Writer’s Block Part II: Explination

I posted an entry a while back called Writer’s Block. Since then, I have redeveloped my ability to write, if that many any sense, and I just kind of wanted to explain what’s been going on.

This semester has been crazy busy for me. Today alone I spent eight hours in the library and got all of two lesson plans written. The only break I had the whole time was to call my very best friend for 15 minutes. When I am this busy, I have no time for myself anymore. It’s almost as though I become a completely different person altogether. I become Rebecca the student, rather than Rebecca the friend or Rebecca the writer, or even Rebecca the obsessive facebook checker. I’m just one 107 lbs lesson plan producing machine. When times like these happen, I lose my ability to be all of those other things. I love creative writing, it’s a passion I’ve had for a very long time. This semester, I’ve not been able to. I used to be able to work out my personal issues by writing a short scene that puts everything in a new perspective. When I’ve tried to do that this semester, nothing would come. I might be able to force out one sentence, but it was so obviously forced and so obviously horrible. I couldn’t even come up with anything to blog, and I hated that. But the other day, something just clicked. I put pen to paper, and a good six pages came from me before I even knew where it was coming from. Then, another story came into my head, and I couldn’t even sleep for all of the ideas racing about in my brain.

It’s good to be back.

PS

I’ve got two new sections on my blog. If you go to the top of the page, on the right, you will see the link to a poll, and a link to my favorite quotes. It may be well worth your time!

 

The Old Man

I have this story that I stared writing a while back. I kind of like it, but I’m not sure where to go with it. I also want to point out that I have no idea who the main character is, why he has been captured, who is captor is, or his history, I only know what he is doing right now. He has left me at this place for a long time and I hope that one day, he will finish his story to me, but for now, I simply know him as “the Old Man.”

He had hardly noticed how quickly the stub of beeswax generously called a candle had burned so low, until the tiny flame ended its own life. He was startled by the sudden darkness and dropped the matted sparrow feather quill he was holding. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see a black smudge on the parchment where his quill lay. He muttered a curse under his breath as he sprinkled what little sand he had over what he had just written in order to dry it, knowing that paper was scare here, so it was going to have to stay the way it was.

Now that his light was gone and his mind was unoccupied, he realized how cold his small room had grown. He rubbed his bare ink-stained hands together, blowing a feeble breath of warm air on them. He pulled his tattered old army coat around his bony shoulders, sighing as it brought back memories of those glory days long gone.

His long gray hair lay loose around his hallow face, the leather thong he had been using to tie it back having snapped sometime in the last hour. His once sparkling blue eyes lay sunken into his skin, their happy glisten gone, and their color now as gray as his hair.

Unable to see, he felt blindly on the rotten desk searching for the second stub of candle he knew lay there somewhere. His fingers encircled around the small wax stump, its soft body molding slightly under the pressure of his hand. Before he got the chance to light it, however, a sharp beam of torch light was cast on the cold, stone walls, filling the small room with light.

The man turned to see its source, holding a hand in front of his eyes to stop the aching from the sudden brightness. The man holding the torch was young, with a tight face, not un-handsome, but certainly not striking. His red hair was long and pulled back into the fashionable queue. His eyes were a deep mahogany, almost black.

“Well, young man, to whom do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” the old writer said pleasantly with a rasping voice that sounded as though it had not been used in quite some time.

The younger man looked briefly startled at the unexpected warm welcome. He quickly regained his composure and said in a deep Irish brogue of the countryside, “Your progress?”

The old man chuckled, giving way into a coughing fit. Pulling a yellow handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to his mouth; a small spatter of blood stained it when he pulled it away from his face. He took up a clay cup from his desk and with shaky hand put it to his lips, tasting the staleness of the water. When his cough subsided, he gazed at the boy with a look that once was said to be able to pierce stone. “Perhaps if I was given a taller candle, thicker parchment, a sharper quill, and ink that had not congealed, I could finish this more quickly. Not to mention a shot of whiskey to dull the taste of this, dare I call it, water,” he said raising the cup as if to toast the young man. He was not sarcastic in his comments, more matter-of-fact.

“You have been given what is appropriate for your status.”

“I had not realized my status had sunk so low.”

The young man did not respond, but attempted to hold the stone-like stare of the once strong man. It was almost as if the older man were mocking him, despite the feel of sincerity in the air. “I’ll do what I can to find you another candle,” the younger man finally said.

The old writer did not respond to this small yet generous act, almost as if he did not realize it had happened. Instead, he took a prolonged and poignant sip of the stale water, still holding his eyes to the boy. “Do you have a name, lad?” he asked as he sat the cup down in its place on the desk.

The boy glanced nervously down the corridor, wondering to himself if he should just leave. The confidence of the old man unnerved him; he had not expected the formality of his air. “Patrick Quinn,” he said finally.

“Ah, Patrick, a good strong Irish name. How old are you, m’boy.”

“I am nineteen.”

