The Jedi Master

Well, I feel like I published a book. I can't speak for anyone else. For me, I see it as an intermediate step. The books look just like any other paperback, they've got barcodes and ISBNs. I've sold a few copies to people I don't know, but I've done zero advertising so far. I just setup my website. I think my next step will be to have some author events at local libraries, talk with local bookstores about carrying copies. I get a certain satisfaction from knowing my books are available, and that's good enough. Earning some money is just an extra incentive.

Anyone else use createspace.com, a resource for self-publishing offered by amazon? It's a neat site, print-on-demand so there's virtually no up-front cost to get your title out there. It lists on amazon automatically and you can format your title for the kindle as well. I've published three titles so far and am working on marketing right now (I just purchase a website, Paper Street Press through godaddy) as well as completing more books. I've sold a few copies without even really putting any effort into getting my name out there. It's cool even if you just want copies for yourself, family, etc. A nice way to get started for us wanna-be authors, at least.

Thanks a lot, guys! Sorry it's taken me so long to respond, been busy with finals and all that jazz. I'm hoping to get some more written now that I'm done with school, but in all honesty I haven't written another word of this yet. He is not. You'll recall from the first post that he's been growing fond of the counter girl for some time.

I rarely outline any of my writing, but I commonly have all kinds of miscellaneous notes. My notes are never in a computer file, though, and are never organized: I save the manuscript in a file but if I have notes for it (random lines, quotes, plot devices, maps, etc.) I actually write them down on a sheet of paper. This may be because I tend to write most of my stuff longhand before converting it to a computer file, at least initially.

Okay, a little later than I said it would be, but I've been a little busy lately. Enjoy! ((Warning: more adult language)) ----------------------------------- Fast forward a week. I'd been drowning my sorrows more heavily than usual since my talk with Scarlette. Fortunately work and school prevented me from taking it to too much of an extreme, but I pushed as close to the edge as I could. Even still, she was on my mind and I was more depressed than I had been in a long time. It was New Year's Eve. The only person I considered a true friend (and my sole racquetball partner), Tom, insisted that we go out drinking. I wasn't particularly up for it (the ”œout”

Haha...excellent.

Ami: Write a short story about a depressed, alcoholic astromech droid that's in love with a trash can. I'll take a TRUTH.

I'm not so much talking about steampunk, just stories set in Victorian times. As I understand it, steampunk involves fictious, anachronistic steam-powered technology. I was referring to historical fiction. As far as creating worlds, I wrote a few stories a while back that take place in the 23rd century and involved a group of fugitives traveling across the galaxy to a hidden, privately owned world. Along the way they visited places in the Solar System (floating cities above Jupiter, an outpost on Pluto) and then some worlds that I just made up. There was definitely some Star Wars influence in terms of technology, but it was kind of combined with our current technology. More recently, I created a world that I called Erither and modeled its cultures after real ones: pretty much every major culture was represented at one point or another, and I expanded the history of this world over 1400 years. The most prominent cultures were modeled after European or American models: the dominant Echinian Empire parallels Rome and, later, Britain, and a former colony of Echinia, Errland, develops much like the United States. The Lobia continent is modeled after Africa, with a history of colonization and turmoil. Anyway, I could go on but I think you get the idea. Erither's history loosely parallels ours.

Indeed, the long narrative poem I posted is about this same girl. Everything happening in this story, however (save for the references to Peru), occured after that poem. I haven't written much more yet, but I'm hoping to soon.

The historical fiction I've written has tended to take place at the turn of the century (i.e., around 1900), typically anywhere between the 1880s and WWI. I find it to be a fascinating time, quaint by today's standards but somehow more sophisticated (maybe it's the Victorian clothing?). I would love to have lived back then, so often I'll implant a character based on myself into an historical situation, like the Spanish-American War.

Thanks a lot, guys! I've written a little more, and I'm hoping to finish the next little section in the coming days, so stay tuned. I definitely want to get back into writing prose and this story is coming relatively easily to me.

