Archive for July, 2013

 

Have you ever felt like you were standing at a crossroads in a town you have never been in before?

I ask this because I find myself lately wondering about The Hourglass. I am standing in the middle of this uncharted forest, trying to look at things from every angle to write the best story possible. However, because my story is vastly complex [I am not just saying that– it is very very complex], I find it increasingly difficult to pick a point of view and stick with it.

As I am sure you’ve noticed by now, my excerpts have jumped a bit, between the Preface and the Chapter One excerpt. [links provided for a reminder of what it is I am blogging about]

So this post while short, is mostly to ask for opinions.

When you pick up a book for the enjoyment of it, which point of view do you prefer to read in?

I’ve put a poll at the end of this blog post to make it quick and easy to post answers with– because at this point I am left scratching my head wondering which way to really truly go.

So before I pull out a twelve-sided-dice that I have stolen from some magic the gathering players, I am looking to you my readers, Help me pick which road to take?!

Oh, before I go anywhere.

As I am sure many of you have felt before, tonight I had a brain fart as a friend of mine used to say, and couldn’t remember the types of POV’s [point of views] So, I used good old google to find out what they were called again. In my blind stumbling, I found this wonderful blog on Blogger, called the beginning writer. I honestly believe it is well worth checking out! Wonderful information in there, not only for the novice but for the experienced as well.

So Here’s the link for you all; if you’re interested– I’ll be following along with her works and maybe I’ll invite her to do a guest post on here sometime!

The Beginning Writer

Oh and here is the post I found on Points of View, A rather good post if you ask me– putting everything in a nutshell I don’t believe i could have done (granted I do tend to ramble don’t I?).

The Beginning Writer: Different Points of View

Welp, I am off for the night!

Always Writing,

Trisha Ellen 

P.S. Yes I am still working on that new signature, I’ll get to it soon hopefully.

 

Good Evening, or is it technically morning? Either way Hello and Welcome back to the Psychotic Journey. 

I know I have been away for a while, and there is a few reasons for that. The first main one is life had cut my internet connection, then couple that with the wide spread flooding in Alberta (My province) then it’s not a hard leap to figure why my ‘away time’ lasted far longer than I would have liked. 

Lately mind you, I have not been able to really come up with anything substantial to post, and rather than keep you all wondering if I decided to pull a houdini again, I have been wracking my brain for topics to give you all. 

Presently there isn’t any. Which is incredibly sad since I have just started school for college prep, and I am starting criminal justice in November… but really I can’t seem to wrap my mind around any of these topics to make them interesting for you– my reader. 

So once again I have clicked on the ‘Inspire me’ button. So this is what I have gotten!

 

Write about your strongest memory of heart-pounding belly-twisting nervousness: what caused the adrenaline? Was it justified? How did you respond?

There are so many to choose from, and too many words (honestly the length alone would put most readers off). I could tell you about the numerous times I’ve nearly died, (being hit by car– check, almost hung myself [accidently] — check, Pneumonia and collapsing lung– check.) All of which I believe are worthy of this ‘heart pounding belly twisting nervousness’ yet to me it doesn’t seem quite right. Given that this is a blog about the journey of my authorship– death, or very nearly death doesn’t seem like it would be appropriate don’t you agree?

So… now I am left wracking my brain to come up with something that fits this ‘strongest memory’. 

To be honest, my strongest memory when it comes to my writing is when i first picked up a pen and started on my first fan-fiction. I was about fourteen years old, and sitting in my friends trailer up (or is it down technically?) in Lake Erie. 

I wasn’t nervous about actually putting to page my thoughts, dreams and fancies– for I perpetually lived in a fantasy realm between the ages of 7 and 17, so that was never the problem. What made me nervous was actually reading this fanfiction with no structure, the spelling was horrendous– grammar HA! There was no grammar in that written work– heck it barely made sense when I was reading it aloud.

However, I didn’t care about any of that, what I was nervous about (and it was completely unfounded by the way) was if my friend (we’ll call her E from here in) would find the idea or the plot in the story interesting… would she be entertained by it?

I wouldn’t have been able to bare it at the time if she found the story to be dull or boring, something completely unoriginal. It would have stopped this passion of mine before it really took root. 

