The Sweetest Thing – Part 1

Stephanie Meyers wrote a book.

That’s right.  A person with no experience or knowledge of the process behind writing made a book which became insanely successful.  

Now.  Twilight is….. bad.  Really, really, really bad.  It reads like very amateur fan-fiction, and distinctly not in the Mercedes Lackey vein of such fan fiction writing.

If I were an outside observer, and had no understanding of the appropriate timeline for each series, I would legitimately have a problem telling if Twilight was bad Fifty Shades of Grey fanfic, or if the reverse were true.  

Despite that, however.  Despite all the hate and vitriol slathered over her works like so much hatebutter, she did them.  And they became popular. 

Not just popular, they became famous.  She went from slightly raunchy daydream about sparkly vampires to incredibly wealthy and famous novelist.  That’s long odds, but it. is. possible.

I have slightly different aspirations.  I want to become popular, but I also want to produce literary works which aren’t hot garbage.  It’s a fine distinction, and sometimes people definitely are willing to take the literary hit for the popular gains.

I don’t want to, though.  I don’t want to let myself enter a space where I churn out some pop-culture mishmash that has zero literary structure or merit.  It’s why I am learning not only good writing habits, but forcing myself to learn how to write even as I teach myself the act of consistently writing.

There is an enormous difference between making a fantasy into a full-length novel, and crafting a literary work which will stand the scrutiny of time.  I’d like to become the latter.  I cannot stand here and ever claim that my works will be deep, provocative mirrors on the human condition, but it is possible to create entertaining work which still carries deeper meaning.  I don’t think it’s too hard of a goal to strive for.  And I’m willing to put in the work to make it happen.  

Honestly, the desire and willingness to substitute effort for talent may be more important than having talent in the first place.

Now then, as is tradition in these pages, I am going to resurrect / rewrite / reassemble an older idea which has lain fallow long enough.  It’s part of why I write here every day, and it’s part of why I force myself to write so much.  When you start a project, you’re sculpting a block of clay.  What lies beneath the surface is as much shaped by the imagination as it is by the block.  Sometimes, when we continue digging, we find that the shape of things beneath the surface is far different than when we had first obtained the block.  Writing is like that.  With time, maturity in writing, and simply changes in mindset, a block which did not have anything further to offer becomes a rich field ready to be sown.  

A good writer makes sure they have a lot of blocks to choose from.

Without further self-congratulations…

Sargent McDowell was on duty roster for 1st Mage Battalion today.  Sargent McDowell had a nasty habit of making us stand at attention for no other reason than to prove to us that he could.  So stood we did, or as close to standing as most of us could go before we got our morning rations.  My hands quivered and my arms swung back and forth of their own volition.  Agnes beside me stared vacantly, drool running down her mouth as her fingers gesticulated randomly.  Katherine to my other side sat hunkered on her haunches, arms wrapped around her legs as she rocked back and forth, mouthing nonsense.  Up and down the rows, our stories were played out in varying degrees as the endless seconds dragged on.  McDowell smiled, a cruel and knowing smile as he walked up and down the ranks.  

He didn’t try to discipline our atrocious form and complete disregard for military attention.  He was crafty as well as cruel.  He knew we were valuable, and if he damaged any one of us before we could withstand the hunger no longer, his superiors would have him swinging from the gates before the end of the day.  That didn’t mean he couldn’t find completely passive ways to torment us.  I stood, teeth chattering in the warm summer day, trying my best to focus on anything to keep my mind off the teeth gnawing at my soul, pushing me to use my abilities.  Demanding that I touch the power which was both birthright and bane.  I mumbled as my mouth fidgeted, words from several languages I had never studied coming out in a jumble of nonsense.  It was always like that when I woke up, damn McDowell!  I just wanted to relax into the soothing waters from which flows all life, commanding the power which was my due.  Existence without it was torture.  Colors were muted and dull compared to their real splendor.  Even the most delicious meals were ash in my mouth without the luster granted by the very fabric of the universe coursing through my veins.

I began to itch, and I sobbed with terror as my trembling left hand calmed and began snaking its treacherous way towards my upper right arm.  It had healed, barely, from the last time this had happened.  The scars hadn’t, and I’d spent almost a week in the infirmary strapped to a bed and given the barest amount of power to allow me to keep the hunger at bay.  I thought I was going to die during that time.  My sanity came and went as I moaned and thrashed.  Yet the doctors and shamans watching over me had done little, save give my body the nutrients it required, and my soul the slimmest margin of power it would accept and remain whole.

A slim, honey-colored hand shot out from beside me, grabbing my wrist with a strength that could’ve turned bone to powder.  Agnes had lost her vacant expression, and instead a look of pity and camaraderie rode her cheekbones.  My body fought, but I wasn’t a kinesiopath like her.  My hand fought of course, but the fight weakened, slackened, and the itch and fight went out of me at the same time.  I sagged into her grip, resting my whole body on the arm securing my hand fast.  It didn’t even dip as I put my weight on it.  Another hand, warm and strong, soothed down my hair as I sobbed.  McDowell frowned, but did nothing.  Agnes could smash his body to pulp, and she would spend barely a week in discipline for it.  Despite his power over us, it was still only as strong as our conditions allowed it to be.  Our addictions allowed it to be.  Agnes was awake right now, and the cunning of all things which slink in shadows stayed McDowell’s vicious nature. 

Justin