The Fountain Pen

My writing software informs me I have completed 28% of my goal, an exact count of 14141 words, pure luck that it’s a palindrome. As to the percentage completed I want to strut about proudly. Double spaced this would be about 50 pages, and I can honestly say I’ve never written anything so large in my life, and I’m only in the second chapter! I would be slightly worried about this week, considering the veterans tell us this is the worst week of the entire month, but I cannot see how I will struggle. I do well writing in the evenings after work, and I am coming upon the sections of my story that I’m somewhat eager to tell. The real challenge, for me, will be near the end, because I’m not quite sure how to unravel and resolve the conflict. I know the end result, but not the means, not yet anyway.

Lessons

One thing I have noticed about my writing is I spend most of my agony in the transition points. I am constantly trying to get one scene to flow into another, and those points seem to sap my mental strength. I have also noticed that spending more time writing doesn’t necessarily mean proportionate word count. Last night I needed 2,700 words to catch up (I managed 2,800) and I found out that 2,000 is a comfortable goal for me. After two and half hours of writing I wanted to be done. After I hit 2,000 I was beginning to spend more time motivating myself to write, so my words per hour dropped by a few hundred.

Admission

I will finally admit, that if my writing could ever be known for anything, I would like it to be remarked as vivid, able to paint fantastic pictures in the minds of my readers. I have hesitated to ever make that statement for fear that discover or be told opposite. I know I cannot achieve vivid detail in every scene, but I would love for people to read my stories and get caught up on the imagination of it all. In the end I would want people to close the book and have the impression that I painted a vibrant picture in their mind, and that they enjoyed it. I don’t know if I will achieve this. Taste is subjective, so folks may not like my writing, might not care for my scenes, and perhaps it is to ward off these people that I have never before stated my goal/desire for my writing. Hopefully this admission will not do me in.

Excerpt

Below is an excerpt from last night, an inspired piece if I do say so myself.

They continued to talk and walk, sharing interests, swapping stories, and passing the time. As Conn stated they were passing time far faster than they realized. They came upon the crossroads and took the southern fork, barely taking the time to notice they were a half hour early in arriving. The sun continued its constant journey towards the horizon stretching its lazy dusk light over the distant hills and spilling it out upon the clouds. The trees captured the remaining light and soaked it in with great relish, letting only brief glimpses sneak past their leaves and branches to rush towards the travelers and create long shadows that slowly climbed the trees.

In the waning light Jory spied a grove of flowering trees, whose blossoms of pale pink and light lavender tugged upon his soul with a beckoning unfamiliar to him, but too strong to resist. Conn agreed the spot looked well suited to setting up camp for the evening, though he was reluctant to use any of the nearby wood for a fire, stating that such delicate beauty was often cared for with a zeal that should never be disturbed. Jory was quick to agree that the trees should not be disturbed, and gazed lovingly at the trees and their blossoms. When the wind would blow groups of delicate petals would take flight from the tree, swirling and dancing on the breeze, sometimes surrounding the two travelers, but never landing upon them. At the end of their dance they would rest upon the ground, adding to a carpet arrayed in the most delicate of hues fit for the bed of the most noble and purest of elvish maidens.

As Jory stood in rapturous delight his heart began to swell with emotion. Feelings of warmth, of comfort, of peace began to wash over him. His head was filled with the fragrance of the trees; his ears heard nothing but the sound of the whispering wind holding conversation with the trees all about him. He dared not move and break the enchantment of the small, quiet grove. In that quiet, still moment he forgot all about Meagan, he forgot about the journey, and he forgot about his growing hunger. In that one moment he was taken up in the delight of such beautiful natural wonders and desired to see and protect such treasures; in that one moment he knew there were things in this world that were much bigger than his life, that this world offered riches beyond compare, but riches few men would count as valuable.

Conn eased himself out of his own pack, and sat himself upon the ground, letting out a near-silent sigh. “These groves are marvel aren’t they.” Conn whispered. “The elves planted them long ago, as sanctuaries, they say. They swear they are not enchanted, but I say otherwise. The beauty in these places, and the peace it brings, is an enchantment all to itself. Even a toughened old soldier like myself has been tempted to turn poet in groves such as this.”