As I mentioned, this nervousness was completely unfounded. E, the girl she was (and woman she is now) is not a person to out right squash someone’s dreams and ruin what should be a happy moment simply because it was easy. She involved herself with my story, we wrote it and moulded it — never finished it and nor should it have been– but it was fun and set me on the path to writing. It gave me the courage to pitch to her the idea I had years earlier dealing with the then unnamed novel. 

The novel is now named and still a work in progress, but you’ve seen some of the excerpts on this very blog. E helped me gain the courage to start working on the hourglass, and with her help– allowed my imagination to grow and expand to the possibilities and endless wonders of the world I am trying to create for you all. 

It was also because of E that I was inspired to pick up a book and actually start reading something, just for the sheer fun of it. (The first book was called Wizards first rule– by terry goodkind, and the second was Green Rider by Kristen Britain– Great books, and I suggest you read both series when you have the time!) 

Long story short, the strongest memory I have when it comes to writing is that first fanfiction and the nervous anticipation of criticism that wasn’t coming my way. 

And I guess the moral of that little story is, you are your own worst critic. You, the author will always find the faults and the failures in yourself. Often you will reflect it in your own idea of what you’re writing, often internally but sometimes pitching a fit and ripping the metaphorical idea to shreds. 

My friend hadn’t even had the thought cross her mind that the story was dull (Even though it was infact incredibly dull but we were fourteen what did we really know?). 

so if you find your self nervously anticipating the worst case scenario every time someone views your blog, or manuscript, remember you’ve thought the worst already, and even if they don’t like it someone out there will. (Heck Twilight became a multi million best seller so anything is possible!) 

My best advice is to grit your teeth and plunge in the deep end all the way, because you only live once and what is the worst that can happen? You find that you don’t enjoy whatever it is you have taken on?  At least you tried and what more can anyone do in this life we live? 

Always (attempting to) write, 

Trisha Ellen 

P.S. Keep a lookout for a new footer image~ I’ve grown bored with my leopards and will be coming up with something new in the near future! If you have any suggestions as to an animal or object that you think would suit don’t be frightened to drop it in the comments box below! Heck, I love reading new comments! (I’ve come a long way from that fourteen year old who was frightened of criticism.) 

So I decided I was going to attempt my hand at the ‘inspire me’ button that we can find in our quick post menu’s. I am sure you have found it already, if not, you can find it beside your notification star at the top of your page, when you click new post. There is a small link beside it literally posted as ‘inspire me’. 

So this is what i was given, save for the italics which is what I have written for this little image. Don’t fret, it won’t be 1000 words. (I hope) 

A picture is worth 1000 words. This safe has been through a lot. Tell its story.

The Old Safe 

 

 

To the residents of the old neighbourhood, this old safe is an eyesore that they wouldn’t like anything more then to be rid of. It’s ugly, smelly, and attracts all manner of pests to hid within. Everyone who walks by it can’t seem to figure out why it is still standing in that old vacant lot, just rusting away. 

If only they knew what this ‘chunk of rust’ had done for a family a couple decades ago. 

This old safe, was like any other safe, polished and painted black. Brand new in a shop window, the prize of the small towns lot. Expensive beyond what anyone would have even thought about paying for it. After all who needed a safe that big to hold their valuables  Most people couldn’t afford the safe, never mind the valuables to put in it. 

Then one day, a young man walked into the store and bought the safe at a discount. The safe was delivered the next day, and suddenly it was stored in an office ready and waiting to be filled with objects of value.  

The first object to be placed inside the safe was a tiny shoe, baby blue with this darling teddy bear stitched on the side. The next was a yellow blanket, stained and worn. An old book with a broken spine. Scribbles done on newspaper in bright neon crayon, and even what looked to be a worn down hat. 

Every day it seemed that the safe was being filled with everyday items, most looking like little more then garbage to the outside observer. And then one day the young man closed the door on the safe and spun the lock ensuring his collection of objects where secured.

The man went away, but everyday that safe found itself being touched, and poked at. Summer turned to winter, turned to spring back to summer again. For full turns of the seasons the man was gone, and when he came back he opened his safe, placing a wooden box inside the safe. A long cylinder of some kind of brass. A newer hat with mud caked on the side of it. Pins and badges. Pictures held together with simple elastic band. 

The young man didn’t look very young anymore but he had a family to provide for, so he went to work. As he worked his family grew, and grew and grew. Soon inside the safe went a steel lunch box, papers of many different shapes and sizes. 

The house was filled with laughter, and questions about what could possibly be inside the safe. One day the family who owned the safe went away, to the beach if memory serves and someone thought they should find out what was inside the safe. 