A little semi-autobiographical piece I started in some free time between class the other day. I say "semi" because it's not 100% accurate: names are changed, and a couple of details as well. This is only the very beginning, not sure if/when I'll write more, but I figured I'd post what I've got and see what you guys think. I haven't written anything besides poetry in a while, so I may be a little rusty. Any feedback is appreciated. ((Warning: some adult language)) --------------------------- The ball was rebounding back to me. It grew bigger as the walls receded: soon it was all I could see. Swing! I obeyed my own command as the head of my racquet made contact with the ball and sent it back from whence it came. But in an instant it was already barreling towards me again. Z-shot! My command was heeded just as before. Wait, I realized as the ball sped away from me, I'm by myself. There's no reason for a z-shot. Sadly, that realization could have helped me to not abruptly end my racquetball practice. When the ball hit the wall, it bounced erratically and proved impossible for me to return. That's the point of the z-shot, which is all well and good when you're playing an opponent, but kind of sucks when you're by yourself. ”œWell damn it,”

The only real fanfics I ever wrote were some Aayla Secura short stories and that unfinished Kyle Katarn one. So, obviously, they relied heavily on non-film sources. However, I tried to keep to "higher" canon with the Katarn story, i.e. the NJO books and Jedi Knight video games, without mentioning things from lower canon, like kids books or comics. I do remember trying my hand at a post-NJO novel-length trilogy fanfic regarding a lost order of Dark Jedi, which relied heavily on OT characters (Luke, Leia, and Han, obviously) and also pulled a lot from things that happened in established EU-canon, like the Thrawn trilogy and NJO books. However, it never really took off.

Well written! I think anyone from up north can relate to the good and bad aspects of snow.

Ami: Thank you! It was a difficult form to write in; the penultimate stanza especially, because it has to conform to the first stanza so that the final one will make sense. However, I can say in all honesty that I knocked this one out in about 20 minutes. I usually write free-style as well, but like I said, sometimes I like to try my hand at different forms just to shake things up a bit. You should give it a try. Tiana: Give it a try!

I was searching for some rarely-used poetry forms just to change up my writing a little, and came across the pantoum: It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Very peculiar, I can understand why it's seldom seen. But I did write a poem in this form, and thought it might be a fun challenge for whoever wants to give it a try. Maybe if it goes well we can have a weekly or monthly contest to write poems in unusual forms. Anyway, anyone who's interested, feel free to post a pantoum! Here's mine: "A Pantoum for the Broken-Hearted" O, I've been left broken-hearted. She walked away From the love we had Without a thought to consequence. She walked away In her brazen fashion. Without a thought to consequence She moved on. In her brazen fashion She showed me who she is. She moved on As I fell to pieces. She showed me who she is: Cold-hearted trollop. As I fell to pieces I was sickened by our love. Cold-hearted trollop: Now I know the truth. I was sickened by our love, Our love was a lie. Now I know the truth, What I never suspected. Our love was a lie, She was an expert liar. What I never suspected: The ugly truth. She was an expert liar, Just like the others. The ugly truth, There was nothing else. Just like the others She meant the world to me. There was nothing else From the love we had. She meant the world to me. O, I've been left broken-hearted.

Very nice imagery; with the richness of the language from the third paragraph to the end I would say it qualifies as a prose poem.

I'm hoping to get back to writing prose. For the last few years I've written very little aside from poetry. Also, like Mael, I need to work on technical writing: grant proposals, scientific papers, etc. That will be essential after I graduate in May!

It's been a while since I posted anything, but here's a couple for anyone interested. The first is heavy on allusions to a particular band, it shouldn't be too hard to decipher which one. The second one is a bit more humorous in style, but still contains some serious lyrics: ------------------------------------------------------ ”œAngst”

Thank you both! @Nat Yeah, it's definitely more narrative than lyrical, but definitely is still a poem. It's a much more modern style than I normally write. Glad you liked it and that you could feel how I traveled through my emotions...that's kind of central to the poem! @ Ami The story feel was certainly a departure for me...I wasn't sure what to think of this one immediately after I wrote it, but grew content with it after a few reviews. Most of my more recent stuff is actually in this same style, to a degree I've departed from what I consider the more sophomoric style and simpler lyrics of my earlier poems. I'm glad you liked "Naivete" as well, in a way it was a precursor to "Katie." And thanks a lot for the compliment, I work hard on my poetry but hearing that I'm a "great poet" from a great writer like you means a lot.

