Chosen One Ephant Mon

Yes, I thought so too. P.S. Thank you for reading and for the feedback, obi and gimpy. I'm glad it has been enjoyable. This is a pretty easy project to write, so even though I have been incredibly busy and unable to do much independent writing lately, I hope to have a new update posted soon.

I had committed myself to reading something written in the last fifty years because almost all of what I have read in the last few years through studies and otherwise has been older classics...and I ended up picking up King Lear. It's the only one of Shakespeare's Big Four tragedies that I've never read and I have had it on my list for a long time. But after this I will definitely move to something more current. I think I need it for my own writing because I have the tendency to indulge in archaisms to a fault. It's a habit I need to break myself of and I just need to become aware of more good contemporary writing. As for watching, I just saw Dr. Horrible again last night for the first time since it was just coming out. It's actually brilliant. The end still gets me.

Kind of an off-the-cuff whimsical thing, but I hope to keep it going. ========== My father told me two things before he died. The first was “Look out for your mother.” The second I couldn’t quite hear, because my mother was running up behind me with an ax. Dad didn’t make it. People ask what it’s like in the bin. Most of the time I don’t answer because I’m told they’re in my head. But sometimes I’ll say it’s the greatest place on earth. You’re never lonely. It’s never boring. You can say anything you want without consequence. What’s more comfy than a padded room? The dress code is a little restricting but that’s about the only downside. The other guys are always trying to break out of here but they must be crazy. Where else could I talk with Lennon, Lincoln, and Christ—all at the same table? I’m still amazed they would deign to visit us. I’ve heard they make the rounds at other houses but I always see them here, so they must be pretty slick. And I have the eyes of a hawk (I used to be one). People say it’s not my fault that I’m in here—that I’m the byproduct of a parental hack job. I suppose that’s true, but it’s hardly profound—it was in all the papers. For a time I thought Mom was going to come join me but the jury would have none of that. That’s okay, I guess. It would have been awkward. Plus they’d have to take all the axes out of here. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to live on the outside because from what I hear everything is going to hell. Everyday at breakfast Stuart tells me about all the agencies that are after him for no good reason at all: CIA, FBI, NASA—even three different crime syndicates. He’s a little paranoid, but who wouldn’t be? He says he’s here because it’s the only place they’ll never find him. I hope he’s right. No one’s come busting down the door yet. Regardless, it’s enough for me to know that if that kind of thing can happen on the outside to a good guy like Stuart, it’s no place I want to be. There aren’t many things on the docket, which suits me just fine, but there are fun surprises from time to time. Today we roasted a marshmallow. It wasn’t amused. A humorless marshmallow—who could believe it? One thing I don’t understand is why all the doors lock from the inside. That seems like a pretty big design flaw. I talked to one of the supervisors about it never but never got a straight answer. I would be worried about intruders if I didn’t have a strong faith in people. There are two guys, I hear the orderlies call them Bailey and Stuart (I’ve never met them)—they are always trying to get through those doors. The staff always rushes in to stop them, I’m sure because they know about the flaw and don’t want them wasting their energy. It’s nice of them, but they really should get that fixed. I don’t get many visitors. It’s okay because I just stick to my books. I can read in four languages, which I hear is pretty rare. Sometimes I wish I could understand the symbols on the page, but it’s not important. I’ll read for hours at a time and can keep on reading through anything: darkness, nightmares, snores—even my own. I have to go now though because they’re telling me I have a visitor. I’m intrigued because I really have no idea who it might be. I have no family (foster kid) and all of my friends are on Facebook (been meaning to visit soon). Maybe they’ll have marshmallows.

Thanks gimpy, that was very kind. And thank you as well, Brendo; I'm sorry I never replied, I intended on having another part up by now and am a little embarrassed that I have left this story hanging for so long. More is coming, I promise; I have had the ideas fermenting for some time and just need to take all my notes and start writing the thing out.