But the safe did it’s job, earned a few dents and scratches in it’s fine black paint. It was kicked and cursed at, yet it kept all the things inside secure from the person who didn’t know his code of entry. Eventually the person left, making away with dishes, silver, even a gold necklace the young man had bought for his then blushing bride-to-be. 

Nobody thought about the safe when they came home, as the police wandered through the house looking for clues to who tried to break into him. Soon enough the family forgot about the break-in, and started adding new things to the safe. Necklaces, bracelets, silver, gold, Things that people believed should be kept in the safe. 

Years passed, and the safe was filled, the laugher and family slowly went away. Leaving the no longer young man to his thoughts and his loneliness. He stopped putting things in the safe, went to the back and bought a safety deposit box, inside he only kept a single sheet of paper. 

The old man died, and the house was cleaned out, the safe was forgotten– because no one had the code to get in. The safe kept everything secured inside– doing it’s job despite the years and time that had passed since it had been shiney and new. 

The house was abandoned, and every now and again people would wander through the house try to open the safe. But they couldn’t do it, they just couldn’t get in without the right code. Eventually the house caught fire, kids playing with matches they said. A new young man came to the wreckage of the house, clutching a single sheet of paper. He twisted the dial, opening the door to the safe, finding a whole life hidden inside. Taking the items out of the safe the young man left the safe standing in the field. 

And there it sat, day after day, week after week… Year after year. 

This safe once did it’s job, keeping the treasures of a single family safe– and I would be willing to bet with a little care and paint, it would be able to do the same again, All it needs is a single chance– But this poor safe will be pitched to the scrapyard and melted down for metal. 

Maybe in it’s next forum it won’t be left to rust. 

Maybe if it wasn’t a safe it could be seen as worthwhile … something worth taking along, instead of an empty vessel used to keep things safe, and discarded when it doesn’t look so pretty anymore. 

What if the safe isn’t a safe, but a mind, filled with memories– only to suddenly go vacant, and rust away? 

It’s something worth thinking about eh?

P.S. I know this little inspire me test didn’t turn out so upbeat and happy as i had originally planned, but maybe if i do another one– We’ll find something nicer to muse about? 

Always Writing, 

Trisha Ellen

 

Image credit: “safe” – © 2007 Paul Keller – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

As an apology to you all for my lack of attention to this blog and the fanpage, I have decided to give you all a preview of the work I have done on the Hourglass. It isn’t much, but, it’s something that I hope you all will enjoy!  

Warmest regards,

Trisha Ellen

The Past Trilogy, of the Past, Present and Future saga.

Book One: The Hourglass

By: Trisha Ellen

Chapter one

My life has been vast in many ways, ways that most who would read this document couldn’t truthfully understand no matter how many words I use. In this vast life I have but one first memory, and over the course of uncountable years no matter how many different people I speak to about this memory, it appears that even that is different then the standard.

I remember being safe, secure against some horrible fate. If I focus on this sensation, I am almost able to pick up the vibrations of sounds, like someone is talking to me– yet the words are always drowned out. I can smell the wild flowers of my homeland, one that I am doomed to never lay eyes on again. If I am very, very lucky, I can almost see the face of my elder brother so much younger then I know him in any of my other memories, watching me with a fearful expression in his silver eyes.

I don’t try to delve further into that memory and I have never questioned Raziel about this memory. I know from personal experience that remembering the land of our birth is quite hard, and often leaves those of our kind in a state of longing. A longing that leaves us utterly useless. For beings of our creation, this is not something that should ever be done.

I will only be doing so consciously this one last time; for I promised someone very close to me that I would put to record my life so that no one would ever make the same mistakes as we did again.

A great many years must have passed before I was aware enough to cement further moments into my memory. My next memory is both a pleasant memory for me, and the first time I became acutely aware that I was different from the rest of my kind.

I was dancing across the valley of souls, a flock of souls where following my progress across the flowers of their home. These flowers are not at all like the flowers of the mortal realm, these flowers were constructed out of the very universe and the closest substance that I have come across outside of Edan that could compare were prisms. Thousands upon thousands of flowers constructed from feather light prisms, flexible just like the flora and fauna in the mortal realms, soft to touch, and the smell indescribable.

