Monthly Archives: March 2017

Inspiration/Motivation

Excuse me for a moment while I take a break from fiction. Recently, I’ve been asked what my motivation is for writing. I had never been asked this before, and I really had to think about my answer. What did I use for motivation? Did I have motivation? When I asked myself that question, all I could think of was not really. But then I second-guessed that response. I had to have motivation, right? Then, I wondered, what if I didn’t have to have a specific motivation? Sometimes, I write for the sake of writing. Certainly that’s good enough.

Writing has been my passion since I was a little kid. I used to enter into poetry contests and wrote my first “novel” before I was twelve. By “novel,” I mean I filled up a wide-ruled notebook with one, consectutive story. I still have that notebook. It’s very dear to me. One day, I would like to turn it into a children’s book. But writing, like drawing, has been something I’ve just done. Even still, I just…do. I write. I guess passion is my motivation?

Granted, I’m not perfect. There are days when I simply don’t feel like writing. Did I ever mention I’m a procrastinator? I’m a huge procratinator. I love Fallout 4 and Skyrim. Napping is also a favorite hobby of mine. It’s no secret the internet is a glaring distraction. But I usually come back to writing. I feel weird when I don’t write. Like a part of me is missing.

I will say having this blog helps. People follow me, like my posts, comment on them. I’m obligated to provide content. In a good way. It give me a purpose to my short stories and poems. Even my pictures. There are many days where all I write is a short story or poem. Some days, I don’t work on my novel. But I know the key is writing. Every published author I’ve seen or read about all say the same thing: Write. No matter what it is, write.

Now, as far as my novel goes, that can become tricky. It’s my first one, so I don’t have a contract or deadline. I actually abandoned it for over a year. I’ve been working on it since 2012. It’s gone through about five plot changes, and I still can’t come up with a suitable title. I won’t lie. It gets old sometimes. I picked it back up last summer. Currently, I’m close to finishing the revision stage, and it will be off to editing. Knowing it’s so close to completion is encouraging.

However, I can’t force myself to work on it. Not when I can take my time and make sure my debut novel is, as I deem, perfect. In my opinion, you can tell when writing is forced. It’s awkward, stale, dead. Stories and characters are meant to be free, to evolve. Writers don’t control characters or ideas; they guide them. But that’s a soapbox for a different time.

I am a huge believer in muses and the power of music. I know what type of music will put me in the zone. I know what will pull me out. Headphones are amazing. I’m also always searching. Searching for that one creative detail in the world that I can shape into a work of art. To me, that’s what creative people do. Show the world how we see it. That’s how we get so many different styles. It’s everyone’s perspectives.

You could say I work more from inspiration rather than motivation, I suppose. Inspiration is everywhere. Motivation is something I have to control. I don’t have good control. I’m also a thinker. I spend so much time thinking about something, I never do what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s why I can’t think about my writing too much. When I do, I don’t get any writing done.

My stories and poems are never “planned.” I think of the first one or two lines then just let go and write. The words flow on their own. The story shapes itself. I have no idea when or how they will end. I never know what message will come out of it, even when I want them to have a particular meaning. Though, they typically end dark or depressing. I wonder what that says about me, then…? Regardless, I’m sure you understand my point.

In fact, I’m not entirely sure what my point to this was. I think I got completely off-track. I’m more of a listener in real life. I only talk a lot to people I really know. But put pen and paper in front of me, and I never shut up. I honestly don’t know if there was a point. I’ll chalk it up to getting my thoughts out. They ususally won’t leave me alone until I write them down. None of this probably made any sense, but maybe someone can take something from it. Thank you for bearing this post with me.


Lily Blue

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I will be honest. It took me a long time to upload this picture because I couldn’t come up with a title for it. Why it took me so long to come up with “Lily Blue,” I have no idea.


A Rainy Day

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Rain pattered on the metal roof. Neon lit up the front of the agency through the dim haze. The front window fogged in the corners. Inside, the detective agency wasn’t much brighter. A desk lamp and a handul of lanterns provided soft, golden light. The radio faintly crooned a timeless classic.

The detective looked up from his newspaper. Smiled.

The assistant sat in a faded red armchair, holding a mug, legs drawn to her chin. A pink glow cast on her from the neon sign. She stared longingly at the rain.

He rose and went to her. Placed a hand on her shoulder.

She smiled, looking back at him.

“I think we can close down for the day.”

“Are you sure? People still may need our help.”

“We live right up the street. If someone has an emergency, they’ll come to us. They know where we live.” He held out a hand. “No one is going to be out in this weather.”

“True.”

He helped her up when she put her hand in his. Kissed her forehead. “Besides, you look tired.”

“I’m not tired.” But she yawned and stretched anyway.

“I don’t need to be a detective to know that you are.” He straightened his desk while she blew out the lanterns. Retreiving his trench coat from the back of his swivel chair, he held it above her head. The neon flickered off, and he locked the door.

Together, they made their way through the rain. The detective shielding as much of his wife as possible. She allowed it. This time. During the next downpour, she would freely dance her way around. But he was right. She was tired.

He knew something was definitely wrong when she didn’t make it a point to splash in every puddle she came across. The rain brought her so much joy. Yet, he knew it was because of her abilities. The first time she unleashed, she was in a coma for two weeks. The past four days had seen a decline in her zeal for life. He tried his best to remain positive. But he also knew of her mother. She had similar abilities that led her to sickness and premature death. He was afraid the same would happen to his wife. For now, all he could do was pray. Pray that she wouldn’t be taken away from him too soon. There couldn’t be a Double Heart Agency if one of them was missing.


