I did it.
After an extended hiatus for no good reason, I thought I’d return and dust off the cobwebs.
I churned out a couple thousand words today for NaNoWriMo, for which I assume many of us are busily clacking away.
Not quite sure what I wanted to say here… just ‘hello’, I suppose. I’m still writing, even though it may not be here.
Perhaps there will be more to come. I certainly hope so.
Anyway, how have you been?
My partner is a great supporter of my writing. At the same time, he can be a great obstacle to it.
I write most easily when I can completely escape into the words. Ideally, I wake up early (even though I’m anything but a morning person) and enjoy the solitude over a cup of coffee, perhaps using the time to catch up on my reading. Once fully awake, I write. With distractions at a minimum in the morning and my dear partner out of the house, my creative process thrives. I can make goofy faces as I go through the emotions of a character, I can mumble words to myself as I type, and I can sit and stare at a screen for hours while I puzzle out a scene before putting words to paper.
All of this becomes much more difficult in his presence.
If I put my palms against my eyes and sigh, he checks to make sure I’m okay. If he reads a particularly interesting something-er-other, he’s GOT to tell me about it. (He’s gotten better about allowing me to say “give me five minutes” while I finish a line, though.) Often, he lounges on the couch watching videos with the sound up and I have to put on headphones and music to drown it all out. It’s all incredibly sweet but, shortly put, he can be incredibly distracting!
Occasionally, I daydream of my own office – a place where I can go to write, free of distraction. However, I fear if that was ever realized I might never leave it…
I may have written about all this before. If so, I apologize for the repetition. It’s just that the past two weeks I’ve been acutely aware of this struggle because my dearest partner has been on holiday. It’s lovely to have him home, to watch him unwinding from the stress of everything. At the same time, I cannot wait for him to go back to work! Does anyone have any good tips for dealing with distractions?
In other news, tomorrow begins the challenge week in which I work on expanding my Writer’s Toolbox. I need to explore writing concepts and techniques, educate myself a bit more. With a belly full of food and a pillow calling my name, this all sounds like a great amount of work… but the back of my mind is itching with excitement! I know in the morning, I will probably overload myself with ideas to start working with. Fingers crossed!
Beyond all this, I must apologize, dear readers. I’ve clearly not kept up with my commitment to this challenge. The first thing to go out the window was catching up on your writing – which I don’t consider very fair. I’ll have to make it up to you in some way. Perhaps spend a day attempting to catch up on all my subscriptions? Reading the blogs of everyone who interacts with my work? We’ll have to see.
The last thing I’ll talk about here is the sadness I feel to know that Miyazaki is retiring. For those who don’t know, Hayao Miyazaki is a creative genius who co-founded Studio Ghibli and is responsible for such wonderful movies as My Neighbor Totoro and Spirited Away. He has a profound way of bringing the wonder of childhood to life before our very eyes. Recently, I’ve been reading the Howl’s Moving Castle series by Diana Wynne Jones – Miyazaki adapted the first book into a movie – which makes this news all the more relative for me. Both the books and the film are nothing short of wonderful. So, if you’ve not seen any of his works – I suggest you take a look into at least one. While I wish him the best, I am saddened to know that his next film will be the last and I can only hope that Studio Ghibli continues to do great things after he retires.
Until tomorrow, my friends!
Brick by brick the steps were laid, each stone baring the mark of its mason. At least a hundred different craftsmen were represented in these stones, the project was so great. And slowly but surely, the abbey was built. Little did the masons know their symbols would long survive them – still watching over the crests of the waves even centuries later.
Stairs and ramps ascend to the clouds, narrow and winding. Walls protect the walkers of those paths from falling into the sea below and allow the gulls a perch to rest upon, weary from their day of fishing. (Surprisingly, they are as quiet as the monks that reside within.) Gates are mounted into these walls – great sturdy gates of iron and wood – though there is no great army to keep out and no great threat to keep within. The devil was slain upon this rock before memories began.