“I would swear there is magic at work here,” Jory faintly whispered. “This is too beautiful, the fragrance too alluring, and the atmosphere too calm.”

“You are not the first to notice, nor will you be the last.”

Posted by Seth Croston Barber at 9:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I did not get as much done tonight as I had hoped. So far I managed to come close to 1,600 words, a mere 400 words short of my goal. I may still manage to squeak out those remaining 400 words (‘tis a measly paragraph) but I must now begin to think about bed. I have been fighting off sleep since my drive home (which has been scarring me!). On top of that I have been feeling slightly under the weather, so I hope to sleep much and recover my health before I really lose it.

In honor of my molasses-like start, here is an excerpt, the first few paragraphs to my tale:

Outside the wind blew a gentle breeze. The leaves swirled up off the cobblestones, flags fluttered, and signs creaked. Inside the air was calm, but far from still. Laughter, song, dance, and many conversations swirled about like so many leaves. Men were slapping each other on the back, laughing heartily, sharing in some jest. Boys sat listening with gleaming eyes as their heroes recounted tails of glory and bravery. Girls scurried about whispering, giggling, and pointing; sly glances in direction or another would be followed by quick bursts of hushed chatter and a flushed face. Serving girls would mix among the giggles, catching a whisper here, delivering a message there, and always bustling about, just out of reach of a stray hand. The mood was lively, but calm.

The Inn of the Lost Hero boasted many sights to behold. There was the great lance of the fabled Sir Crystalmire, said to have slain four mighty dragons in one thrust. There was the first crown of the Lost Tribe of Grendalmyr, of which some still whispered its rightful heir will one day reclaim, and with it bring about a revolution that would leave no kingdom untouched. People often remarked of the two towering suits of armor which greeted them upon entering. One had three arms, the other two heads, both stood nearly fifteen feet high; it was said the armor belonged to the two brothers-in-arms who founded this city some 4,000 years ago. The bar itself was a curiosity, for it was a giant ring dominating the center of the entire ground floor, encircling the kitchen and offices of the innkeeper, made of a material hotly debated over many a drink. Some swore it was nothing more than a carving, others insisted it was the corpse of the legendary Firewrym, which turned to stone upon death, but retained its terrible heat deep in its body; as the Inn had no visible means of maintaining its pleasant heat this view prevailed. One thing they all held in common, they all stood in awe of the beginning, or end, of the ring; there a head of grizzled visage, a vision out of some nightmare, snapped at its own tail. Of all of these wonders Jayce no longer took notice, having discovered the true, and secret, attraction of the Inn of the Lost Hero.

Perched upon a stool back against the wall Jayce gazed at the simple beauty and charm of his obsession. She moved with a dancer’s grace and ease, balancing trays full of pitchers and tankards, and never had Jayce seen her spill a drop. Her voice rang melodious in his ears, what little of it he could hear from his perch; her curls of gold bounced and flew about her head glittering with a mesmerizing sheen; when she laughed a sparkle lit up her eyes that never failed to make Jayce forget about breathing. Many times Jayce wished he could afford a better seat. “If only I could but speak with her,” he would think. “My charm, my wit, my … knowledge would win her. I am sure of it! If only I could afford to sit at one of her tables.”

Her name was Meagan, only daughter of the owner and proprietor of the inn. She was quite remarked by many of the men in the city, both for her beauty and charm, as well as for her position and inevitable inheritance. As a girl she was bubbly and friendly, eager to help in the inn, learning all she could. She was quickly the darling of all the patrons. As she grew so did her adroitness; she proved herself to her father and was soon given charge over the maids. When the war broke out she had moved up, taking charge of the serving girls, and now she oversaw the entire kitchen. Somewhere during the war she had blossomed into womanhood and the kindly men who once thought of her as if she were a niece began to see qualities that made them both proud and jealous. All of the young bachelors and a few of the married old men harbored dreams and fancies of making her wife.

Posted by Seth Croston Barber at 10:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)