I'm glad you liked "Government," it's the first of a whole slew of peoms I've written in a more modern, experimental style. Now obviously those last three I posted weren't terribly popular, judging from the lack of responses, but I'd like some real feedback on another one. I wrote it a few weeks ago, it's my longest and perhaps most personally significant poem. It of course is about a girl. Anyway, it means a lot to me, because she means a lot to me, and I'd like to know what you guys think about it. ------------------------ ”œKatie”

I found this among some papers the other day. I'm not sure when it was written, but quite clearly the characters Coleman and Gavin are based off Wilson and House. Any feedback is appreciated. ----------------------------- Sinatra on the box and bourbon on my lips, I wondered what I could have done differently. A knock came at the door. I knew who it had to be. Only one person would be knocking on my door at midnight. More knocking came but I just poured another shot. I stared silently at the assortment of pictures lying on the table before me and ignored the third wave of knocking. Can't he take a hint? After a moment I expected more knocking, but instead heard the distinct click of the door knob being unlocked. Damn it. I thought. I knew I should've changed the locks. The door creeped open and I looked to see him approaching me. "You'd think you'd have changed the locks by now," Jacob said, "Or maybe never have given me a key to begin with." "Coleman," I always called him by his last name, "I was wondering when you were going to show up. My night just wouldn't be complete if you didn't barge in here when I clearly want to be left alone." "I'm worried about you, Gavin." "You're always worried about me." I focused on one picture in particular. He shifted the subject. "I was going to take you out for a drink, but I see I'm about four too late." "Five, actually," I downed another glassful. Coleman sighed. "Look, I know this is a tough time of the year for you, but you can't just not show up to work for a week. Nancy has a mind to fire you." "She can bring in a temp." "It's been ten years, Gavin. And you've done this every one of them." "Well then you'd think she'd see a pattern by now," I retorted. "I don't want o be insensitive, but you need to move on." "So ten years is the cut-off point? I'm glad you're here to tell me when to stop grieving." "I've been telling you since the first year," he shot back. "She would want you to move on." I gave him my best stunned look. "But I have! My girlfriend just left. You didn't pass her in the hall?" "You couldn't afford the whole night?" "Money's a little tight. I haven't worked in a week." Coleman almost said something but pre-emptively retracted it. "If you're tired of teaching, get back in the field." "I've tried. There's surprisingly little available in Iraq right now." "Gee, I wonder why." "Come on, the war's been over for five years." I let my voice fall lower. "They've got democracy now. Fast food places on every corner, girls in bikinis washing cars. It's a great place to be." He looked confused and made a weird huffing noise. "What do you want to find out there? Think your sanity is still lying out in the sand somewhere?" "You would tell a depressed, widower veteran that he's insane? What's on the docket for tomorrow? Kicking puppies?" "I'm serious," Coleman always had a stern expression when he was trying to be serious, but had little to back it up. "There's no reason for you to go back there. It's not safe." "Relax. The only danger over there now is the local McDonald's running out of lamb-burgers." Coleman rolled his eyes. "Just come to work tomorrow." I shook my head. "I'm feeling a little under the weather. This stomach thing, I've no idea what's causing it." I poured some more bourbon and downed it. "Have you considered talking to a person, instead of a bottle?" "Talking to you makes me want to talk to more bottles. Besides, they're better listeners." "Right. I guess that's important when you don't want any answers." "I already have the answers." "But you haven't accepted them." "If you hadn't noticed, I'm accepting them right now." Hands on his hips, Coleman sighed again and started for the door. Just before he exited he repeated, "Just come to work tomorrow." He closed the door and locked it behind him. Alone again, I finished off my bourbon and picked up one picture. My favorite picture of her. It was so long ago. To think, I was happy when that picture was taken. I let it fall back to the table with the others and stumbled off to bed. In the Wee Small Hours was still playing as I fell asleep.

No love for these ones? What, not angsty enough?