Despite the grandness of the construction itself, simplicity is the motto within. Plain chairs, tables, and pews of sturdy wood are the only furnishings. A few windows hold leaded glass, to hold a little of the heat from the fires in, but most are free and open to the sea breeze.
A great balcony overlooks the expanse of the sea to the north and the fields to the west. On a clear and sunny day, it feels as though you can see an eternity. Certainly this is a view meant only for angels – one is humbled by the privilege of its witness.
Inside, the tower extends to the heavens themselves. Openings at the top allow light to filter in, creating the effect as if Saint Michael himself was looking in upon the worshipers. Again, one is humbled.
Serenity flows through every molecule of this place, which is only augmented by the reverent passing of monks on their way to worship. Here, silence is not painful nor awkward; it is natural and worshipful. It is as if words have been an unknown burden throughout one’s life, and now the burden is lifted. You are free to simply… listen.
The frothy waves whisper at the sandy shore, the breeze gently stirs leaves and whistles softly through the corridors, and songbirds sing only the most beautiful of their melodies.
Gardens are tucked away in every nook and cranny that can be found, with trees to rest beneath, soft grass to lay upon, and flowers to scent the air. Vines of ivy even climb some portions of the wall, working their own way to the clouds above, and patches of tall grass defiantly spring up perhaps where they should not. All of it is tended with care and devotion, which shows in every fiber.
At the very top, above the walls and gardens, above the trees and towers, stands Michael, glinting in the sun and triumphantly thrusting his sword above his height. It is the reminder that this is where the devil met his end, where Satan was vanquished.
This is where good triumphed over evil.
There was a time in Lotharia, you weren’t nothin’ lest ye had a sea gem. Sea gems was as blue as the sky, maybe bluer, and as beautiful as the stars. Everybody called ’em sea gems, though, on account of they shade of blue being way darker than the washed out sky above ole Lotharia. Some say a merchant from the coast is the one brought ’em here and that’s how they got the name, but people who say that’re dumber ‘n rocks ’cause everybody knows that them stones came outta the Sand Pits just south of the city. Course, some people don’t like to talk about it no more.
See, the area south o’ the city is dryer than a basilisk’s belly and just as rough. Hot as fire, too! Somehow, though, somebody figured out that buried in that dry cracked earth there was sea gems. Only problem was the conditions was so bad, ain’t nobody wanted to go mine ’em. Then somebody got the bright idea that they could make people dig ’em up. Course, Lotharia is civilized folk – nobody wanted to force that kind o’ work on nobody it ain’t fit for. So then somebody asked, ‘Well what ’bout prisoners?’
After a lot o’ talkin’, it was decided that people who had committed the worst o’ the worst kind o’ crimes would get sentenced there. The kind we should just kill off, probably, but sometimes people just don’t feel good about doin’ that sort of thing. Anyway, that was ages ago.
While all them paper pushers got the project started, some other guy went about figurin’ out the best way to get the rocks out. He ultimately figured to dig a giant pit that stepped down in levels, with tunnels branchin’ off each one. At the very bottom, they built a place for the prisoners te live – if you could call it livin’. Into the side o’ the pit, they built the ole Overseer’s house. This smart guy that figured out about the pit, he also figured out how to keep them prisoners in check. This was prolly a good idea since it was going to be the baddest of ’em all trapped in one place.
Then an Overseer was hired, the prisoners was brought in, and the people o’ Lotharia got they sea gems. Became a real hot trade item an’ the city got real fancy after that! Only problem was the people stopped carin’ ’bout the pit they came out of.
Once the minin’ op started, a big ole cloud of dust rose up in that pit. The city people didn’t care because that just meant they di’n’t have to see in and whoever was in there – well, they deserved it. But the people inside the pit? They couldn’t see out. That smart man figured out the pit must’ve also figured there’d be dust, ’cause he’d made some special lights you could see through it all.