Ami: That's a great question. I've thought about this a lot, and I don't know if I really have a good answer. I think about the stories I enjoy and the works that are considered "great" and there is no one formula for a great story. I would say the best stories tend to have the characters drive the plot rather than the plot drive the characters, but there are also stories I love and which I would consider great that are not openly deficient in characterization, but nevertheless the characters are not so much main point or the big idea (some Borges short stories are a great example). I've also read stories that are superb on a technical level (the quality of prose, characterization, plotting, etc.) but feel sterile because it lacks a certain spark or resonating passion. I tend to like smart and creative stories that make you think, but that cannot be the end of it because math problems can have that effect and that is not what I want in a story. I think having universal themes, even if they manifest in very particular or unusual circumstances, is necessary in order for readers to connect emotionally and feel that the story speaks to something important. I know that's a rambly answer and not a very well-defined one either but I think that's because good stories simply hit people in a certain way. Sometimes it's because the plot is dizzying, sometimes it's because the characters jump off the page, sometimes it's because the writing is beautiful, sometimes it's because the themes deal with things we've all experienced. Although some ingredients may be more vital to a good story than others, no formula covers every great story and sometimes the best stories are great precisely because they defy convention. How's that for a non-answer? This time I am

Oh man, I just remembered that I never answered this: That's a good question. I would say it depends on the context. I haven't seen Law Abiding Citizen but that situation sounds pretty brutal. It matters greatly what the intent of the explicit darkness is, I think. Sometimes a raw description has a powerful impact and the effed up stuff is there to prove an important point, as tough as it may be to read. But there are other books where that kind of thing is handled artlessly and it becomes gratuitous or just for cheap shock. The above scenario would be hard for me to read depending on how it was written, but I could appreciate it on an aesthetic/emotional/thematic level if the brutality serves a valuable purpose. Tiana: What is one book or collection of books which, had you the power to reverse time, you would make so that it had never been written? I'll take another truth.

Thanks, guys. I appreciate the comments and I'm sorry I hadn't responded until now. I intended to keep this going a long long time ago but now after some serious busyness I can finally get back to it. ========== II. Post tenebras lux. It should not be necessary to repeat my opinions on shopping, but I am compelled now to note that there is one exception. It is so dissimilar that I hardly consider it in the same category, but I don't know what else to call it, and a careful examination has led me to conclude that, by what must be some untraceable technicality, it nevertheless falls under the slick definition. To me it is something so elevated from the empty carnival of dress sales and shopping carts that to slap it with that vulgar tag is almost demeaning. But to give the idea form I must invoke language, the abusive charmer, to come nearest the rosy truth while praying mercy from its thorny distortions. And that idea is what may be called (though still not to my satisfaction) book shopping. There is nothing quite like stepping into a bookstore. It is an almost spiritual experience, walking in and staring out at a sea of possibility. I feel I've just entered a literary cathedral. Let us be clear: libraries are venerable landmarks””a repository of hallowed relics. The cause of libraries is a noble one which I endorse wholeheartedly. But bookstores are the literary lifeblood. They hum with a quiet magic, and they accommodate everything: there are new releases right with the classics, annals of knowledge and even popular trash if you want it. Everything is new, grand, yet inviting, homey: warm lighting along with the fresh-off-the-press smell that hits you hard when you take a book from the shelf and start thumbing through the pages. I can get lost in there for hours and leave without buying a thing, and yet feel like the hours could not have been better spent. At the library you are a blip in a sprawling network of exchange, one participant in the web spun across time and space. The bookstore is something personal; its items are the building blocks for my edification. At the library you share; at the bookstore, for an unfathomably small price (for less than a pack of batteries!), I can access the greatest works and minds of history and make them mine, assemble them into my own library. Without having reflected on it or put it into so many words until today, I have always come away from those book-browsing hours (yes, there it is: a label better than shopping) feeling that I had just drunk the cool crystal offerings of the freshest spring, in the way that a Sunday morning spent at the house of worship rejuvenates the weary spirit (How had I not seen my destiny sooner? My blindness still boggles me). But today I experienced something even more extraordinary. I intended a normal (but always fulfilling) trip to the bookstore, but found that in the light of who and what I had now resolved to be, I saw everything with new eyes. The great wordsmiths of present and past, the writers on whom I had long fed my soul? I was their brother. My vocation had brought me into this exclusive convent. While passing from aisle to aisle I was struck by the magnitude of this truth. On one shelf sat John Milton. Is it inconceivable that I should be mentioned in the same conversation? Why not, when (one day) my name will sit alongside, separated by mere feet of the carpet? It is not that I ”œsaw the light”

Thanks guys. Glad I could surprise (though it was foreshadowed). The idea was loosely based off the videos but as I got going I realized it would be more fun to do it in a Nietzschean voice.

