As you know, I’ve not been blogging much lately. I find myself more preoccupied with my old, resurrected writing projects (as well as my daily worries and woes). As I suspected, it has been a difficult process to recover that sense of “presence”–that spark of potential and desire that every project holds within my mind–that seed of potentiality struggling to achieve being. It is something I cannot explain fully, for every seed or germ of thought has a different presence (or personality, if you will) and requires different sorts of nurturing to achieve fruition. And having shuttled off all my creative writing projects into the damp recesses of my mind for the past year, those seeds are dry and withered. I can only hope that watering those seeds with my desire can make them come to life again! A few weeks ago, I dragged all my notes and ideas into the light and have been stoking the embers for any flame of life. I have settled on two possible stories that show some promise, but cannot yet decide on which to develop into a fully flowering entity of Being.
This first one is the newest of those seeds of thought, existing only as a single page of writing, a partial scene. In my mind, I see it as becoming a story of love and betrayal and discovering oneself and choosing one’s own destiny, the story of a woman that is neither human, nor angel, nor demon, yet is still of them all. Here is the first paragraph of the working Prologue:
- A bone-thin man in tattered robes stood upon an out-thrust rock overlooking a narrow canyon, surrounded by white winter winds. He was neither young, nor old, nor in between, just timeless and very, very wise. And at this moment, he was very, very angry. The cold winter gale blew ice and snow fitfully about his shoulders and whipped the tattered fabric of his garb cruelly against his shins. The man felt neither the cold nor the whipping fabric. Instead, he coursed his angry silver eyes across the sky. Lightning flashed within their depths. In the near distance, a high wailing could be heard, distinct from the wailing of the wind and the snow. It was the cry of a woman, despairing and lost. It was his daughter, giving birth to the demon inside her. It was a birthing that she would not survive. He knew this, because of what he was. She knew it also, because she was his daughter.
And this next one is far more developed, already in its plotting stages, with several pages of rough-draft scenes already in the works. This is the story of two brothers, both of immense magical power and a deep well of hate between them. One shall rise and the other shall fall. I think I should focus on this one, but it is slow going, almost frustratingly slow. But something in me will not let this one die. The excerpt from the prologue:
- They did not want to do it, but upon much reflection they all agreed it had to be done. Yet, even after the decision was made, a few on the council argued that there had to be a better way. The others, with pained faces and cramped bellies, ignored the arguments. All had been heard before. One persistent fellow desperately suggested that they try again that which had failed. “Surely,” said he, “another attempt cannot fail to succeed! So long as we prevent the same mistakes from occurring, the basic plan is bound to work!” But there was no hope in his eyes and his shoulders slumped in defeat. He knew, despite his words, that there was no option left other than what they had chosen to take. The Grand Vizier followed behind the silent Council of Lords as they exited the judgment hall in a despairing line of rich brocades and flowing silks. His conscience did not bother him; he prided himself as a man who had no conscience. A conscience, he felt, was a burdensome thing; a self-destructive construct of the mind that poisons the spirit. It serves well the weak-minded, who must serve, and females, who must nurture the young, but it is a serious liability for men in positions of power. And the man without the strength or will to maintain his power is no man at all…..His name was Omar Kasem Abul, but no one called him that. Indeed, the last fool who had dared to do so wound up chained to the wall of the deepest dungeon, and most likely died there. He had never bothered to check. The fool may have been his father, but even he should have known never to demean his rank by calling him his name. His name may be Omar Kasem Abul, but to those outside his household he was the Vizier, and to those within, simply the Master. And to himself? Well, his is the only existence that matters, and he referred to himself simply as “I.” He was an uncomplicated man, and his desires equally uncomplicated. And besides, is it not said in the Holy Book that the name of the One True God is “I?”
Both of these seeds of potentiality are growing in me, slowly and sluggishly, perhaps, but the tug of life is there. But I am still afraid, a little, that I am mistaken, and the life I sense is but the spark that exists in one brain-dead and comatose. The heart beats, the lungs inflate, but there’s nothing of life in the eyes that reflect the soul.
All this is quite consuming my mind and my thoughts, and so I find I cannot write much in the way of blogging.
I will endeavor to post something again in the next week, but I cannot promise much. It might just be a picture of my cat.