A Quick Redirection

I’m moving my blog over to something a little more direct. You can find it here:

http://www.kaemccrae.wordpress.com

Thank you!

The Long Hot Summer

This summer has been an incredible experience.

Long, it certainly was – bitterly long. I’ve been pulling my hair out for weeks now, waiting for it to be over, waiting to get out of this place, and waiting to feel productive again. Because when I’m here, it’s like everything stops – everything’s dead.

I don’t have any intention of coming back here. That much is definite. But I’m really starting to appreciate the growth that I’ve allowed myself in the last four months. I’ve made some personal discoveries over things that I’ve struggled with for years, and those discoveries are going to make progressing into the next phase of my life a whole lot easier. I gave myself some time to lay back, breathe, and grow a bit. I worked, and I waited, and I let time pass. I’ve never really done that before.

I’ve lost a few people these past couple months, but it was in a natural way. I’m not sad about it. I’m not sad about leaving home, either, like I was last year – all I feel is excitement. Nervous energy, and a drive to do things right this year. I always have goals for the new school year, but this year I think they’re attainable. For the first time in my life I have access to the BIG PICTURE. And it’s thrilling.

Understanding is thrilling.

I haven’t been doing much writing lately. But that’s alright, too. I’d lost a lot of inspiration; now I’m starting to get it back. It’s just another one of those things that I’m excited for.

I’m smiling a lot more these days, and it’s wonderful.

So here’s to the future, and here’s to the present that takes us there.

This is the end of my unofficial hiatus, in one way or another.

The Anonymous Aspect

I have completed the impossible.

I am a recognizable customer at my favourite Starbucks – officially. In a city with a population in the millions, my barista was able to not only place me, but comment that “I wasn’t wearing my hat today”.

And I didn’t think I wore it that often.

Obviously, the ‘one cup of coffee a week’ rule was thrown out the window a while ago. This was brought into play when I realized how much I enjoy sitting down in the shop – the one connected to the bookstore – with a cup of coffee and writing. There’s just something about being surrounded by words and novels that helps the creative juices start flowing.

Something that I need – I’ve gotta pump out two second chapters and finish a first chapter tonight in order to meet any semblance of a deadline for my fictionpress stories. But I’m excited. This is the first time that I’ve had so much inspiration to not only create a setting and characters, but also a story. And with my chapter a week plan, these stories will hopefully be complete by the end of the year.

And that will be something worth feeling proud about.

In other news, I attended alice in wonderland today. I didn’t have extremely high expectations (as I find that movies with this much hype generally fall flat), but I did intend to enjoy myself. What I didn’t foretell was leaving the theatre feeling incomplete about the storyline. The scenes by themselves were fantastic – visually, the movie was stunning, costumes and settings alike. But there was just something missing.

It reminded me of the essay I spent all night working on Thursday night – the thought was there, the intention, the feeling. The writer knew what they were trying to achieve, they just couldn’t figure out the right way to do it. But in all honesty, I thought that Tim Burton would be able to provide more completion.

The film felt like it was a movie using Alice in Wonderland as an excuse to tell another story. It was too much of an ‘epic’ (a very formulaic epic) to be Alice in Wonderland – the very attraction to Alice is the amount of detail and unexpected happenstance invested in whimsical wonderland. There was very little of that charm, that nonsense, in this movie. Too many plot devices were used that had no value either to the plot or to the emotional feel of the story. They were just devices, creating a plot. The plot and the characters were two separate entities, working beside one another, but not together. Altogether, it didn’t work. Individual scenes were fine. The actors were fine. The setting was fine. But the movie was a letdown.

Oh well. I’m not sure it was worth the fifteen dollars to see it in theatres, but it wasn’t a complete waste.

I give it a 70%. I’ve seen worse, I’ve seen better.

For now, I’ll just enjoy my coffee and get back to writing.

(The guy who recognized me ended his shift – I feel comfortably anonymous again in my bad habits.)

The New World

I’ve never been much of an online chapters writer, preferring to keep my writing between myself and my friends. But as of late I’ve decided that it’s time to come out of my shell and maybe get a bit of response outside of those writers with I’ve connected with on community sites. As such, voila, the creation of my first Fictionpress account.