On the second one, you appeared to be using an ABCB scheme, except in the last line, which I think kind of throws off the rhythm of the whole poem. Instead of "price" you need something that rhymes with "passed," or vice-versa.

Here's three more for you. The first one is a bit different from the others I've posted, it's not really an introspective piece. But enjoy! "Government" Fill me up With the broken dreams of your forefathers, The shattered hopes of those whose lives were stolen And who never had a chance. Let me live through them, Vicariously; I'll show you how to do the same. A noble endeavor such as this Is bogged down with semantics, Held back by living memories And the politics of freedom. If you can hear me Then join me; If you can see me Then follow me. I'll show you the way Across the virgin future, How to make it what the past should have been. Drain me like the water of a once great lake Usurped by greedy hands and parched throats. It's hard to drink from a dry bed, But I'm thirsty; Too bad nothing can quench this thirst Felt by the masses, Who will object at the absurdity of it all. Return to me my most prized ideal That was taken in confusion; I'll give it back to you as an intangible gift And hope our descendents aren't our forefathers. ------------------------------------- "Naïveté" Moving on from my depression at last, In happy spirits again. I've finally met another girl, One who makes me smile, Who can keep me happy 'til my end of days. So I'm going to try again, In my patented way, Because I'm so naïve. When will I learn, That it's not my turn, And it never will be? When will I learn to accept it, And save myself the pain? Trying my hand at this game again, Though I haven't mastered it. I'll expose my soul to yet another, And watch it be torn apart, As my heart turns ever blacker. Why am I so naïve? I still trust in love, After it's only led me astray, And left me in a terrible isolation, One I'm quickly acclimating to. But why do I hold on to hope? Love's only ever hurt me, Hope has been torn down, But I'll still try again. Her words penetrated me, Deeper than her stare and sharper than a dagger. I bled at my bedside, Unable to treat my wound, Or perhaps unwilling. Her cut beside the others, Just one of many; My surprise is a surprise to me, My naïveté endangered, But never extinct. A perennial experience, I wouldn't be me without it. But when I'm still so naïve, With everything I've seen, Should I be me? Months of pain cripple me, I'm overwhelmed by feelings, The love I have for her. I'll hold on past rejection, Hoping for what I need, What I think I deserve, But will never know. On the brink of insanity, But still grasping my naïveté, As I lie in solitude. There's no restitution for my actions, Provoked as they were, By feigned attraction. So I lie alone, Holding on to naïveté. Over time her cut begins to heal, Still a blazing scar, But subsiding more everyday. Reflection still brings me pain, But I've moved passed it, I don't think of her anymore. Believing the lesson learned, I let go my naïveté, Bidding myself farewell. But then as things are going well, I'll meet her: Another girl who makes me smile. I allow myself to hope again, And forget what I've learned, As I welcome back my old friend, My naïveté. --------------------------------------- "Kelly's Song" I'm running out of words about you, Words that can express how I feel, Because no matter how many I use, They can only scratch the surface, None could ever describe my feelings in-depth, To the true extent I love you. But still I try to find a way, And even though it's all in vain, I'll write another bit of prose, And call it Kelly's song. Just the thought of you is all the inspiration I need, To begin writing again. But to see you is what I'll need, If I'm to be happy again. So here's some words, To give you an idea of how I feel, And that I hope will bring you back to me. You know this is my way, And though it may be in vain, I'll write another bit of prose, And call it Kelly's song. Beside myself with love, This feeling I never thought I'd find. With you it's all I've ever known, No more anger inside, Only sorrow as you push me aside. But I only have my way, And though I know it's all in vain, I'll write another bit of prose, And call it Kelly's song. Still thinking up words about you, Letting them flow from my mind. But they're not nearly enough, Though I make them so kind, And I'm always thinking up more, Trying to win your heart. Yes, I'm still trying to find a way, And although I'm sure it's all in vain, I'll write another bit of prose, And call it Kelly's song. Unrelenting feelings seek to tear me apart, As I grasp for fleeting words, To describe just how I feel about you. Writing more and more, Not sure where the words come from, But not surprised you inspire me so. I'll always try to find a way, Even though it's all in vain; I'll keep writing bits of prose, And they'll all be Kelly's songs.