You sit there for hours and...type?

This was a question put to me not long ago. I smiled, gave a little nod, and responded, "Oh yes."

I'm sure my interrogator had no clue what she was really asking. What was behind that simple reply. Who can really know the depth of that question. It's more than just laying the fingers to the keypad. It's more than compiling a massive word count. It is more than a steady plotline and unpredictable characters.

It is the hours, the agonies, the moments of hair wrenching and feeling like you want to hurl the computer across the room. It is the soul, the passion, the unloosing of emotion and heart. That is what it is all about. Letting go.

Anyone can write a good story.

Only those whose very souls are bound to what they write can create a masterpiece that will change the world.


This week, Write On Edge did a prompt for music. I have 350 words to share inspired by a specific song.

This week, I have been listening to a huge variety of songs: soundtracks, classical, pop, Christian contemporary...

But I can say without a doubt there is one song that has influenced a huge section of my book, The Last Scribe.

The words to this song, specifically the first verse, seem to echo Breem's thoughts entirely.

The setting:

The Woodland of Eradrea, home of the unknown TerRors

Bitter darkness

 

 

 

 

Word count: 194
Ó Pure Grace

 

I stay awake late into the night, watching the fire burn into nothing but embers. Kiar’s even breathing is enviable, but I can’t sleep. I keep thinking of Mikailah, curled up next to her far away fire, and the king, Mytharel, a lost boy somewhere out in the world, and of the journey I have to make to get back home.

And just what is home? I ask myself. What calls me back out of this wilderness?

There is nothing.

The thought is discomforting and I turn on my side, face away from the red and orange coals, and look out into the silvery night. Huge trees stand as silent sentinels through the inky blackness, guarding some ancient mystery that will never be solved. Their branches stand still, leaves rustling with the slight wind. The three moons make their upward trek across the sky, searching for the sun, a little desperate, very blue and sad. Stars shine around them, illuminating the violet night sky with their tiny pinpoints of light. How many nights have I slept beneath this same night sky and yet tonight it looks different. It looks wild, and hopeless, and broken.