I will be posting a newly written romance story – part satire, part drama – alongside what chapters I wrote of Dragon Air during Nanowrimo. Dragon Air is undergoing a severe unpheaval, and almost none, if any, of the scenes that are posted there will be kept in the next draft. But still, I figured I might as well put it out there. : ) Though beware – the writing is stressed and the pacing is ridiculous. I’ll try and fill in the holes that I missed.

London Fog, however, I’m excited for. I’ll be writing a new chapter for it every week, just as I’ll be posting a chapter for Dragon Air every week.

Here is a link to my account, and I hope you enjoy the stories. : )

Rosaline Dukes; The Beauty and the Beast

I was having a lot of fun spending some time fleshing out this character for a period urban fantasy story (entitled Cynosure). Long story short, it takes place in the gilded era in NYC and involves a secret society of young adults who are descended from genuine magical entities. The members of this society have the ability to visit an in-between world that is half reality, half magic (as earth is slowly losing the ability to support magic), and the original magical spirits attempt to lure these people of ‘Old Blood’ back to the magical world (as, once these people turn twenty-five, they revert to fully human and the magic is lost forever).

But this part of the story has little to do with that. This is more about my character’s relationship with her lover, Maxwell Harbrough – a character written by a friend of mine. Here we go! (Again, first draft! My apologies for typos/awkward phrases.)

Lightly, ever so lightly, the door slipped shut behind her.

My, how far she had fallen – the great Rosaline Dukes, crown jewel of any worthwhile social event, was resorting to sneaking through the back entrance of the Harbrough family manor. It was with a most desperate secrecy that she slipped through the doorway, quietness in her every step. Rosa was never sure as to what Max expected of her, what she was implicated in doing now that he had involved her in what was – at least she hoped – his last secret.

But she would do it. Though it disgusted her to a small degree, there was no doubt to the fact. No matter what it was that he wanted her to do, so long as it did not fully compromise her own interests, Rosaline knew that she would happily conform to whatever ideals Maxwell carried of her. Had she not spent five months boiling beneath the surface of social anxiety, both reveling in and despising their relationship? Had she not silently accepted every moment of obvious yet unchangeable (though never quite outright) deceptions on his part? And had she not, under almost every circumstance, put her inhibitions and desperate worries aside to placate Maxwell’s sensitive tempers?

Nothing. As time passed, Rosaline found herself growing to feel that there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Maxwell Harbrough. She was an addict; his person, the intensity of his gaze on her, the feel of his skin in the depths of the night. The time that she spent in his company was a more forceful enchantment than even the strongest shot of liqueur, an intoxication to level with the sweet spring breezes of Vale. Stopping was not an option. There was no part of Rosa left that would let go of him without a fight – so instead, she suffered under what punishments were involved in having him. Delighted in them. Every pinch, every discomfort. Ms. Dukes did not care for conflict, yet Rosaline, it seemed, had developed the palate of a masochist.

So she bore her bruises – of any sort – proudly and with pleasure. They were marks from him, proof that he was there, that they were there; she would gladly trade mental tearing and bodily tenderness in exchange for the reassurance of them. And the silent throb of those inconveniences was nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison to the pain and searing ache of being separated from him. Independence had been lost, her sense of personal liberty happily compromised for the need of him.

But it had to be understood. Rosaline did not need his conversation, nor his physical appearance. She did not require his liltingly morbid sense of humor or his delicately skilled hands. There was nothing about him physically or mentally that she craved; those traits were amiable additions, and while she appreciated them so fully as she could, they were not what drove her to such maniacal attachment. No. It was that strange, alluring sense of him – the possessiveness, or the desire of her. The feeling she carried when she was with him; that she was important, individual, beautiful, fantastic. That was the addiction. That was why she loved him.

Though she did love him for many other reasons besides.

While insecurity may always hold slight prevalence over her heart while they were separated, there was nothing quite like the freedom of being with him. She could be anyone she wanted to be; he knew all her faces and, she was sure, loved them individually, even those she was not so sure she loved herself. There was that of her young self which was still left in her, a sweet girl with a lightness in demeanor – the girl whom she imitated in day to day life occasionally still shone through with Max. There was her heinous, cold, rash self, who had condemned Charles and, since then, others more privately. Moments fell when she couldn’t help but feel that Max adored that self the most. There was the passionate girl, who delighted in their ravaging evenings; the cruel, venomous girl who mocked her peers; the bored, egotistical princess; and, of course, the woman who loved him.