Despite the willingness to respond, the older man could not help but notice that the boy lacked the respectful tone that he had once deserved. It angered him. “Just a boy then, you are.” His tone was bitter. “I tell you what, boy, you see what you can do about that candle, and I’ll see what I can do about this parchment.”

Patrick Quinn did not reply but turned heel and left the room. Although he did not see, the old man nodded a bow to his back, out of habit more than anything. The light from Patrick’s torch grew ever dimmer as he passed down the corridor, until at last, the old man sat again in darkness. He did not seem to notice, however, as he had not taken his eyes from the place where the younger man had been standing. Finally, after one more swig to drain the water in his red clay cup, he turned back to his parchment. He picked up his quill and lit the small beeswax stub that was still resting between the fingers of his left hand.

 

Tell Me a Story

Remember that story I’m writing?  Here’s another teaser from it.  This is a story within a story, told by one of the characters.  It is a fairy tale or a fable.  Hope you enjoy, and I promise, I’ll have the whole of it soon!

“Let me tell you a story, dear Rose.  It began a long time ago, before St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland and before man ruled over the animals.  There were two little birds, who ruled as king and queen over all of the creatures: rabbits, deer, birds, and mice.  They were loved and respected by all.  For you see, dear sister, upon their marriage, a fairy had granted them each a gift of their own choosing.  The king, a wise and generous ruler, choose the gift of storytelling.  He longed to be able to weave the most beautiful words into the grandest stories and songs, using them to teach a lesson, to protect his subjects.  The queen, a meek and kind bird, asked for the gift of magic, so that she might do good for her people, and so that they might happy.   The fairy was pleased with their wise choices, and granted them happily.

And many years they served together, the storyteller and the enchantress, until one day a great snake had entered the kingdom with the intent of spreading evil and fear.  He learned of the gifts granted to the king and queen and decided to use them for his plan. 

‘So the king tells stories?’ he hissed to a field mouse one day. 

The mouse nodded eagerly, trying to hide his fear of the big snake.  ‘The most beautiful tales you e’re did hear!’ he squeaked. 

The snake curled around the unfortunate field mouse and hissed softly in his ears. ‘He’ll tell you lies with his stories,’ the snake proclaimed, ‘making you believe whatever he says.’ 

‘Certainly not!’ the mouse exclaimed, for he was faithful to his king, ‘He is a good and kind king, loyal to his subjects.  His stories are to warn us from harm!’ 

The snake laughed so that his tongue tickled the poor mouse’s ear.  It was a horrible hissing that seemed to drain the air of its warmth. ‘Fool,’ the snake said, ‘It’s your freedom he’ll steal from you if you let him continue.’  The mouse was frightened by the snake’s words and left in a hurry to spread the news.

Next the snake came across a young doe.  He curled his body around the branch of a tree, so that he hung down from it and could stare in her face.  The doe averted her eyes from the snake, and backed slowly away.

‘What’s this I hear that your queen is a witch?’ he asked, his raspy voice hissing.

Well, the doe could not bear to hear this frightening creature speak ill of her good queen, so she spoke up with all the strength she could muster, ‘Spread no such lies!  She is no evil sorceress of the stories of old!  Our queen uses her gift to heal and protect.’

‘So now she might,’ the evil snake argued with his cunning voice, ‘But for how long?  T’will be no time at all before she uses her magic for the good of herself, to punish and destroy.’

This troubled the deer, for her own husband had once insulted the queen.  He’d been forgiven, but for how long would that last?  The doe left the snake, to warn her family of the trouble that may come. 

Feeling his mischief had been achieved, the snake left the forest, ne’re to return.  But his damage was done; unity was gone from the forest.  There was discord among the animals as to what should be done.  They decided that the snake must have been right, and the best thing to do was to kill the king and his wife.

Now at this time, the queen was nesting two little eggs about to be hatched, when word of the conflict reached the ears of the king, and he was afraid for his family. It was not long before the fairy came to them.

‘Your people are against you,’ she told the king in hushed tones, ‘You and the queen must come with me if you want to save your lives, I can keep you safe from them.’

‘We cannot come,’ the good king said, thinking of the two eggs soon to be born. 

But the fairy knew of them too.  ‘I shall protect your children,’ she told the two birds, ‘And as for the animals, I will make them dumb, so they will not be able to find you.  Each animal shall rule its own kind: rabbit ruling rabbit, deer ruling deer, mouse ruling mouse, and bird ruling bird; each his own clan.  Because you and your queen have been faithful, I will leave you your gift of song, so that all may remember your troubles and triumphs.’

‘And what of our other gifts?’ the wise queen asked, ‘Surely they should not be lost as well.’

‘I will grant them to your children,’ the fairy promised them, ‘And they shall pass them to their own children.  Fear not, sweet little birds, for you and your kind will be safe.’

The birds listened to the fairy and left with her, never to be seen again. Though often, when the morning was still or the night approaching quietly, their song could be heard, echoing through the hills.  All of the promises that the fairy made were kept and all of the animals were struck dumb, so that they could only communicate with their own kind.

And under the fairy’s protection, the little birds hatched.  Brother and sister, they born in love and looked after each other for the rest of their lives.”

