I did it. Somehow I did it. I logged into my laptop, pulled up Microsoft Word and let my fingers bleed onto the keyboard. When I began writing, I had a story in mind but after the first sentence, the nature of that story changed. I think that’s the reality of writing a book. With each sentence comes new possibilities. The writing process is therefore indistinguishable from the moving stairs in Hogwarts because new paths are constantly being made and destroyed. How thrilling… right?
Yes and no. Yes in that your story comes to life and is given the ability to rewrite itself in ways that you never imagined. No in that it sometimes feels like you don’t have control, which is a very strange feeling considering you are the one writing the story. Continue Reading
I want to know. In fact, I need to know. How does one dedicate their entirety to writing a book? How do they sit their for hours and hours, consumed by the words that bleed from their pens? How do they sacrifice a significant period of time for a story that may not be good enough? These are the questions that have kept me from sleep. I just don’t understand. How do people do it?
I know that I am a writer. It is one of the very few things that I am sure of. I pick up a pen or rest my fingers against keyboard, and the pain within me finds refuge. It still very much exists but I begin to understand its existence and that is enough to keep me writing forever. Continue Reading
There are many spells that bow before me but none that can rid my heart of this wound. Duny was a peculiar child. He came to me at a time that I felt nothing and brought to me the capacity to feel everything. He was not like his mother and if I ever did believe in miracles, that was the reason why. That woman was a despicable product of humanity and her death was well deserved. Nevertheless, I should have realised that apples don’t fall far from the tree. I gave to Duny the language of magic and he left me without a goodbye. I should have known better though… Men have nothing to give, only women to take.
There was a time where my hands did good. I blessed the crops, cured illness, brought the sun and smiled. That time has passed though. I am now a withered woman that sits in my cave, stirs my cauldron and becomes the witch the villagers see me to be. The life I have led has made me resilient but I now know that resilience only exists because my heart is cold. The villagers throw things at me and I feel nothing. Yesterday a piece of timber came at my head and I turned to it, eyes wide open, and welcomed the hate. I am content with being seen as nothing because to myself, I am nothing. Continue Reading
It wasn’t unusual to wake up to nothing. You could look out the window and see only yourself. North Carolina was known for her fog and every now and then, she made it known. She pulled the clouds from the sky and made them her carpet. Young Findlay liked to play on that carpet. He was a foolish boy as many young ones are. A brunette mane fell upon his head and each curl danced its own dance. As he sat upon a rusting slide, he did not notice the other children but they noticed him. They always noticed him. The sun soon climbed upon its pedestal and Findlay descended from his. He then trailed, posture without fault, to the manor at which he lived. Continue Reading