make-up?

...

...
...
It ends up being the only thing you see.

That's what I did with Terra Fae. Heck, that's what I did with ALL of my novels in The Dreams section of this blog. And now, when I look at them, I don't feel joy; I don't feel passion; I don't wanna immerse myself in them again; I cannot even relate to the characters anymore!
I simply feel numb. And obligated.

So, after all this reflection, after all this explaining and this thinking, I've taken a decision: I'm going to do the unthinkable.

I'm clean-slating.

All of my novels, gone! (Well, except Nellie 4 since I made a promise to write it during this April's Camp NaNoWriMo). I'm starting anew. Like I'm an unpublished writer. No one's expecting anything from me and I'm going to write what I feel like regardless of what I know about writing.

I trust my brain (and my subconscious) will do the rest of the work for me. I mean, I will apply the writing rules I think are important all by myself, automatically, without thinking about them.
And while I'm working on a brand-new project, I trust that my older novels will age in the back of my head and only the worthy ones will emerge once again.

So, as of now, think of me as a writer with a clean slate! ^_^

I hope this will work...

Chapter 1

Hey there!

I've been writing some more of The Lighthouse Keeper (always with The Islander as background "noise") and I wanted to post here the "new" version of Chapter 1.

I also would like to have your true, honest opinion: can you feel for Jonah? I really, very rarely write novels in the first person and I was wondering if it had enough "active scenes" or too much "introspection" stuff. I know, it's only the first chapter and so far, not much is happening, but anyway. You know what I mean. :P
Does it make you wanna read more or does it all just sound... boring?

Happy reading! :P

---------------------------------------------------------------------

(Novel excerpt)

CHAPTER ONE

            I was told to keep a journal.

            Old Gregory said it would help fight loneliness and seclusion. I guess giving it a try now is not worse than anything else.

            My name is Jonah and I live in a lighthouse on a remote island. Oddly enough, I have never felt the need to keep a journal before. I guess loneliness and seclusion never really struck me.

But today, everything’s changed…

***

            I washed ashore on this island some nine years ago with very little memory of my past. I was about ten years old. And whereas the sea had rejected me, old Gregory took me in and raised me as his own son. He taught me to speak, read and write English. He taught me some world history and geography. Of course, most importantly, he taught me how to survive on the island and how to keep the lighthouse active.

He used to call us “the last lighthouse keepers”. I often wondered what he meant by that since he had showed me pictures and handed me stories of lighthouses and their keepers from all around the world. Clearly, there were others! But he kept on calling us that… I guess now it is too late to ask him.

            The island itself is quite small. Walking on its shore, one could circle it in a single day. However, the center of it has remained a mystery to me for it is always shrouded in the thickest fog and old Gregory has forbidden me to ever enter it.

            “I don’t want you to get lost, boy, and leave me alone again with the burden of this job,” he used to say. “I’m not getting any younger, you know, and I need your strength.”

            Funny thing, though, is that I cannot recall old Gregory asking for my help in any situation; he was incredibly strong in spite of his age. “An old salt” I think is the expression that best described him.

Because of his warning against the center of the island, I often suspected he knew something was hiding in the fog but whenever I brought up the subject, old Gregory would sweep it under the rug.

            “Nonsense, boy! If something lived there, I would know it by now, wouldn’t I?”

            Precisely. Nevertheless, if we truly were the only inhabitants of this island, then why is the lighthouse surrounded by an iron gate which old Gregory locked tight every night?

            He was an odd man, old Gregory, but I liked him all the same. He truly was a father to me. And we got along fine which is a good thing, you know, if we indeed were the only ones here, him and me.

            Now don’t go asking where exactly is “here” because I don’t have a single idea. Old Gregory did teach me geography but the only answer he has ever given to the “where are we?” question is “somewhere, at the end of the world”.

            Some days, I believe him…

            Today is one of those days. For you see, old Gregory has disappeared.

I am all alone now.

***

Emerging from the fog, the old man’s small boat accosted on the white sand shore. A tall woman approached him, concealing her features and her long brown hair in the darkness of her hood. Recognizing the woman, the old man bowed.

“My Lady,” he greeted.

“My dearest friend. I hate to be the bringer of bad news. He knows.”

“I know. He paid me a visit.”

“Oh! My poor friend. I hope he has not been too hard on you.”

“The punishment is yet to come, my Lady.”

“I am so sorry to have put you in the middle of this, dear friend.”

“Think nothing of it. There are more pressing matters. For instance, what will you do now?”

“I must admit I do not know. I truly dread his wrath.”

“But he loves you, my Lady.”

“Oh! You do not know him the way I do, my friend; I fear him.”

She clutched at her long autumn-red coat, tightening it around herself in a shiver. The old man frowned; had he really just guessed the Lady’s intentions hidden behind her words?

“Are you… demanding to cross, my Lady?” he stuttered.

“I’m afraid I must, old friend.”

“But… it is not the time!”

“I am aware of that, but I am at wit’s end. Mother will know what to do…”

Without another word, she embarked on the small boat.

I'm writing again!!

Inspiration is back!

I was totally desperate the other day, completely sad, utterly disgusted that I could not come up with two lines... I took the bus to my painting class and who should show up on my shuffle playlist in my iPod? Nightwish!! My favorite band of all time!
Dry spell cured! (And from now on, I'll write all the albums off my tax reports as inspirational material! LOL) And which song should show up but the one that had sparked the story for my novel The Lighthouse Keeper!

