You are in the enviable position of having formed a habit that most aspiring writers would kill to obtain. Or pay untold amounts of money on tuition for Creative Writing degrees, or workshops, or storytelling camps.
For the past two years, you have written, on average, 1374 words every week. Rain, shine, babies, heartbreak, plays, shows, gigs, arguments, new games, new books, new lives….every week. That means each of you wrote 142,896 words. Three novels or one massive tome.
Just by not stopping. By continuing to go.
For most humans, it takes 10 weeks of uninterrupted routine to form a habit. The habit is there. Don’t break it.
Right now, like me, you’re starting to feel the itch. A vague restlessness, an unease. A vacancy.
I have Spell/Sword to work on. What are you working on?
Open a Word Doc. Open a Google Doc. Open a notepad. Open napkin. Open your phone and email it to yourself.
Today, not tomorrow. Now, not later.
And start. Don’t stop.
It helped me to have a schedule. It helped me to have this blog. It helped me [eventually] to own the task, to admit to myself what I was making. Do all of those things, or none.
Just don’t stop.
Because, as unbelievable as it may sound. No one but us will truly ever read Lodestar. No one will ever hear your voices.
Unless you keep singing.
I can hear them. I have heard them for two years. It would be a great loss for them to fall silent.
The wind whipped through the empty streets choked with dust. A chill was present, but not enough to
Artist – Jae Liu
penetrate the thick jacket that the bard wore, bright blue collar pulled nearly to her nose. Elora Delcroft leaned into the wind, and ran through her set list.
The Doctor Dances, that’s always a favorite, even in a tiny spot like this. Then Measuring the Marigolds, followed by the short cuts of Western Shores and My Lady, She Burns off the Coast. I’m only here for a night, so I suppose I should pull out all the stops.
Elora chuckled into her collar. Zebulon was not the worst place she’d ever performed, but only if you squinted. The town seemed mostly empty, only a half hundred old men and women, a few exhausted families trying to pull in a meager crop. She had to be the first bard to wander into town in months, if not years — the barkeep’s eyes had widened like moonrise upon seeing her silver Harper’s pin. He had turned quickly away, and dabbed at his eyes. “Hard times, miss — we’d be sure glad to have you sing a bit tonight. I can’t offer you much, just a clean bed in my attic across the way, and all the stew and ale you care to eat.”
The half-elf scratched the tip of one pointed ear, loosening an earring from where it bit. She had watched from her window as what seemed the entire population of Zebulon had crammed into inn, heads bowed underneath the odd sign that swung at the entrance. A massive stuffed claw, covered with scales, ending in three chipped talons. The barkeep claimed it came from a dragon, Elora had smiled and allowed that it surely did.
A little boy waved as she approached, and ran immediately into the bar, yelling “She’s here — she’s here, the singer-lady’s here!”
I wonder why people still live here? So close to the Black Fog, and the fallen country of Gilead? Elora pushed through the doors of the Three-Toed Claw, into a throng of tired, but smiling faces. I must add some songs for the children, after the intermission. Songs that everyone knows and can sing along. Soppin’ Gravy, and Mune the Moonchaser, perhaps.
She whipped her blue coat off with theatrical panache, and slung it ably on a hook. Her lute case seemed to fly open as she made her way through the crowd, lute gliding into her hand free and easy. The room was silent as she mounted the crude stage, two tables pushed together , rude boards and fresh nails.
Elora said her pleasantries, and her mind and fingers loosened. Her voice fell into the opening patter that she had said a thousand times, she smiled at the crowd. This was why she took the long way — to find the tiny little towns where music was needed more than water in the Sarmadi Desert. The entire population of Zebulon was crammed into the tiny common room, but there was still space to spare. The barkeep pushed himself out from behind the bar, eager and smiling.
The bard noticed a man sitting at the bar, his back to the stage. Elora felt a prickle of professional irritation. This would be the finest show that Zebulon would see in many moons, and this lout was hunched over the bar, completely oblivious. She sniffed, at the pile of empty clay cups at the man’s elbow, the black bottle gripped in his right. A man losing himself to drink, no excuse to miss her art’s charms.