A few years later, it was all outta sight, outta mind. People didn’t notice that the people goin’ into the pits weren’t comin’ out and I guess they didn’t think to care. Prisoners, though… they started prayin’ for death before gettin’ sentenced to the Sand Pits. Lawyers started makin’ even prettier pennies off it all, too. This put the Overseer in a bind, though, on account o’ he started runnin’ out of prisoners to run operations. But the people? They still wanted their gems. Guess the city officials turned a blind eye when the Overseer started buyin’ people off the slave caravans that started runnin’ through. Real shady business, that.
Slavery ain’t legal in Lotharia. They got a lot o’ laws there protectin’ people and makin’ sure the right thing gets done. Guess that’s why people just assumed that things was still a-okay down in the Pits. Long as they had them pretty stones, they was happy. Went on a long time, that did.
Some folk say the sea gems, they got darker on account of all the blood it took gettin’ ’em out.
Well… don’t I feel like the kid disrupting the class by showing up late. There’s no way to quietly sneak back into this and pretend as though I’ve been writing this whole time and didn’t, in fact, miss an entire week’s worth of posts. Suppose I ought to suck it up, then!
Truth is, I went on vacation with the best of intentions of writing each day. However, the adventure turned out to be more exhausting than I had ever anticipated! My partner and I alternated who felt like crud each day, and by the end we were both just ready to hibernate for the winter. It was a good time, although clearly not what we were expecting.
I feel like I ought to share with you a story from this adventure… I know! I’ll tell you about The Bees.
Now, I am fully aware that bees are tiny creatures that are probably much more afraid of the giants in their environment than the giants are of them. Also, for the most part, they only sting when provoked or threatened. They can even be quite adorable if you take the time to examine them! But even knowing all of this, they terrify me.
We’re not talking the normal, “Eek! A bee! I don’t want it to sting me!” type of fear. I’m talking irrational paranoia bordering on phobia. I’ve known people in my time who were deathly afraid of clowns, butterflies and birds. I found it odd and hilarious, but I respected their fear. When you tell someone you’re afraid of bees, people empathize. “Oh, me too!” They say. But they don’t get it.
I go fleeing in the opposite direction, if I can, whenever one comes near. My heart rate instantly increases, I sweat, and it’s a definite ‘fight or flight’ type of scenario. I have forced myself into the habit of playing the “if I don’t see it… it doesn’t exist” game. This usually fails, of course, because bees are prone to buzzing and if I hear it but can’t see it, that is all the worse. If I can’t run, I attempt hiding. Distractions sometimes help, but most of the time the buzzing just does me in.
I run. I try not to swat, but have started the “shooing” method that I’ve noticed Germans do – though it never seems to work for me. I cower. I don’t scream, but I do implode. All of my senses are consumed with the need to get away. I am almost paralyzed with this fear.
So when we were out to a lovely dinner, sitting on a terrace shrouded by a curtain of rain, with a cool breeze wafting in to take the edge off summer, I was mortified to find myself the object of affection for no less than three of these little black and yellow terrors.
They had no interest in my partner. They had no interest in the couple dining at the table against the wall. No interest in the vines or flowers around the edge of the terrace. But my left arm sure seemed particularly fascinating.
I do not wear colognes or perfumes and choose subtle, plain deodorants precisely so that I do not attract such attentions. Our food had not yet arrived, either, so I have no idea what it was that attracted them… unless they were bully bees that could sense my fear and wanted tease me.
It should also be noted that despite this deathly fear, I wish them no harm. I really do find them adorable when they’re not buzzing around me! If they simply crawled about instead of flying, I think I could tolerate them much more easily- alas, this is not the case.
My partner became worried for me when one dipped into my wine glass and almost drowned itself there. I hit my point of overload. Every time I brought the glass to my face, despite having checked it at least three times, I imagined I was going to feel a struggling little bee body against my lips that would then crawl onto my face.
Twice I left my seat to escape them and they followed me. I was near the point of hysterics when my partner was finally able to flag down a waiter to ask if we could move indoors. Of course, the wait staff did not help us to move the food that had arrived or the wine glasses. So when I picked up my bowl of soup, it almost went crashing to the ground as these three or four bees immediately came to float around me. It was as if they were taunting me!
