Fail Me

It’s interesting writing a book and suddenly deciding that you want to include a character with an accent- and then trying to write their words with that accent. For example in chapter 3 (yes, my dear audience, I am up to chapter 3!) I have written in a young British male. He uses such words as “innerested” and “attenshun”. What's even more interesting is how this book seems to be taking ME on a journey, rather than the other way around. What I mean to say is, I used to look down at writers who wrote blindly and let the ending just "happen". They didn't plan, they didn't organise, they didn't brainstorm everything beforehand... they just started writing. A brilliant example of this is the writers of Lost (the TV show). They keep adding sub-plots in, not knowing how they are going to pull it all together in the end- well, until this series (or so they tell us). Anyway, now I can properly appreciate these writers. I'm experiencing similar things. The story almost has a mind of its own, and even though I have it all planned out (ending and all), it's the little bits in between that are surprising me. The characters are acting differently to how I had imagined they would! I learnt at Uni the other day that this is actually a good thing. They are being unpredictable. It is a sign of good writing. Props to me :)

Evelyn is currently in a state of not knowing what she wants to be. Does she want to be noticed? Does she want to be nonexistent? The confusion is preventing her from excelling. This piece of prose I wrote is quite similar to the emotions that Evelyn is going through (minus the "God component").

Fail Me

Running doesn’t work anymore.

Who am I kidding? It never did.

Human instincts fail me again.

I feel

Helpless.

Hopeless.

Unwanted.

Rejected.

When will I be good enough?

Or is that the point?

Only to one will I ever be.

People will always disappoint you,

But my God, no,

He is steadfast and unfailing.

He will never let me down-

The only one I can trust,

The only one I can count on.

I keep my eyes on watch,

Looking out for Him

As I hide in the cracks in the wall

But I am not invisible- or am I?

I try, but instincts fail me again.

It's About Time I Was Honest With You

I like describing things. Not verbally, but writing them down. And I love putting something I see in my mind onto paper for others to then imagine. Today I spent an entire paragraph just describing what one of the characters in Seasons was wearing. She was a rather oddball kind of character- a lot of fun to "dress"... I'm talking missmatched clothing, chunky gold jewellery, and a chiffon "tail". I rather enjoyed putting her together!

I've decided, that in order for this book to oneday be completed, that I need to commit to writing at least three A4 pages every week. There are approximately 44 weeks left in this year. That means that if I stick to my commitment, there are 132 more pages to write. That's 132 more pages of goodness, if you ask me! :)

Anyway, I wish to point out something about my shorter peices now. I've been very picky when it has come to sharing what I write. So many of my peices are very vulnerable and illuminate some of the darker times of my life. However, in being so raw and honest, they are some of the most poetic that I have written. So today is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between this blog and my "past" so to speak. I want to share this side of myself with you- all in the name of good literature!

But you will notice that these peices reek of self-disgust and loathing. I would like to point out that it is merely an attempt to guide my way through my innermost thoughts and desires, unraveling them in wonder at how someone could think such dark thoughts. In the moment of writing, I allow my thoughts to come tumbling onto the page, I've no idea how they end up sounding so poetic, as I'm just being brutally honest with myself... afterall, I am my own worst critic. So, do not be alarmed that I am mentally unstable, or stuck in a whirlwind of self-pity, or stepping down the ladder into depression. I can safely vouch for my own sanity :) but I just wanted to allude to the facts of how and why my short peices of writing came into being.

Now that I think about it, I've been reading some of St. Augustine's "Confessions" recently and have noticed this self-disgust in his own writings. Perhaps I'm just being human. Anyway, a brilliant example of this is a peice I wrote in February last year:

The noise is fogging my thoughts.

Words escape me-

All I can do is stare.

Autopilot.

Mental riot.

My brain wrecks havoc.

This war I cannot bare.

Time passes and yet nothing changes-

The thoughts,

The feelings,

The pain.

It lingers, hiding amongst the cloud.

I'm nothing more than a fence sitter.

I don't even know how to surrender.

Where is the exit?

Where is the off switch?

How do I escape this hell that is mine?

Seasons of life

As you continue to read my musings, a certain theme will begin to emerge... a pattern. Nature. It is the Lord's creations that stimulate me the most. I experience great love from Him through the beauty of this world. The contrast between a grey sky and green treetops, a dazzling sunset, a field of grain blowing in the breeze, the stars twinkling brightly from above, a flower in full bloom... These things warm the cockles of my heart and make me feel so alive. What I love most about nature is how it is ruled by the seasons- and it is this that you will find in my writings. The difference a leaf looks, acts, feels, in spring, compared to that of autumn.. or the non-existence of them in winter... such a wonder. I love it! It's no wonder my book will be titled "A Season For Everything." Out lives are ruled by similar seasons. Cold and dark like the winter, or bright and joyful like summer- it is constantly changing.

As I continued to write Seasons last week, the story deepening, the "plot" thickening... it took upon a summertime full of thunderstorms and heaviness that only comes from humidity, matching that of the "heavy" heart of the main character, Evelyn. The story starts out in a rather depressing state, but unfortunately this is necessary. I'm looking forward to getting onto the more "beautiful" parts of the book. However, that is still some way away, because what follows summer? Autumn. And what follows autumn? Winter. And it will not be until the springtime that beauty will truly arise (in the story at least)... however I cannot deny that even in the midst of a dark and cold winter, beauty is in abundance!

So, I share with you now this very thing- beauty in the midst of darkness- a dark season of my own life, last autumn. It's a little bit of a prayer. Enjoy!

May

The first leaf of autumn has fallen

And I find myself thinking of You.

I try to picture Your face

But the cold morning mist covers my vision.

I know You are there.

Sometimes.

Always.

Everywhere.

Except all I can see is black nothingness.

It consumes me,

Envelopes me,

Takes me.

Where are You, my Love, when I most need You?

They tell me that You are always with me.

But I find myself doubting.

Why do I forget You are there?

Give me the gift of faith, O Lord.

So that I might forever believe

That Your love is greater than any other.

That the leaves were made for me.