“I see there is one among you who is not a music lover!” She called, playfully. “Come friend, come and join us — please choose the first song I will play for all the fine people here assembled.”
The crowd’s attention spun to the man, and several people snickered. This man was clearly a stranger.
The man raised his head, and slowly turned to face her. He had a plain face, and ordinary features.
But his eyes. Elora’s fingers tightened on the lute. Shelyn protect me, his eyes.
Unbidden, the bard’s fingers began to move. An old, old tune spilled over the crowd and Elora sang, unable to look away from the man at the bar. Company, always on the run Destiny, oooh, and the rising sun I was born, six gun in my hand Behind the gun, I make my final stand That’s why they call me Bad company, Oh, I can’t deny Bad, Bad company
Till the day I die
Rebel souls Deserters we are called Chose the gun And threw away the sword All these towns They all know our name Six gun sound Ooh, is our claim to fame Bad company, Oh, I can’t deny Bad, Bad company Till the day I die
Elora sang, tears running down her cheeks.
[With respect to Bad Company — wherever they ride.]
I was interviewed recently by the irredeemable Demon of the Sea, Sean Polite. It’s for his “Movers and Shakers Project” nominally exploring people of cultural resonance in/and around Athens, GA.
Nominally I say, as my interview is a long, rambling discussion of storytelling, video games, classic anime, Dungeons and Dragons, and other avant garde nerdery. If these topics interest you, or you’re just curious what I sound like — click and be whelmed.
Be warned, there are some naughty, naughty words.The interview is available as a free download, or to stream online.
Here is Sean’s writeup — I blush, I blush!
There is a story in everything we do, in each action we undertake, and even in the hesitancy that keeps us rejecting other actions.
Today’s guest, Derek Adams, a bard amongst men, sees the plethora of lore and legend in the grand and mundane things in life, and his insight has yielded creative results with a role-playing twist and a growing footing in the literary world.
A student of role-playing games (a.k.a. RPGs) and an advocate of the art of collaboration, he’s created a series known as Lodestar. With an eye for talent, he’s recruited a group of friends with unreal writing ability, to craft an ongoing tale of adventure, magic, betrayal, battle, and endless interaction. While he will admit that his own experiences with the RPG system are an influence, Lodestar is not exclusively defined within the categories of the typical role playing game. You create the adventure and he oversees it! He breaks down a good portion of the standard role playing terminology also.
The total flight hours of Lodestar: 500,000 words in a year and a half which equals a staggering amount of novels as you’ll hear.
This experiment in adventure has been a massive success, and has lead to a journey into the world of information age publishing. At the current time, the players have created a new story, set 15 years prior to the events of “Lodestar.” Derek is compiling these stories into a book, a massive volume called “Spell/Sword.” While the history of the characters, and motivations are a budding foundation for the journey to the past, no prior knowledge is required.
While he is a versatile masterful Mover and Shaker, he’s taking the plunge for the first time into the mind-numbing world of manuscript editing and confessing to the challenge of it. You can take a peek into “Spell/Sword” by going to spell-sword.com
There is a link between every role playing game and the anime series “Record of Lodoss War.” Stick with the interview, and you’ll find out what it is.
A link we share is our mutual participation in the activities of the oldest continually running community theatre in Georgia, Athens Community Theater—home to the Town & Gown Players. We discuss his introduction to and ongoing involvement with the volunteer organization, and his transition from acting to contributing behind the scenes with stories well known and unknown—culminating at the high helm of the director’s chair. I’ve gotten to collaborate with him in some of the shows, and true to the community theater experience, it’s been a wondrous fulfillment. You’ll hear about how you can contribute to the arts scene with a simple step towards the 60 year old coven behind the big white house on Prince Avenue.
Causing a stir in the cultural bowels of the Classic City are The Shadeaux Brothers, an enigmatic pop duo with a knack for songwriting at the maddening line between obvious parody for laughs and intense seriousness. Fresh off of creating the anthem of your summer that you never knew could be known to, Derek breaks down their history with a sensitivity to their abhorrence of any forms of the beast that is celebrity promotion. We go into their pioneering act of creating the medium of music known to the naked eye as ELF ROCK. Few are the talents who’ve been enlisted to aid in their sonic sojourn of Christmas albums, but distinguished are they all.