I was just able to get the food inside, but had to send my partner back for my wine. He was patient and kind despite my apparent craziness. At least I didn’t flail about like I used to?
Once inside, I began to calm down. The wine helped. We talked about my paranoia and I took deep breaths and the wait staff began to avoid us – surely I was crazy to have been so affected by some harmless insects! But the food and wine were both superb and I was enjoying them immensely. I began to feel normal again.
As I scooped another bit of delicious soup into my spoon, I thought of how silly this all must seem. How silly to be so terrified! Honestly, what is the worst that could happen? I’ve been stung before and it’s really not that awful. What is so terrifying?
I went in for another dip of the delicious Kartoffelsuppe and that’s when I saw it. One of those little buggers had kamikaze’d into my dish and drowned itself! The sharp blackness of its stripes and wings protruding through the thick golden succulence like the hull of a ghost ship mired in a shallow sea. Dead.
How I managed to miss it before this point is beyond me. The wait staff became a bit more forgiving of my behavior now that I seemed to be eating the things, at least. It was like I was in some horror movie.
Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds gave me nightmares for years in my youth.
This was The Bees.
It’s amazing how you can be surrounded by everything and yet nothing all at once. Outside, the beauty of the stars seems to go on forever – an infinite sea decorated with pinpoints of light. The entire universe stretches beyond this ship’s hull, filled with a vast array of possibilities.
Yet space is a vacuum – there is nothing outside the walls of this ship. Any given twinkle could take an eternity to reach.
The universe is very full of life; but at the same time, very lonely.
The SS-51 is a pirate ship. While its crew does not consist of eye-patched swashbucklers, no member belongs to any given world, country, or federation. Once upon a time, they were all part of a particular organization. However, about a year ago, that organization met a brutal end. The crew of the SS-51 consists of the people who had nowhere else to turn but to one another, plus a few good souls willing to help and another few strays picked up along the way.
Hackney runs the med bay and is the one person everyone on the ship knows on a first-name basis. The moment The Academy crumbled, he and Simmons – the psych that we all love or hate – were first in line to offer their help. It’s a wonder they weren’t killed, but luck or fate – take your pick – led them to the right people and they wound up on board. Without their help, this crew wouldn’t have lasted a month.
Lu sits at the helm. She knows this ship inside and out and the gods help you if so much as put a scratch in this baby. Some say she was on the team that helped design the ship, back when it had been intended for deep space warfare; but no one knew her then. Lu was the last in her class to come up for termination. She had three days left when the Release happened. Rumor has it she’s the oldest on deck, but you would never be able to tell by looking at her.
Finally, Crow is the unofficial leader of this ragtag group. After the Release, he’s the one that spearheaded finding everyone that needed someone. There was no government that wanted to cozy up to rogue members of The Academy, and he knew that. Together, we’re the biggest – and most dangerous – bounty that’s every been. Individually, we’re hunted like animals. Crow found people to help us, he got the roster, he found Lu and the ship, and he works to bring – and keep – us together. He’ll never admit to being a leader, though.
SS-51 isn’t exactly paradise – unless, of course, your idea of paradise is a hunk of metal floating through space – but it’s home.
Simmons is mostly responsible for how it’s been divided up. She rearranges things every once in a while to force us into socialization as much as possible (she says that’s our key to ‘rehabilitation’), but some think it’s just to give herself an opportunity to study how we react to change.
What was supposed to be the ‘War Room’ is the social/recreation hall. Living quarters are assigned, currently, around occupational work stations and assignments.
(And… it’s late. I’m tired, on vacation, and a bit under the weather… but here’s a portion of a setting. I couldn’t stand the thought of missing two days of writing in a row! I’m going to be washing dishes by hand for an eternity, dear readers. It was a wise, yet masochistic, decision to designate my partner as the one to assign my punishments. I doubt I’ll have time these next few days to catch up on reading many of your writings – but I’m excited for all the content I’ll have to explore once I’m home again!)