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Legacy

Life–what do I want out of it.

In the end, what matters most.  In the end, what will I regret missing.  In the end, what will leave me satisfied.  In the end, what will leave the mark I want, the legacy that shines in the dark.  Me.

Live Fiercely.

I wanna live fiercely, clutch at every moment, hold on with a literal death-grip, ’cause we’re all dying.  I wanna jump out of planes and climb cliffs and punch hard and sing loud and loopy in the car at night on a mountain road.  I wanna spin through meadows full of sunshine and multicolored pinpoints of waving wildflowers.  I want my soul to fly fly fly on a warm summer breeze.  I wanna wade deep in ice-cold lakes and laugh breathlessly as the blue blue waters lap on bare tanning skin.  I want to let orange lizards crawl dry-sticky up and over my arms and laugh at flutting butterflies, pieces of sky, landing on my smelly shoes.  I want to run in the rain, barefoot through the grass, she and I laughing at the sky while the thunder booms.  I want to giggle at every crazy car ride and splash in every single puddle.  I wanna live to the fullest and laugh the most, ’cause everyone needs a little life in our lives.  We take it all too serious and need to take risks and let go and let be and just live and be alive, every nerve tingling, aware of each and every breath, like a gift.  We were never meant to live like we’re dead, but instead live like we’re dying.

But more than that.  Oh, more than that–

I wanna Love Well.

Yes, love well.  Love BIG.  Love free, love unafraid.  I wanna love vulnerable, because it’s impossible to love without opening up your heart wide and being okay with getting hurt–and it’s gonna happen sometimes.  But loving big means you get loved big back, and that’s the best feeling in the whole wide world, the greatest freedom, the greatest adventure of all.  And when I’m lonely and sad and there’s a big ache where my heart’s supposed to be, I’ll remember–remember his big strong arms around me, making me feel like nothing in the world could touch me, could harm me, unless he let it, which he never will.  Remember her perfect brown eyes, the way they smile at me, the way they say you’re my very bestest friend and nothing’s gonna change that.  Or the way he laughs, silly and free, the way he’s always looking over at me, watching out for me, making sure I’m okay.  The way she tells me that she’ll always be there and it’s gonna be all right.  Friends.  Family.  Friends-Family.  And I know I’m not alone, that I never was, and that I never will.  When you love hard, it’s gonna hurt sometimes.  You worry, you ache, you pray and plead.  That place in your chest is gonna feel plain hollow with the magnitude of that love.  But I’m gonna love recklessly anyway–’cause I’ll get loved recklessly back.  I’m gonna open my arms wide and they’ll never be empty.

Because if we’re supposed to live like we’re dying, even more so we’re supposed to love like we’re living… like we’re gonna live forever.

Yeah–when I’m gone and dead and just a memory in people’s heads… that’s what I want them to remember.

My life-loving laugh, and the feel of my arms around them, never letting go.

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Monday Musings: Hold on to Imagination

Imagination.

Most of us associate this word with our childhood–games of make-believe, invisible friends, worlds growing inside our heads, stories blooming in our hearts.  However, as we grow up, we find that the door to adulthood is labeled with a giant “No Imagination Allowed” sign.  In school, ambition and originality often produce bad grades, and talking about childhood fantasy lands earns us a few laughs or awkward sideways glances.  Although we are still urged to “be creative,” a paper on how unicorns and the color purple could be used to cure cancer would not be favorably considered.

Yet, many of us still secretly harbor inexplicable urgings–to paint, to dance, to write, to imagine, to create.  We often feel understandably shy about these deep, unavoidable tendencies that are inexplicably part of us after growing up in a world that focuses on transitioning from play to work.  However, as one who indulges these tendencies, even going so far as to take up the label of “writer,” I can tell you with confidence, HOLD TIGHT TO YOUR IMAGINATION.

The fact that we are born creative should tell us something–we were meant to use our imaginations.  A child is intuitively imaginative, constantly creating and unabashedly sharing their creations with the world.  God Himself is the King of Creativity, the Creator of all that exists and ever will.  The fact that we are MADE this way should prove to us that we are meant to use imagination to enhance our gifts.  Some use their imaginations in the fields of math, science, and history–yet others of us are compelled to be creative in less concrete ways, dealing with feeling and essence, and, well, make believe.  These gifts are no less valuable than the others, beautiful and thrilling in the infinity of possibility they explore.

If you feel your imagination stirring and are overcome with an urge to create, follow it.  Pursue your natural inclination to create and see where it takes you.  There is always something beautiful to be found.