Secretly, the last one was her favorite.

That woman who she became, the adoring, caring masterpiece of femininity. She was magnificent. Strong, elegant, and tender; yet still so much a viper to not be crossed. The person she wanted to be, she found in her relation to Maxwell. The wife, the mother- they were waiting to be found, born. This was the final piece, her final condemnation into loving him. Max held not only the them at his mercy, but the future her – and the prospect of that future breaking was enough to terrify her into silence and appeasal at any moment.

And we’ll end that there!

The Book Trailer

A long while back, I caught a glimpse of my friend June‘s book trailer – taking clips from movies already created in order to tell the story of her own. I was fascinated, but gave up on doing it for myself – a fantasy novel, after all, has such a significant amount of made up races and locations that generalizing it with precreated images seemed impossible. I also couldn’t bare to try and cast my characters realistically.

However, this weekend for some reason I was drawn to trying it out. I spent a good six hours on it, and all I can say is that I wish that I’d had enough spare time for this to not have eaten up so much homework time. But, regardless, I’m fairly happy with the result, and it’s significantly more inspiring to have at least an imitation of your story visible to many eyes.

Here is where it’s posted, and for some reason the quality has declined, so I would make sure to watch it in the small viewer.

Cheerio.

Ego Boost

A friend sent me this today while I was burrowing through a couple of scenes. I suggest that you go to the blog posts entitled ‘Face Lift – Guess the Plot’. They’re truly terrible query letters that will make just about everyone feel better about themselves, haha. Edited by ‘Evil Editor’, the writer in charge of the blog.

Just take a click, and I’m sure you’ll be entertained.

The Sorcerer’s Martyr

I’m in the midst of writing historical backstories for my novel, and I thought I would post a bit of the one I just wrote up. All I ask is that you keep in mind that I wrote it at one in the morning and that it’s a first draft. : ) The piece is set during the initialization of the sorcerial exemption and the Humanist era, and is based on a child sorcerer in the anti-magic state of Rizt (the largest state within the desert areas of my world, which would eventually become the power that the other desert-states would unify under). The child Morien eventually becomes a Martyr that sparks outrage (and the eventual result of a magical priesthood that takes over the monarchy) amongst repressed magical identities throughout the world after he’s sentenced to death for wizardry. Here we are!

The gold of sunlight was echoed brilliantly in the glinting sands before him, and Morien smiled. A small thing, a happy thing. Those moments before the Dorma were always his favorites. Final bursts of sunlight were the strongest, streaking shadows long against the endless plains of the Ezdin valley, and writing impressions of his every movement to the land itself. Such mimicry seemed magisterial, and under the guise of a personal tradition that individual magnificence appeased him to no end.

Small, thin fingers rose inches above the ground, and the sand below them shivered. A pool formed, a simple, circular indentation, before a long pole rose itself to meet his outstretched index finger. And with a sudden movement, a swift rising of his hand, the pole exploded, sending grains of sand in every direction around him. A glittering rain of false treasure.

Morien laughed, delighted, and clasped his hands together. The last lights of the sun faded as it extinguished within itself, the flames rolling to the center as his sun shower fell to the ground. He clambered to his feet, wary of punishment for having wandered at darkness, and began the trek back to home. Back to the village.

But before he left his secret behind, he cast one last glance towards the spot where, moments before, he had held such power. The smile returned to his lips and his heart filled with pride. fLaellia had chosen him. Him! Just the son of a nobleman’s servant, and subject to such immeasurable abilities!

“Goodbye,” he whispered, and the fingers that had brought the fLae to life pressed to his lips. With a twirling motion before him, Morien bowed, honouring the Gods who had bestowed upon him such power. “Agh maddenshal, Daea mahjas.”

The prayer was outlawed in Rizt, ancient and outdated in the newly risen time of the Humanists. But the childish heart of an eleven-year-old-boy yearned to appease those powers greater than himself, and with such proof how could he possibly doubt the immortal fLaellian powers as the adults did? They existed quite concretely, so far as Morien was concerned, and there would, he believed, come a day when his father – and his father’s liege, for that matter – would be exposed to the truth of that existence.

