Why Do You Write?

Why Do You Write

A clumsy, tacky question.

It’s not a question that many people ask writers but a question I imagine many writers have asked themselves at some point.

Why do you write?

Why do you write even though your work is shit?

Why do you write even though it makes you miserable?

Why do you write even though no one will see your work?

Because I have to.

It’s kind of the line that you’d expect from a Disney movie before the majestic score chimes in and kicks-off the transition for our protagonist to go against the grain and literally run somewhere to progress the plot.

However, this is the reality. So there’s just my dull face with a divine glow from my overly bright computer monitor and my ass is definitely parked firmly in my computer chair. The only majestic music playing is the whirr of my overworked computer fan in this otherwise a silent and lonely room.

But that’s the best answer I’ve accepted about why I do what I do. About why any artists do what they do.

It’s the dilemma of the creatives.

Whether their vice is writing, painting, dancing, singing, and whatever else STEM may deem as empirically worthless, we just want to keep diving into the recourse of our imagination. The very thing that seems to give the plot for ourselves in the randomness and indifference of reality and the colors we can finally choose for it.

To the point where we have to always find the reminders and the balance of the sanctity and nourishment necessary for that reality and the potential sacrilege of the rejuvenation with our delvings in creativity.

But not having it—not delving into it—is divesting our sense of being. We feel severed to something integral to the definition of ourselves when we have to disconnect from our outlets.

Damn, that sounds embarrassingly decadent.

Since Chronicles of the Otherworld: Season 1, I’ve re-written the plot charts for Black Halo spin-off and the sequel. I’ve written about four separate projects and scrapped two of them.

I’ve also lost two cars, two family members, and got a clean bill of health from the doctor only to get sick a week after.

A business was started. A business blew up.

I met a woman. The woman and I are no longer speaking.

I witnessed one of my dearest friends marry the love of his life. I thought she hated my guts. I think she likes me now.

A friend or two became doctors. I circled around where I was.

As all of this life passed by me, my mind was stuck in a constant of new projects in mind and like a thorn kept pricking at me whenever I wasn’t working on it. I was running in place with the background of life just scrolling past me like an old cartoon. The transition forward, I figured, wouldn’t really be there until I was done with my next project. Or at least I hope that’s the case.

But it doesn’t change the fact that when I look in the mirror, there are few more wrinkles. When I sort through the memories stored of the last two years, the gap between the person I was and am is obvious. And where others were and at seemed astronomical.

This is not unique. So many other creatives have expressed the same thing in one way or another.

How many of us at this point are still creating because we think this would be the one? The one that’ll justify our choices for us? The one that’ll make our careers? The one that’ll finally satiate our endless pit?

Not many I imagine.

But how many of us are still creating simply because we just want to bring it to life. Into this reality. Make it part of the list of things that happened.

Do something that was totally of our own.

 

The whole endeavor makes me think of being in a relationship.

 

It’s great.

And also fucking sucks.

But also breathlessly remarkable and seductive.

Makes you palpably helpless at times.

Like seeing the sunset for the first time on the beach of an island. You stand in awe at this thing that you know in time will be gone. It’s gradually disappearing over the horizon right before your eyes.

Then it turns dark, cold, rats are running around, and you realize you’re all alone as if the sun was never there.

But the sun rises again and you deal with the abandonment, embracement, and being in awe again when it sets.

One day, maybe, even after the sunset you won’t worry about the sun rising again. It’ll always rise. And it’ll always fall. But that’s okay. Because it’ll rise again.

 


P. S. …Unless you die in your sleep at night and never see it rise again.

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Preview: Chronicles of the Otherworld

Hello Everyone!

Here’s an early preview of my upcoming new project: Otherworld Chronicles: Season 1. A dark fantasy novelette that’ll be made available via Amazon Kindle.

Details regarding this project will be the subject of my next blog post!


Episode 0

ANTON’S SHORT STORY

 

It’s not the calm before the storm but the silence after that gets you.

Facing the aftermath of the carnage, the destruction, and the judgment.

Don’t be fooled by all the wood and stone that make up the mansion. All still in its place. Undamaged and clean. Nor by the oil lanterns still bright, burning, and hot. The walls tell that real tale. Painted with blood and guts.

Anton thinks he can outrun it.

Outsmart it.

Get off the destined path he set upon since who knows when. He doesn’t even know.

He tries to calm himself, but without the screams of his friends, he can finally hear his own heartbeat.

Take a peek, Anton.

Not much else you can do.

Weapons without their masters scattered across the hall.

All of them dead by the same cause.

Blunt trauma to their heads. Crushed like summer melons.

The butchered brains and pools of blood, too hard to tell whose body produced what.

His signature.

The man in the black armor. His face hidden behind the helm with a plume formed by long crimson lights that gently danced behind him like whips. Affectionately named, “Redtails.”

Anton snaps back behind his wall, wishing desperately he had learned a spell or two.

I don’t deserve this. Anton tells himself. Fuck this.

We rarely get what we deserve. But there’s comfort in the idea that what happens to us has nothing to do with what we deserve.

Because by that same rule, Anton might even survive.

From his pocket, Anton pulls out the magic from his own world. A pocket revolver. He doesn’t remember what the brand is or even what caliber it uses. It wasn’t his. He had snatched it from his brother’s drawer before he came back to this world.

He swings around with the gunpowder courage and aims the weapon at the approaching storm.

Redtails doesn’t stop.

“Fuck you,” Anton screams at him. “FUCK YOU!”

A silent soldier on a march. That was his answer to Anton.

Make them count. He says without words.

 

 

 

Bang.


 

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.


 

 

Anton stops for a moment and lets the smoke clear.

 

 

 

Redtails is closer.

 

 

 

Bang.


 

 

Only a little further than an arm’s length away now.


 

 

Bang.

 

 

 

The black knight allows the lips of Anton’s gun to kiss his helm.

 

 

 

Click.

 

 

The knight gently taps his dark, steel club on Anton’s forehead once…

“Look.” Anton takes off his glove and shows the back of his left hand. There was the red, almond shaped insignia that seemed as if it was tattooed onto his flesh.

…twice.

“I’m from our world,” Anton says. “You’re one of us, right? You have to be one of us. Come on, man.”

It wasn’t Anton’s fault that he didn’t know this was another one of Redtails’ signatures. There wasn’t anyone alive who knew about it. A gentle ritual he performed every once in a blue moon when the circumstances were just right. He had to be in the mood for it.

This is the silence after the storm.

Redtails swings his club.

A clang.

Sounds almost like a home run. As if Barry Bonds himself was on the plate.

It’s in tune with the crack of the shattering skull.

Then an almost immediate follow-up performance of the loud splatter on the wall.

Almost a cartoonish noise.

Anton’s body drops.

No more Anton.

No more questions of whether or not he deserves it.

Just silence.

Silence without judgment or concern.


 

ARAMIRU OUT!

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