“Creativity is an area in which younger people have a tremendous advantage, since they have an endearing habit of always questioning past wisdom and authority.”  -Bill Hewlet

“Play is the highest form of research.” -Albert Einstein

“Every child is an artist, the problem is staying an artist when you grow up.”  -Pablo Picasso

“The creative adult is the child who survived.”  -U. LeGuin

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RUN: Update and Sneak Peek

Hello everyone!  The  blog is officially back… a post on my adventures will hopefully make an appearance soon.  RUN is progressing fabulously… although it appears to be morphing into a novella–the word count currently hovering at 20,000 words–the characters are continuing to surprise and entertain.  Here’s a sneak peek of the first page:

 

Pain.  Light.  Garbled noise.  Warm wetness seeping down my arm.  Gritty asphalt under my palms, my cheek.  Drifting between heady black and greyish white.

Footsteps.  Footsteps on my right.

“Brandon, get over here.”  The footsteps stop.  A presence crouches near me.  A whisper of breath on my hand, my face.  “Hey.”  The voice is soft.  “Hey, can you hear me?”  I force my eyes open, barely.  Crimson trails stain my limp fingers.  I bring the blurred face above into focus.  My mind, emotionless, collects details.  A boy.  Teenage.  Long, spiky blond hair.  Concerned brown eyes.  A hand, reaching…

Reaching?

My heartbeat flies.  My shallow breathing comes faster.  Memories flashing by.  Pain.  Screams.  Dark.  Hurt.  Trapped.  Pain.

His feather-light touch burns me, and I jerk back.  A growl builds in the back of my throat.  I strain to push myself up with energy I didn’t know I had, but fall back, having moved only a centimeter or two.

The boy has pulled back his hand.  “Hey, whoa there, sorry.  It’s okay, you’ll be fine.  I’m a friend, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Boots clomp to my left and stop near my shoulder.  My whole body tenses involuntarily.  My breath rasps, panicked, in my throat.

“My gosh.”  A deeper voice, distinctly male.  I feel a hand on my left wrist and jerk violently, crying out in fear and pain.  I can’t think, I can’t breathe…

The boy half rises.  “Back off, give her space.  She’s scared.”

Understatement.  Terrified, I’m terrified.

He bends close, purposefully making eye contact.  His eyes are gentle.  Pleading.  “Let me help.”

I don’t respond, I can barely comprehend his words… I’m kind of floating, floating, like I’m drifting off to sleep.  Help?  Why do I need help…  Sharp pain lances through my arm, and I cry out.  The sharpness brings focus.

“Please,” he’s saying.  “Let us help.”  He reaches out to me again, but pauses, his fingers hovering over mine.

I close the distance.  “Okay,” I say.

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Introducing… Run

Today I’m introducing my newest work in progress!  It’s different than anything I’ve seriously worked on before, and I’m excited to share it with you all.

Drum roll please!

Novel Title: Run

Genre: Mystery/Suspense

Audience: Young Adult

Series: Stand Alone Novel

Status: First Draft in Progress

Premise:

Seventeen year old Storm, a girl running from her kidnappers, finds a haven in the home of Niken Hollow after being found half dead in an alley.  The two begin to bond as Niken takes her on his escapades with fellow adventure racer Max Kraken, and Storm begins to share shards of her dark past and live free in the wild pair’s presence, daring to hope for a normal life.  However, when tragedy strikes in Niken’s life, Storm must shake off her demons in order to pull him from his paralyzing depression.  But when her kidnappers reemerge, will Storm and Niken ever stop running?

Working Cover:

Run Cover

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Introducing… Elemental!

As I have been waiting for feedback on The Hunted, I have begun work work on a new project.  Only a few chapters in, I am still getting to know my characters and setting, but it has been a fantastic ride so far.  While The Hunted has seven different points of view and is written in past tense, third person limited, Elemental has one point of view, only three characters, and is written in first person present tense.   So far, I have enjoyed the challenge of writing a completely different story and putting my imagination to work in new ways.  Because I am writing almost every day, most of the book will be complete by the beginning of May.

So–drum roll please!

Introducing… Elemental.

Elemental

Genre: Fantasy
Audience: Young Adult
Series: Trilogy
Status: In Progress

Premise:

Sixteen year old gladiator Kat Skia has been forced to fight a new opponent every week—and she’s beginning to turn into the cruel panther she fights as.  But when cocky, mischievous Tristan smirks his way into her life and refuses to leave, she is increasingly forced to choose between friendship and her warrior ways.

As Kat trains for the tournament in which she believes she will win her freedom, she struggles with her increasingly electric relationship with Tristan—and the voices that won’t leave her head.  When she finds a mysterious book hidden in her cell in the training complex beneath the arena sands, she races to discover why she was imprisoned… before the final fight when it’s too late.

Will Kat unravel the mystery of the voices and the book?  Will her and Tristan’s relationship survive the arena?  Or will hate triumph over love?

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The Hunted–Progress Report 2

As of Wednesday, March 25, 2015, The Hunted became an officially completed fourth draft!  For the first time ever, someone other than myself will read the entire manuscript, and soon other beta readers will follow… and I am more nervous than I had expected.