Too late? Maybe. Overdone? Probably. But I already had a lot written up. Here's the first half or so, and if there's interest I'll post the rest soon. ========== We begin at the beginning. Yeahs, ohs, oohs, and ahs””these primitive utterances arouse a dormant fire. They stir the depths, draw up from those recesses the long-forgotten memory of our primordial state. This tribal chant calls to us, strikes us with the resounding power of the mythical: the Ark has come to carry us into the past. It is a lyric without language, born of the unplowed earth, bursting with spontaneous life. How can we resist its lure? The ritual penetrates to our inmost being, unclothing what is shamefully clothed. It says nothing and yet conveys everything, uncovering that buried truth dressed and suppressed by millennia: we are creatures once untamed, and still so in our hearts. In this moment of transcendence we once again meet the animal within ourselves. And we, too, join. The call becomes a bellow as together we celebrate our ferity, and by this synergistic union are subsumed into sublimity. Seven a.m., waking up in the morning Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs Where have we come? From the wild sprawl of nature to soft domesticity””this is our modern age. Each day is announced by a shrill alarm, our routine calibrated to precision. But not a moment passes before we glance the shackles of our rote existence. ”œNeeds”

Raynuk: What is your favorite word to use in writing? I will take a truth as well.

What would I see? For example, for each thing I do I have all notes and text stuffed into one Word file. The actual manuscript text will be the first thing in the document, and then wherever that ends (at the end of my current point of progress) I'll have about a half-page separation and then just have a ton of haphazard notes scrawled out over pages. Sometimes they'll be roughly chronologically ordered, but mostly I just hurry to jot down anything that pertains whenever I have an idea. I'll have general story ideas, plot and character details and plans for actual text all mixed in together, but I will bold the latter when I have a sentence, word, or phrase that I know I want to eventually be inserted in that exact form, which serves as a good reminder as I'm scrolling through. Because I work this way I tend to "eat" my notes as I go along, so when I make progress on my word count and either incorporate or abandon those notes, I then delete them, so by the time I get to the end I have no notes left. So how do you guys work? Do you have a separate file for notes and outlines? Or none at all? I know the outline vs. seat-of-the-pants question has been debated before, so this is more about what your "workspace" looks like when your works are in their unfinished state.

Thanks, Delta, and you're welcome; hope you had a great Easter Sunday. Lately I've felt the desire to begin writing devotional poetry, so while I have nothing planned out for the immediate future, I do hope to update this thread with additional pieces.

Thanks, Ami! That's nice of you to say and I appreciate your feedback.

Thanks dude, that means a lot. I'm glad you enjoyed it and that you could sense the feeling behind it.

Thanks, man. It is very recent, actually: I had the idea a little while back but only sat down to write it last night and today, so I just finished. It is more about yesterday but I think it's still relevant given what the whole weekend is about. Apart from grade school assignments this is actually the first poem I've written so while I tried to do some basic stuff with rhyme and meter, I am no expert myself. I was almost thinking of telling the story in a different form because I'm so underqualified in this area, but decided to just go for it.

In the spirit of this weekend: The Crown-Maker To one of matchless skill and vision rare Was given life extended for his craft: To forge and cast for kings of nations old The crowns befitting of the blessed staff. He dressed in many forms and names to serve The kings of every continent and age; Dominions flourished and fell with history's tide, But still the goldsmith labored at the swage. Wealth, esteem, and royal favor met him For the mastery of his work; he rendered For the lords of earth, o'er gilded halls and Treasures vast, the jewel of regal splendor. The kings beheld his work amazed: whose hands Could shape such beauty? Nature's precious stones Encrusted aureate and argent frames, United by the master for their thrones. Unrivaled his creations stood in time And even after centuries would last; Till his immortal benefactor once Informed him that his work had been surpassed. The master fell in disbelief: what man Could best the one who ever had no peer? The story sent him lower to the ground And rent his heart as like to those who hear: A dying shrub had lent its thorny twigs, Encrusted by the offered blood of one; It graced the head it most and least deserved Upon the hill where victory was won. All earthly riches tremble at the wreath Which never fades, and kingdoms fall prostrate Before the one to rule them evermore, Begun that Friday in his broken state. The master's works were brought to nothing then By he who suffered for him to be free; For none could stand comparison against The crown worn by the outlaw on the tree.

