And Who, May I Ask, Are You?

And so the writing adventure begins!

I have been tirelessly poring over material concerning writing and how to go about writing a novel, and let me tell you, I have had quite a rough start. I couldn't quite decide how to begin my story bible, as it's called, which apparently is everything pertaining to the novel such as story plot, character descriptions, history of world religions, etc. Good grief, I wonder if Ursula K. Le Guin had this much trouble when she first started The Earthsea Cycle?

I decided to start with the character descriptions, since it seemed the easiest. Wrong! Of course, I had a general idea of what they would look like and how they would act, but generalities don't work well when it comes to novels. You have to become engulfed in the character's persona and feel their happiness, sadness, and everything else in between. Knowing what your character would say in any given situation, or the decisions he or she would make concerning anything major or minor, is critical in helping the audience to fully appreciate, understand, and empathize with the character his or herself.




So I set about diving into the minds and souls of the people of this world I was creating and it wasn't long before I lost interest in playing God. It felt kind of weird trying to make my main character be a certain way and act in a certain manner, instead of letting him just be who he really was. It was then that I stopped trying to drive this novel down the path that I wanted and let it simply unfold by itself as it was meant to be. Amazingly, the characters immediately came to life, each with their own separate identities and desires. I heard their voices and felt their presences all around me and in my dreams, telling me of how the story actually happened, from every view and every angle it could be seen. The world of my characters encompassed me, and it has since been hard to pull myself away from it.

I think this is what Miss Le Guin discovered, as well as all the other greats who have so deeply inspired us with their writings. We are not writers. We are transcribers; we listen and we write down what we hear. It seems so simple a fact that all I had to do was stop pretending to be a god in my own world and observe and listen instead. All I had to do, was wait and let Christion (my main character) tell me who he is.

Home Is Where The Heart - - Wait, Where IS That Damn Heart?

Seriously, it's has to be around here somewhere, right?




I have searched in every darkened, lonely corner of this house in Huntsville that I moved to. I have rummaged through closets, cabinets, and all of the disregarded, unpacked boxes. Still, there is no sign of it - and no evidence that it ever was here. It is quite possible that I left it abandoned in my old apartment in Birmingham, forgotten and trapped in those cinnamon colored walls.

Nearly two months have disappeared now since I walked away from almost everything I knew and loved. I felt as if I was deserting a part of me right in front of my apartment door, and it was tugging fiercely at the back of my shirt as I turned away to leave, begging desperately for me to remain in this place where I had experienced a measure of pure happiness in my normally wretched and tumultuous life.

What then, you may ask, could be so important as to uproot myself to move one hour and twenty minutes away to a place where I can't seem to find any joy?



Oh, yeah.That's right. It was him.
He was the decision as well as the motivation behind that decision. I was aware I came to this place solely to be with him, the man who had taken possession of my very soul. So, why then, should I have any feelings of unhappiness inhabiting my person? Well, this incredible man that I love, is a restaurant manager, so when I actually get to see him, it's always when he is drifting off to sleep next to me. Not exactly what I originally pictured while driving from Birmingham to Huntsville with boxes filled with my life and my little puppy Optimus Prime squeezed uncomfortably into the front seat of my car. But you know what they say about the best laid plans; and I'd like to find whoever "they" are, and push them over a cliff in a locked car for being too frustratingly accurate.


Maybe I'm just trying too hard to control what's meant to be uncontrolled. And, when my plans fall apart, I'm never far behind them. So, what do I do now, then? Do I sit in one of those darkened corners of this house where I previously hoped my heart might be hiding and wallow? I don't know about you, but that seems a little too "14-year-old-just-found-out-her-crush-is-dating-someone-more-popular-than-her" dramatic to me. I am twenty-three years old now, and I need to accept that things in life are not straight and structured; they are untamed, unpredictable, and downright nasty sometimes. I should, instead, feel unbelievably grateful that the person I love most belongs to me and only me, and chooses to put his arms around me every night.

Ah, but then again, I should probably just drag him out of bed at three a.m. to play Monopoly with me. :)

In accepting this, I find myself feeling a little lighter, perhaps happier than I have in two whole months. He will always work long hours, we will hardly ever have coinciding off-days, and he may never want to sleep less than the entire day on the ones we do, but...he will always find his place next to me every single night, whispering "I love--" and falling asleep right in the middle of the most beautiful sentence humankind ever created.


And now, we come to the conclusion of the search for my missing heart. In all of this outpouring of my erratic, messy emotions I've had an epiphany. I believe I've been looking in the wrong places all along. The key word there was "places". Long ago, I distinctly remember giving my heart to a person, not the red walls, beige carpeting, or the extremely potent smell of puppy in my old apartment. The happiness and my heart has been apparently hiding in the one place that was so obviously obvious, as it is with everything we tend to lose. Right in front of us, or next to us, if he happens to be sleeping on a much better pillow beside you.

Ode To A Messy Desk

Well, this isn't actually my desk, but honestly, it might as well be.  The only good thing about it, is at least I know that my desk isn't overrun with silly little, "Don't forget your second-cousin's birthday next friday!" notes, or those wonderful and friendly, "If you do not pay the minimum balance by the eighth of this month, your car will be repossessed." reminders.  Instead, all of those papers and little notes that seem to be hiding that there is, in fact, a desk in existence underneath that mountain of dead trees, contain something of much higher value.  At least to me, anyway.

They are my words, my thoughts.  They are tiny bits that I've taken from the deepest part of whatever it is that makes me who I am (I guess that would be my soul, right?).  You see, I'm waist-deep in writing a novel.  I know, I know *coughwhatapredictablelosercough*. You would not believe how many times I see that reaction coming out of anyone that I talk to about my book.  It seems these days that everyone is an aspiring J.R.R. Tolkein or J.K. Rowling, and truthfully, I cannot pretend to not be one of them.  I do, indeed, dream about being a successful writer, but I also know the odds of it happening are as likely as finding a mermaid in your bathtub.  

So, why bother at all?  I entertain this dream of mine because I have to believe in that mermaid showing up in my bathtub.  Otherwise, there's really no point in living, is there?  

Now that I have decided to embark on this difficult journey, I know I must do it right.  I came up with an original idea, so what's next?  Having done research, I discovered that I can't start writing straightaway just because I have an idea.  Without a clear, organized plot and plan as to the where's, who's, what's, and how's, my book may end up keeping my desk company rather than some interested reader on a rainy afternoon.  And that, my fellow bloggers, is how my messy desk was born.  A mixture of created religions, languages, races, and several maps that may or may not have last week's peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich stains on it. 

Unhappily, the task at hand now is to organize it.  Ugh, can't I just retreat to the blissful, darkness of sleep?  No, no, I shall be productive.  I will just march into my room, look that desk in the face and say, "Oh is that a new episode of House?" 

I think I will leave it messy for now.  It adds a cuteness factor to my character.  The untidy, brilliant, red-head.  Yes, I like the sound of that.

Note: I know you are probably clawing at your computer screen to see some excerpts of my manuscript.  Fear not, oh desperate masses, I will post some soon :)