The Hunted turned out to be an experimental piece–I knew where it was going, but the darkness and intensity of the piece surprised me as I was writing.  I poured everything I am into the first draft, ignoring the sinking doubt that whispered, it’s not good enough, not good enough, not good enough…  During the subsequent drafts, I allowed that nagging worry to help me purposefully shape the story and prose into (hopefully) something beautiful.  I did not allow myself to listen to that nasty, fearful voice while I was writing, but now, waiting for the feedback from my first reader, I am definitely a bit scared.

Although I definitely write for myself, as all writers do, I also write to share with others.  And to work on a story for almost a year to discover that it does not live up to readers’ expectations, that you do not live up to readers’ expectations, is a terrifying possibility.  Although you tell yourself that others’ opinions do not matter, you are lying to yourself.  When you finish the story, let go of this blinding beauty and mighty song that has been building in your head and heart for the last who-knows-how-many months, the truth bleeds through.

You are afraid of failure.

More than that, afraid of rejection.

But you desire honesty even more.

Once you reconcile yourself with this, the feedback process becomes much less painful.  Not completely painless, but bearable, and perhaps even enjoyable.  I desire honest feedback above all else; how I deal with that feedback will come later.  I do want to know if I have achieved my goal or not, or if I have unwittingly achieved a different one.  Daring to fail is part of being an artist.  And in the end, you never truly fail.

I truly am excited to share The Hunted with you all, no matter what the results may be!  The following are a few quotes about art, risks, and mistakes.  I hope you are encouraged as I was.

“Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes.  Art is knowing which ones to keep.” -Scott Adams

“Go and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes, make glorious and fantastic mistakes.  Break rules.  Leave the world more interesting for your being here.  Make.  Good.  Art.” -Neil Gaiman

“To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” -Joseph Chilton Pierce

“We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.” -Bob Ross

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The Hunted–Progress Report

The Hunted is the near future urban thriller I am currently editing (learn more about it here).  I am working on the fourth draft and have been surprised to discover how my characters have come alive during the editing process.  A couple months ago, I stumbled upon the song “Better Than I know Myself” by Adam Lambert, which perfectly describes the relationship between two of my favorite characters, Astrid and Nate.  I love their friendship because although they are not siblings by blood, they have become brother and sister through love and circumstance.  Their tenderness and devotion toward each other is wonderfully expressed in the song.  I found pictures of my characters online and combined the images with the lyrics, and I couldn’t resist sharing the result with you.

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“Bean”

“Bean” is a flash fiction story about a mysterious girl and her young tag along.

Bean

The Ferris wheel spun, twisted, and spurned us from the heights, its neon green lights spasming in the darkness.  I lay on my back in the sand, watching it turn as the cold ocean waters lapped at my sinking heels.  A warm little hand wormed its way into mine.  I started at first, then smiled, squeezing gently back.  Finally.  How long had it been?  Two weeks?  A month?

“Sar-ah?”  A childish voice from the darkness to my left.  The first word.  What would she say next?

“Yes, Bean?”  Maybe she would protest at her nickname, although I thought she liked it.  She had never worked up the courage to tell me.  It fit her skinny, six year old frame.

“What’s a canned ham?”  I almost laughed, but I didn’t want to scare her.

“A canned ham?  Well, it’s almost like jello, but ham.  In a can.”

There was a small pause.  Then, “What’s jello?”  Jello?  She didn’t know what jello was?  Anger twisted inside me, a snake rearing its ugly head, but I batted it away.  No, not tonight.  There would be time for that later.

“How ’bout I show you, Bean?  Would you like that?”  The small hand wrapped around my finger in response, tugging me up.  This time I did laugh, and a little giggle answered from the void.  How I would manage to find jello at a fair, I had no idea… but I would find it.  I would tear the world apart for jello, if that’s what it took.  I shook my head as we walked up the beach, Bean’s little footsteps thudding softly beside me.  How hard it would be to let her go.  But it was necessary.  The shudder that followed the thought had nothing to do with the chill ocean breeze.

As we crested the dunes, the light from the Ferris wheel caught in Bean’s stringy blond hair and turned her eyes to glowing emerald.

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“Normal”

“Normal” is a poem that I wrote when I became frustrated with how people act in public.  I was at school, watching how everyone walked with their head down, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in their pockets.  Whenever anyone held a door open for me or smiled at me, it made my day, because often I felt unnoticed and unimportant, almost unwanted.  I think many people hide loneliness like this, acting “normal” like everyone else, but inside just wishing that a stranger would do anything, even smile, to let them know that they are not alone.

 

Normal

The standard walk,

The standard talk,

Head down,

Eyes low,

Words short,

Words clipped,

Mouth downturned,

Frown fixed.

 

Acknowledge no one

But yourself

Or else,

Or else.

This is normal,

And normal

You will be.

 

But when the rebel

Grins,

You’d be surprised

Who smiles

Back.