To each Edanite, what we call ourselves in Edan, the look of a soul is different. For me, the souls were multicoloured butterflies each completely different and unique from one another. They were warm like a fire, yet cool to the touch. Unlike butterflies in the realms of mortal life, the souls laughed and sang songs like children everywhere. I remember spinning and spinning along with the souls, singing along to their songs. I remember Raziel watching me from the top of a hill waving ever so slightly as I called up to him.

Alas as the phrase goes, all good things must come to an end and that day they did. This was the first time I can recall being frightened. Fear was not something we learned in Edan, at least not often, and seldom from our own protectors. Many names have been given to them by many people, the most common I have heard uttered was archangel and so we shall call them.

Laughter and songs ceased as I looked up at my brother, his waving stopped as he stretched his pure white wings wide and swooped down into the soul valley. A hand dropped down on my shoulder and I felt a jolt of energy, raw power, much like being struck by lightning– in that single touch. I cannot recall if I cried out or not, but I would not be surprised to find I had. I turned to look into the coldest blue eyes I have ever laid my gaze upon. The Archangel Michael stood behind me watching me with an intent look to his features; one I couldn’t put a name to at the time, but can only now call bottled fury.

“She is not to be harmed, smite me if you will, but she is under the protection of the three mothers. You know this well captain.”

Raziel landed at my side, and I scurried behind his legs. I remember pressing my face to the back of his thigh so tightly I thought I would push out the other side. I peeked out from around his leg, looking up at the six winged angel. His wings where so large I thought he could block out the very sky of creation! His hair looked like spun strands of the sun, so bright it hurt to look at for too long.

“And no harm will come to her Raziel. So long as you love her she cannot be touched, and nothing can break that law. I was merely trying to figure out how this little abomination could garner your affection in the smallest degree. You are after all a soldier of Edan.”

His voice was so melodious, like the singing of a thousand songbirds all perfectly in tune. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I can only wonder if that was part of my fear of him. I’ll never know.

“It is because I am a soldier of Edan that I can love her captain. That is something I fear you will never understand.”

“Perhaps, I was not created for love; I was created to protect this paradise. Keep her from the fields of souls Raziel, we cannot afford for her to rub off on them.”

Oh the bravery of youth, one does not step up to an arch angel, and declare you will not listen to their words, for their words are law second only to God’enra. Yet that was exactly what I did. I stepped around Raziel, my beloved brother, and looked up at this all powerful being.

“That is not fair! We play and dance together, and everyone is supposed to come to the valley! I didn’t do anything wrong! You can’t punish me for nothing!”

My brother, oh how much I owe him and cannot possibly repay. He placed his hand on my shoulder and put an end to my tirade. Michael stood looking down at me, a look I still haven’t figured out plastered on his features. Locked in his gaze as I was, I couldn’t move. Every part of me felt super heated beyond tolerance, yet chilled so fully that I started to shiver.

The angel took flight with out another word; the strength of his wings was so that it knocked me to the ground, though I would have ended up there regardless. With the sudden loss of that angels gaze, I felt as if I was emptied of everything that made me what I was.

“Roasha,” My brother said to me as he too slowly sat on the ground. “Listen to me dear sister, this is very important.”

I had never heard my brother speak to me so, and turned my attention from watching one of the many soul butterflies– to him. His silver gaze so caring looked down at me, and I wish I could see what he saw, what he placed his very existence in danger to protect. His blue-black hair shifted around his shoulders like the mane of a lion after he has fended off a powerful opponent.

“Roasha, you cannot speak to Captain Michael like that. He can keep you from the soul valley regardless of what the others say. He is one of our strongest guardians, and his words are to be heeded without question. Do you understand me?”

I nodded that I did, despite the fact that I didn’t quite understand why he had banned me from the valley.

“Why did Michael call me an abom-i-nation?” I questioned of my brother, believing that he had all the answers. I didn’t get an answer that day, but I did for the first time see a look of sadness on my brother’s face.

I remember sitting up on my knees for how short I was, and reaching my hand up to place it on my brothers cheek. So soft and still childish then, yet it held the edginess that he would quickly grow into as the years passed.

“Don’t be sad Raziel; you don’t have to tell me if it hurts.” I said to him, honestly not wanting to ever hurt my brother. His larger hand pressed my hand harder against his cheek, and a smile graced his lips. The look in his eyes spoke of nothing more then pure love, the kind of love that could move mountains with its sheer power.

“I am not sad Roasha.”

That was the first time my brother lied to me.

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