The song is called The Islander.
I'll let you (re)discover it as you read a brand-new, fresh-out-of-the-oven excerpt of my story. ^_^
Happy reading! :D

(And I'm going back to write some more! ^_^)

The Islander

(T. Holopainen, M. Hietala)

An old man by a seashore at the end of day

Gazes the horizon with sea winds in his face

Tempest-tossed island, seasons all the same

Anchorage unpainted and a ship without a name

Sea without a shore for the banished ones unheard

He lightens a beacon, light at the end of world

Showing the way, lighting hope in their hearts

The ones on their travels onward from afar

(Chorus)

This is for long-forgotten, light at the end of the world
Horizon crying the tears he left behind long ago

The albatross is flying making him daydream

The time before he became one of the world's unseen

Princess in the tower, children in the field

Life's given him all, an island of the universe

Now his love's a memory, a ghost in the fog

He sets his sails one last time, saying farewell to the world

Anchor to the water, seabed far below

Grass still in his feet and a smile beneath his brow

(Chorus)

So long ago (x 2)

This is for long-forgotten, light at the end of the world
Horizon crying the tears he left behind so long ago

----------------------------------------------------------

(Novel excerpt)

PROLOGUE

            The old man squinted, studied the horizon. The icy wind bit his skin under his long coat. He shivered and breathed some warmth into his hands, folding his hood tighter. Unable to fight the cold, the old man grabbed the pole by his side and pushed on it. His boat dragged on the freezing waters in silence. This eternal silence. He had never known anything else.

            A thick fog rose from the river as always. He squinted once more, peering through the darkness and the clouds until a bare shore appeared. Bare? He frowned.

            One more push on the pole brought him closer and any doubt he had vanished: the shore was indeed bare of all presence. This was unprecedented. Something was happening…

            The old man landed and with agility beyond his years jumped off of his little boat. With long paces, he surveyed the white sand beach. Nothing. No one. Not a soul in sight!

            Even the black waters were lacking their usual movements. Whatever was happening, worst was to be expected.

            The old man was walking towards his small boat when a voice arose.

            It was the powerful voice of a chief, a creature trained in leading others. For all the years he had worked for him, the old man could tell when his boss was angry solely by hearing his voice: the calmer the voice, the worst the storm. And right now, the voice almost sang; it was bad.

            The old man kneeled.

            “He has been found,” said the voice.

            “Master?”

            “What were you thinking, old man? What demon possessed you?”

            “I beg for forgiveness, Master. I-I know I deserve whatever punishment comes my way.”

            “Indeed. But you shall wait your turn. I have more pressing matters.”

            The voice turned quiet. Even though the old man expected such a conversation for quite a time now, he was uncertain what to do next. He waited until a shadow appeared on the beach in front of him before moving again. Standing up, he strode back to his boat, followed by the silhouette. The old man stood tall in his boat. However, even if his strong waterman exterior showed no emotion, fear had nested in his heart.

            Was there ever worse punishment than that of a man who did not know when his number would come up?

CHAPTER ONE

            I was told to keep a journal.

            Old Gregory said it would help fight loneliness and seclusion. I guess giving it a try is not any worse than anything else.

            My name is Jonas. And as far as I can remember, I’ve lived on this island. Old Gregory said he found me on an abandoned ship some twelve years ago. He’s practically raised me since we’re the only ones living here.

            Now don’t go asking where exactly is “here” because I don’t have a single idea. The only answer old Gregory has ever served me to the “where are we?” question is “at the end of the world”.

            Some days, I believe him… 

Clichés and myths

March is here, finally!

Although it does not mean any climatic change for us really (we're still way below zero degrees with snowstorms on the horizon), but it is the official first month of spring.

Springtime... Opened windows, warm winds and birds chirping, the sound of lawnmowers doing their dance and the smell of fresh-cut grass in the morning. How far it all seems now. I am definitely not a winter creature. Never have been. Never will be.

Proof: all my creative side managed to do for three whole months now is doubt. Self-doubt, story-doubt, talent-doubt, market-doubt, etc. I have spent so many months worrying that, comes March, I feel completely and totally psychologically drained. I believe it to be a matter of survival for me to move to warmer places... 

Anyway, like I said, March is here and, like every new month, it brings with itself the promise of renewal, of second chances, of change. This month, though, I have decided to tackle one of the most crippling thoughts I have had these past few months: the cliché.

As I've told my friend Eve this day, I have trouble shaking off the cliché of the "real" writer. Wherever we look, clichés are inked on us, on our minds. Unwillingly, I have fallen prey to them. I have believed for a very long time that "real writers" made plans; wrote for several hours every day; planted morals and hidden messages in their stories; concentrated on important social/political/ecological/etc. issues in their texts; have studied literature in a well-respected University; were brooding and incredibly smart creatures, etc. 

How can one (little me, for instance) live up to such expectations if they are not who one is?!

But I have tried so hard lately to fit in that mold. It's neither too small nor too big (I could have lived with that), it's simply not the right shape! It's like trying to fit a dice in a hole made for a marble!!
So finally, after all these years, I'm just starting to wake up and realize just how bad clichés and myths are. And I have decided that March would be the month that I would battle that dragon. Yes, I'm still looking, searching for who I am. And I'm still adjusting to calling myself a writer AND a pantser but at least, now, I'm saying it!
And if you say one thing long enough, you'll end up believing it, right?

So, no other goal in March but to get rid of the cliché perception I have of writers! Feel free to feed me in any article, blog post, etc. of famous writers and how they live. :)
In the meantime, I leave you with a link to one of Michele Theberge's  post about yet another myth: The Starving Artist Myth.

Write on! ^_^