The language is vivid (some profanity in good fun), and it is undone by the luminescence of the pop culture spectrum which Mr. Adams keeps at his bay of knowledge. Subjects are deftly switched at supersonic pace, from video games to Dungeons and Dragons, Doctor Who, social media/blogging sites (tumblr, WordPress) and the like. Even people who walk in on the interview are seamlessly woven into the conversation/interview. His super fast wit inspires a lightning round at the end of this segment, and the commentary is enlightening and humorous—as this whole interview is.
The link to my interview with Derek is below, and this writing is only a hint of the fun behind the story of Derek Adams, a fresh new addition to the Movers and Shakers Project!
A diagram for the Lodestar series. While we generally use pictures of the interviewees, in this case, the grandeur of the story takes precedence before the storyteller.
Hyper evolved frogs on steam-powered roller skates: 76
Weird dream sequences: 2
Witches: 1
Allusions to Buddy Holly lyrics: 1
Swords named ‘Chester’: 1
Word count: 49,235
I like my book. It’s got problems, but I don’t feel overwhelmed — YET. Several sections are in severe need of fleshing out, clarification and a rigorous, rigorous edit. The next stop for the Edit Train is working on the chapters individually, probably save the first couple of chapters for last as they’re going to need the most work.
The purple-skinned trombonist eyes the coin with distrust, then shrugs. He calls off stage in a thick tongue that Quick doesn’t recognize. The dance floor buzzes with excitement as a slender figure steps into view. She is wearing a sharply pressed white shirt with a black string tie, long black tail coat, pinstripe pants and blazing white spats on her shoes. Her skin is dark, and her elaborately coiffed bouffant is darker — but the devilkin spots the cunning rivets and seams along her jawline, and the slight purple glow behind her wide, brown eyes. She is a construct of some sort, but one of greater complexity and craft then Quick has ever encountered before.
She kicks her legs high in the air, and cradles the steel microphone and pulls it to her lips.
Whoaaa Another day I take your pain away Some people talk about ya Like they know all about ya When you get down they doubt ya And when you tippin on the scene Yeah they talkin’ bout it Cause they can’t tip all on the scene with ya Talk about it T-t-t-talk bout it When you get elevated, They love it or they hate it You dance up on them haters Keep getting funky on the scene While they jumpin’ round ya They trying to take all your dreams But you can’t allow it Cause baby whether you’re high or low Whether you’re high or low You gotta tip on the tightrope T-t-t-tip on the tightrope
The band thumps and jams behind her and the Funky Winkerbean quakes and jives. The devilkin faintly remembers that in the outside world, it’s only an hour or two past breakfast.
The spider bartender waves its free arms in time to the beat, and serves drinks faster and faster. The two half-elves squeal and dash towards the dance floor. The drunken dwarf burps.
Hey, you nerds — give me your lunch money. And put it in this jar.
As anxious/neurotic/nervous I am about promoting my own stuff, and even admitting that I’m creating anything — I am a tireless jerk windbag when pushing my friends’ projects.
This is my friend, Dustin:
Dustin Ah Kuoi - Suspected Power Ranger
Isn’t he dreamy?
[PUNCH]
I SAID, ISN’T HE DREAMY?
Dustin is an excellent singer, an earnest songwriter, and entirely too nice.
He wants to record a solo album, and we’re going to give him some money to do it.
“A mere tune?” Elora’s eyebrows rose, twisting her scar oddly.
“Music is the only true magic left. It can span time and space, bring joy and sorrow – the stories of entire generations wound up in a few simple notes. The right melody at the right moment can lead an army to triumph, bring a heart to ruin or fill it overflowing with love. Music is the wind that blows across all of history, everywhere and nowhere – commonplace and vital. Every soul can create it, every soul is affected by it, every soul recognizes it. Clearly the Precursors had more respect for it than you, barbarian.”
[Quoted from City of Rain: Book Nine of Lodestar.]