Great work, Ami. Quirky but quite sad; the short, simple sentences really conveyed the tone of hopeless melancholy. I quite enjoyed it. Well done.

Thanks, Ami! And yes, it is. I don't know that it has a fandom per se, but at least I didn't create the characters.

Thanks, man. I'm glad it was interesting. I don't really plan on doing more but I never say never to these things, so maybe if I'm feeling particularly gory some day it'll give it another go. For now though this is it.

One-shot response to Ami's challenge. ("Write a fanfiction. It can be of whatever fandom you wish. The only other stipulations are: first person narration, and you have to include the words 'veridium', 'haste', and 'basket'.") I may be using "fandom" loosely here, but I hope it counts. ===== The sand is loose. The other men ask how I do it. They long to know my secret. I see them talk to one another, comparing strategies, hoping to find the edge that will make all the difference. And who wouldn't? To face the monstrous unknown when life stays alight by a half-second or half-step? I remember that panic. It slithers up, coils around and squeezes the breath out of you. Everyone feels it at the beginning. Some feel it longer than others. I haven't felt it for a long time. No, I tell them. Check your armor. Sharpen your blade. Past that, there is no preparing. You can't divine the unknown. Not until it becomes known. Not until you're there. I've seen them shudder as the gate rolls up, wondering if they'll ever walk through it again. They fear death. Is that the difference? That I wish it? One step. That is the only advice I can give. One step tells me everything. In the moment my foot meets the earth a thousand uncertainties vanish. I look straight ahead, my eyes open wide, but I feel this before I see anything. Here, today, the sand is loose. Not the softest earth I've worked with, but softer than average. My feet sink lightly. This determines everything. My muscles tense. Each step will be deliberate and precise. Quick movements will be slowed. Lateral strides must land perfectly. Shifting sand invites false steps. How many men have I seen cut down by that terrifying slide, when the foot can't find it's hold and balance is thrown in that suspended instant? I welcome it. My attackers have more to prove than I. When fear stirs the blood they are prone to lunge with anxious haste. One overeager swing, the fateful slide, and for a frozen moment the flesh is exposed. I dispose of them swiftly. The surface is my ally. I am so fully aware of it that after the first step it does not even enter my thoughts. It is there, it is everywhere. My eyes sweep over the crowd. In seconds they will fade and my whole existence will be the sandy circle. I might as well glance now. Might this be where I die? Any man would be naturally curious to know the place where he will leave this world. It is one of the smaller arenas, but its size is made up for in the raucous rabble. The stands teem with spectators, unrestrained in their lustful cravings. There are no faces to me, just the hungry mob. Out of the mass I spot the vendors, and even some signs. ”œVERIDIUM”

This is a great thread. It needs more activity! What is one book you most wish you had written? I'm in a similar situation re: work, but nevertheless, against perhaps my better judgment, I'll choose CHALLENGE.

Without counting, I'd guess that LAP won this one with all those thread revivals.

I finally got to this and just finished the first two parts. I'll be honest: I don't usually have much interest in Star Wars fics and I was even a little more wary going in because I knew so much of it was going to be drawn from RP, which I know so little about, and I figured it would be a lot more rewarding for those who are in on so much of the history. However, I knew that with your name attached to it I probably wouldn't have much to worry about, and I am happy to say that I was right. I really liked what I read so far. Obviously I don't know all that's happened yet, but I loved how you shifted the perspective from character to character, and with the promise of such a large cast the story already has an epic feel to it, which is very cool. I also really enjoy your descriptions: you do a great job of painting a visual picture and I like seeing the lofty language sprinkled in when it's befitting the grandeur of the subjects, as it is here. I am sure a long-time RPer does probably something extra out of it, but you wrote in such a way that the characters were already quickly gaining their definition and I was pleased to get a feel for them despite not having that background. Whether you transferred preestablished personalities from RP or took your own liberties with the characters, they were developed in a way accessible for a newcomer, and yet with the sense you get when you read Tolkien that there is a deeper established history underlying it all, which really sucks you into the world. So that was one thing I really liked and thought you did a great job of. Tiana had good tips for tightening up a few things, and I agree with some of them, but you are a good writer and I'm very intrigued by the start. It already feels like it's building to something great, and I look forward to reading more. Well done!

Who isn't?

This may actually be a pretty great way to bring back users and boost the traffic of the site, which I assume you are intending.