 

 

 

An Aisling

(Please note I revised the poem so it is not the same as the one I originally published here)

The aisling (Irish for ‘dream’), or vision poem, is a poetic genre that developed during the late 17th and 18th centuries in Irish language poetry…In an aisling, the island of Ireland appears to the poet in a vision in the form of a woman

The inspiration of the piece I’ve written come from this tune titled “Aisling” from the Celtic group Anuna from their “Celtic Origins” album. 

The fiddle, the harp
Close my eyes
From them flow mournful sighs
Beautiful tears
Awakens me to a trance
“To Ireland!” she calls
A lady in White
A gown trimmed with Green
My own world melts, fading
“To Ireland!” she cries
An opening in the sky
A Golden ray escapes
From clouds of Gray
On Emerald soil it rests
And from the skies I see it
A tug on my hand
She pulls me onward
The lady in White
Her gown trimmed with Green
“To Ireland!” she croons
Specks of light dance
The Fairies’ lodging
Welcome no more
Gone their bright home
Lodging now in memory
“To Ireland,” she moans
My lady in White
With gown trimmed with Green
A cross in a yard
Stone, ash, and bone
A Silver tide comes down from heaven
And hides land’s treasure
Within its misty shores
Floating through its waves
I rise higher
As the weight of air
The island shrinks until
My eyes grow blind to it
Cloud dew
Like tears on my cheeks
Then the hope-lark sings
Fills me through
My spirit ascends
Climbs through my being
Asleep from my trance
Like the fiddle, the harp
And I hear her
An angel’s dreamlike whisper
“Come home, to Ireland.”

 

 

When you write, then you are free

I’m currently writing a short story set in Ireland.  It’s been in the works now for about a month and when I finish the body, I can already tell that its going to need a lot of revision.  However, I’m really happy with the opening scene.  I’m going to post part of it for y’all to read, feel free to comment.  If you like it, keep checking back, I’ll probably be posting more in intervals and the whole thing when it’s finished.  (Keep in mind that it takes place in the late 17th c) So here it is: “The Hills of Ireland”:

The sun rose lethargically over the thick, lush emerald hillside.  Its rays crept among the treetops, falling carelessly to the ground below them, unknowingly chasing away night’s shadows from its presence.  The sky faded from onyx to pewter as the sun yawned through it, as if it was hesitant to be awake. 

            Then, bursting forth as though startled, the sun jumped into full view, the pewter sky melting to a diamond periwinkle blue.  The trees welcomed its warmth, turning to face the sun with a happy greeting.  The hills themselves lazily rested below the sun, allowing the morning mist to bask over them.  They looked down onto a flat meadow expanding at their feet, its deep green blending with the green of the hills.

Birds awoke and escaped upwards, tiny specks laughing at the beauty of the new day.  Deer, still partially asleep, moved amongst the trees stealthily.  Only the faint rustling of leaves hinting that they had already come and gone.  From somewhere in the distance there was heard the annoyed bleating of a mob of sheep, upset at their celestial reminder of morning.

The light of the sun shifted with a passing cloud, and its rays fell upon the glistening auburn hair of a young woman, walking with purpose, her long curls floating behind her.  She passed in front of the threshold to the hills down through the meadow.  Those deer that were brave enough to venture that far from their safe habit hurtled from her approaching, but she did not see to notice.  Around her pale legs, her long skirts billowed as she floated past.  They, as dark green as the hills, faded into the natural color, making hard to tell where she ended and the mounts began. 

She hesitated only once, upon hearing a cock crowing from somewhere in the distance.  As its last call died, she hastened her pace.  Her eyes focused on a set, but yet unseen destination.  The flowing white blouse fluttered in a cool morning breeze, loosing a limply tied drawstring at her collar, revealing her neck.  Now exposed was a small silver locket resting against her milky white skin, engraved with the Celtic trinity and encrusted with a single emerald in its center.  She quickly drew the shirt neck together looped the drawstring, hiding the necklace once more, as she continued forwards. 

Her eyes, a blue so pale they were almost lavender, flashed at her surrounding as she finally reached her destination.  She slowed her walk to a stop, the morning dew glistening on her bare feet as they sank into the grass around her. 

She stood before an ancient and crumbling stone structure, its use long forgotten by the invasions of the Danes.  She approached a rectangular stone, as long as she was tall, that lay on its side.  She knelt beside it and lightly touched the intricately carved ruins that drenched the stone as the dew did her feet.  She picked one and began to trace its shape with her trembling fingers. 

She stopped suddenly, her finger held aloft in the air.  She could hear movement behind her in the grass, and she knew.  The footfalls stopped.  She could feel the heat of the body behind her, so close she could feel the faintest hint of breath graze the back of her neck. Her own breathing grew heavy in her chest and she found it difficult to draw air into her lungs, a labor with each breath.  She did not, however, turn to face the intruder.

“Ríoghán,” she whispered, her hand inadvertently moving to the place at her chest where the tiny locket rested beneath her blouse.