The latches of his guitar case were brass, but they hadn’t closed properly in years. The case was cracked red leather – an elaborate network of twine kept it shut for travel, and generally he had plenty of time before a show to tease loose the knots.
Running through the midnight streets, breathing hard, with seven ghost-faced dogs on his heels, Max wished he had scraped up the coin to get the latches fixed.
He tumbled over a cart full of purple pears, and watched as the guitar case went skidding across the cobblestone street. He ignored the cries of the cart’s owner, and the blood coming from his scratched hands, and crawled after the case desperately. He laid one hand on it, as the first dog skidded to a stop.
Someone had spent a pretty purse on their construction, brass tubes vented steam, and through its transparent skin Max could see the fierce engine cackling and turning. The dog’s hide was mostly turtle-glass, with strips of steel binding the seams and joints. It opened its crystal jaws, and growled – the sound of breaking crockery.
Max’s face stretched into a smile, and he ran a hand through his hair. It was silver-gold this month, and looked absolutely absurd and didn’t go with the electric blue of his long leather coat. Max had a deep, abiding belief in absurdity. I’ve got to get this damn case open, which means I have to…oh, Sid and Nancy.
He pulled his case close, and barreled his way towards the burning-glass dog, trying to angle his shoulder protectively.
Glass dogs are hard.
Max managed to carom off the construct’s left flank and spin into the street. Just in time to see the other six tear around the corner, and point their glass-snouts at him.
“Aaaaaaaah.” he said, quieter than he would have preferred. He was still sucking in air after hitting the first dog.
Max stumbled forward, and climbed up on the first high point he could find. A jewelry stand, made from a couple of boards stretched across two empty metal drums. The shopkeeper screamed at him, but fled upon seeing the glass dogs. Max quickly dug into the front of his black slacks, and fished out the small knife he kept for emergencies. He sighed as he laid the knife to the first knot. These are going to be a devil to re-tie.
The old guitar case popped open, dirty twine falling on top of his blazing green boots. It had cost a month’s wages to have them actually light up, but Max had never regretted the purchase. Great art, requires great sacrifice.
It was red. Strings and steel, and love and pain. His guitar.
Max pulled the strap over his head, and turned to face the seven glass dogs. He nodded to them, as courtly as a queen — and hung the travel amplifier from his belt. Thumb on the power switch, all the lights turned green.
The bard pulled the pick from behind his ear, and tightened his Gamma string. The lighting on this street was less than optimal, but for an impromptu performance it would have to do.
He could still put on a show.
Max raised his hand to the heavens, then brought the pick down across the strings.
A roar of sound – a beginning. Cracks appeared in the faces of the first two dogs.
A quick arpeggio to loosen up his fingers. One of the dog’s steam engines began to suck in exhaust — condensation and fire forming inside the transparent creature.
A moment of silence, to gather his audience in — the glass dogs howled and leaped forward.
Max momentarily considered his song choice. These were lifeless machines sent to tear out his throat, they didn’t really have a say in the matter. Maybe he should go easy on them.
Then he remembered the cut knots. And he smiled.
Max played ‘Eruption’ and the dogs exploded. A thousand shimmering shards of glass and steel flew backwards from his music. Max played his guitar in the midnight streets, and the glass dogs were no more.
“That’ll teach you to tangle with a rock and roll god.” he said to the rubble, and did his best to correct the tangle of his hair.
“Yeah. A god.” he added, and stepped down off the stage.
“A mere tune?” Elora’s eyebrows rose, twisting her scar oddly.
“Music is the only true magic left. It can span time and space, bring joy and sorrow – the stories of entire generations wound up in a few simple notes. The right melody at the right moment can lead an army to triumph, bring a heart to ruin or fill it overflowing with love. Music is the wind that blows across all of history, everywhere and nowhere – commonplace and vital. Every soul can create it, every soul is affected by it, every soul recognizes it. Clearly the Precursors had more respect for it than you, barbarian.”
[Quoted from City of Rain: Book Nine of Lodestar.]
A diagram for the Lodestar series. While we generally use pictures of the interviewees, in this case, the grandeur of the story takes precedence before the storyteller.
spell-sword.com 