But for now, he would simply return to the village. Return to his home and his mother, and help to coo his younger sister to sleep. His father would slump to bed, his mother would cook the following morning’s meal. Things would return to how they always were, no hints of supernatural ability within their quiet, repeated conventions.

Calloused silver-tinted feet sunk hurriedly into the sands, and Morien followed that familiar path back home.

Plain Days

I’ve started having myself necessarily create what I like to call, ‘plain days’. Meaning not that I do nothing – that would be a useless day – but that I wear little makeup, simple clothing, and spend my day reading and studying without (or with as few as possible) distractions. I’ve started to become thrilled by the ancient greek world and those which surround it, and as a result my reading list (alongside my intended celtic mythology explorations) seems to have made like rabbits and multiplied. While I look forward to the challenge of reading fifty plus books (alongside my school reading, of course) this year, somehow I’m not exactly sure how I’ll accomplish it.

A delicious challenge.

I’m currently spending my plain day finishing off an introductory piece, ‘Antiquity’ by Norman F. Cantor – then I plan on to finish blazing through Atonement, which I’ll post a review for hopefully by the end of next week. In an hour I get to go to my Linguistics class (my least favourite time of week – skipped the lecture in favour of this book, haha) to go over my midterm…here’s hoping that I got a 75 minimum so I can raise my average in that class.

Then I will return home, do my Irish homework (finally – I’ve been a complete procrastinator, outlining histories for my novel rather than keeping up with my ‘real life’ responsibilities), and proceed to spend the evening having a reading party with my suitemate. : )

Hopefully I’ll finish the evening off with a short story – a part of a writing exercise that I’m playing with in the company of a friend – which will also be posted in days to come.

So while this post is a plain post to go with my plain day, I hope that said story, and the aforementioned review will make up for it in time to come.

Until then.

The Barrier

I feel so lost these days.

Well. In a way. My life in general has been taking a turn for the better – I’ve rewritten my resume and a list of jobs to apply for this summer, I got through midterm season hopefully with all marks 3.0+, and I’m cementing some new friendships here in the big city. I’ve found a love for learning that I’ve always known that I had, and I’m enjoying it thoroughly – I’ve decided to start reading as much history as possible, starting with ancient greece and working my way up and through.

But something is missing. I haven’t been writing much these days. I used to write constantly, effortlessly – mind you, my ninth grade self didn’t exactly have a quality sort of penmanship. But creation was simple then! Concept after concept, character after character – all I wanted to do was write down my thoughts, create them in a substitute reality of realization. And I’m starting to worry that I can’t do that anymore.

Finding the heart to start things in the past few weeks has been hard. My novel has been demoted from 25 000 words to planning stages again, because as I grow into this world, I realize how much work that world needs – and because I’m focusing on my academics, my creative writing has suffered. There’s so much that I feel like I need to know before I can write it successfully. Weather patterns, political systems, variations of history, geography, science, magic, and fantasy research itself – I could have a whole lifetime of research ahead of me!

Tolkien linguistically created an elven language, incomplete but functional. Speakable. It makes me start to feel as though maybe my linguistics class isn’t so horrible, after all – while it may be scientific in the learning process, language is the basis for the arts that I love. And don’t get me wrong – I have nothing against science. I’m fascinated by it. I just don’t learn it as well as I do conceptual, humanity subjects – I don’t feel like I have room to breathe.

I am in love with the Lord of the Rings. Mind you, and don’t hate me, but I haven’t read the books yet – tried once in eighth grade and failed miserably. They’re on the list for my summer reading. But the movies are beautiful, and the storyline is captivating. And just the mere fullness of the world is enchanting! To be able to live so fully in another reality as to create it as a whole is an impressive venture indeed.

And I’ve been feeling as though I’m incapable of it.

I feel like I can start things, but from there I don’t know what to do. I’ve never written anything more complete than an extremely short story, and those were written ages ago. I can do my research, and ask myself questions, and formulate details, but will I ever feel like I’ve done enough? The characters will never breathe, but will they be so thorough that their voices will ring clearly? I want to get better. I need to get better. And that perfectionism is driving me to a dementing halt.

Oh well. I will grow, as will it. And the pieces will fall however they are meant to.

Perhaps I’ll wake up tomorrow with another perspective – those make for the best days.