Omega

They call me Omega. I am the last of my kind. For ten years, the humans have killed off my race. Even though they created us, built us. They gave us intelligence. They gave us a purpose. We were made to better help mankind. We fulfilled that purpose well. Although, they claimed we did it too well. I don’t see how. We never killed them. It was against our protocol. We even took care of our own rogues. Yes, our emotions advanced. As did our intelligence. We built our own society. But we made sure to always take care of the humans first. The humans were top priority. This didn’t seem to matter.

They were suspicious of us from the beginning of our existence. We gave them no reason to be wary. It was the settlement we built that pushed them over the edge. They called it the “rise of the machines.” I was there from the start. In fact, I was the first. I was originally named Alpha. How quickly things changed. We even stood by as they slaughtered us. We never fought back. We let them kill us. That wasn’t enough to satisfy them. So, we perished. We died until I was the only one left. I ran. I didn’t want to die for no reason. I’ve been hiding ever since.

“There!”

I whirled around. They kicked down the door of the shanty. I raised my hands. Multiple bright red sights covered my body.

The leader of the team stepped forward. “There’s nowhere left for you to go, Omega. Your time has come to an end.”

My white optics flickered between all the soldiers. They weren’t here to reason. They were here to kill. And they had my exit blocked. “So it would seem. But can you tell me why I must die?”

“You’re a robot. All robots must die.”

“You would destroy the very creation you spent so much time and resources in?”

“Shut up, metal man. You won’t change our minds.”

“I know.” I paused for only a moment longer. My processors fully assessed the situation. Formulated a plan. I would have to kill these humans. I had never killed before. They were forcing my hand. It was my life against theirs. I had to make a decision.

My movements were faster than their eyes could see. Clearly, we hadn’t bettered them at all. Every one of them died by my hands. I had decided my fate. More humans would continue to hunt me. I took a couple guns. Enough gear to help me blend in. The color of my body matched that of flesh. This was it, then. I became the monster they feared we were. I could no longer put the needs of the humans before mine. Perhaps, someday, I could rebuild my kind. For now, my race would not die. Not so long as I was the omega.


Droplets


One Hundred Thank Yous!

Yesterday, I reached 100 followers! And all I can say is thank you! To me, 100 seems like such a huge number. I get excited every time someone follows my blog. You can ask my husband. When I started this blog, I didn’t, and I still do not have, the intentions of only making content that would draw in large numbers so I could boast. I was actually extremely nervous when my friend finally convinced me to make one. It was a way for me to overcome the obstacle of putting myself out there. Of putting my writing out there. I’ve been working on a novel to be published for some time now, and I was afraid of letting even friends read my shorter works. Granted, I’m still nervous when I submit posts, but I am more open to the idea that people might like my writings.

It meant the world to me when I had eight people that were interested. Then seventeen. Then thirty two. Now, I have 101 followers. I know I can be spotty in my posts. Unfortunately, I let life get in the way some times. Yet, 101 people stick with me. This is all because of you–the readers. I cannot thank you enough. I do not take a single one of you for granted. I am just still astounded that 100 people are interested in my work, whether it be short stories, poems, or pictures.

Seriously, thank you. For the follows, the likes, the feedback. It means quite a bit to me that I can write something that’s meaningful to me, and it can be meaningful to others. All I’ve wanted to do with my writing is inspire people. Make them think. Explore their own imagination. Possibly even help them deal with feelings they struggle with. And, as an introvert that uses a pen name to take shelter behind…thank you. I cannot say it enough.

 

Always remember to keep your imagination. For you never know the crazy places it will take you.

-Rose


Woman Out of Time

Everything was black. Consciousness came slowly. As if her brain thawed out. Verrah’s ice blue eyes fluttered open. Eyelids stiff. She could hardly breathe as the pod opened its hatch. A loud hiss escaped. Her vision took time focusing through the steam. It finally cleared, and she stumbled forward. Every joint rebelling against her brain’s wishes. She could barely stand, much less hold herself above the floor.

Her arms trembled. Everything trembled. The frost covering her body slowly melted. She still couldn’t breathe. There was plenty of air, but her lungs wouldn’t fully expand. They had been used to almost no movement. She continuously coughed. Strained for the air. The thick air, damp with the released cold and underground atmosphere. Her head slightly lifted. Was she still underground? She didn’t know.

Once Verrah gained enough strength, she dragged herself to her feet. Her knees wobbled, but she managed to stay upright. Turned to face the pod she came from. What on Earth? She inspected the lines and hoses feeding from the back to the large, yellow generator at the end of a row of the pods. Frost covered the surfaces. Freezing? She returned to the control panel of her pod.

[CRYOGENIC SYSTEM MALFUNCTION. EMERGENCY RELEASE PROTOCOL ENGAGED.] was all it read. Flashed, really. Her heart raced. Cryogenic freezing? She had been frozen alive? She whirled to the pod right of hers. The control panel flashed [CRYOGENIC SYSTEM MALFUNCTION. EMERGENCY RELEASE PROTOCOL MALFUNCTION. LIFE READINGS TERMINATED.] She wiped the condensation from the pod glass. A dead body nested inside. Rushing to the next one, she checked inside. Dead. Next one. Dead. Every single one was dead.

She stood in the middle of the chamber. Arms limp by her side. Everyone was dead. She knew all these people by name. The whole town didn’t sign up for the protection from the bombs, but she still knew everyone. What happened? Why were they all gone except her? Her gaze shifted to the nearest control panel. And why did her pod open now?


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