Smithy - Chap. 2

    Tristan could hear something. His name? No, it had to be the sound of his heart. His heart was so loud! He was dying. He had to be dying, if he wasn’t dead already. The world was already black, it was only a matter of time til the beating stopped and then…

    “TRISTAN!”

    His eyes snapped open with a start to see Hagon kneeling over him. The sight of his mentor reassured him, but his breathing was coming in rapid gasps. Surely his heart would give out any moment. It was only a matter of time.

    “Easy, boy. Easy.” Hagon said, cupping his hand under the back of Tristan’s head. “Breathe slower.”

    The world around him was spinning, blackness playing on the edges of his vision.

    “I…I…I ca-ca-ca-…”

    “Yes, you can, boy. Close your eyes and hold your breath. You know that’s helped before.”

    “N-n-n-“

    Hagon’s hand came across his face with enough force that Tristan was shocked he didn’t black out again. He felt his chest tighten threateningly and a shock jolted through his body, but nothing came of it.

    “Don’t tell me ‘no’. Now hold your breath, boy. Then breathe deep!”

    Tristan felt his chest convulsing and his breathing becoming even more erratic as he thought about holding his breath. He was probably speeding up his own demise. What if he didn’t take another breath? What if he killed himself trying to…

    Another slap, this time even harder.

    Tristan almost sobbed as he sucked on the air. His hands and feet were tingling as if a thousand needles were playing across his skin. They were cold and clammy, soaked with sweat. Mustering all his might, he drew in a breath and held it.

    “Good. Long as you can and then slow back out.” Hagon said, his voice softening.

    Tristan coughed and sputtered after a second, choking on the very air his body screamed for. But he did it again, this time with a bit more control. A little slower. A little deeper. Hagon said nothing more as he watched.

    Each breath was better. The deep breaths made his head spin even worse, but they made the tingling in his hands stop and his heart too began to slow in his chest. Minutes dropped away as Tristan tried his best just to focus on controlling his breathing.

    After a long while, the feeling of dread started to fade.

    “You alright?” Hagon asked finally, staring down at him with concern in his eyes.

    “I-I…Yea…” Tristan said with a weak nod, his mind still focused on trying to control his breath.

    “That’s the third one this week.” Hagon said matter of factly. “They’re getting worse.”

    Tristan nodded again but said nothing.

    For the last few months, Tristan had been struck by ‘attacks’ as they called them. Without real warning, he would be gripped by unprovoked terror. They struck hard and fast and were absolutely debilitating, leaving Tristan gasping for air and feeling like his heart was going to explode. Some were longer than others, but they always passed leaving him feeling exhausted but no real worse for wear.

    The first time it had happened, Hagon had thought that his apprentice was dying. Now, he more readily recognized what was happening even when Tristan couldn’t. Often, it was Hagon who helped to bring Tristan’s mind back from the brink of fear and madness.

    Like many times before, Hagon pulled him up out of the mud that was forming beneath his sweat soaked body.

    “We need to do something about this, boy. We’ve already tried the village doctor. You need to travel to Whitecrest. They’ve got specialists. Magisters.”

    Tristan couldn’t bring himself to look at Hagon but nodded in agreement. They’d had the conversation more times than he could count since he had gone to the village doctor three months ago. The doctor could find no reason for the attacks, implying perhaps that Tristan had been cursed or angered some magical being since he showed no sign of severe injury or disease. The response had rightfully angered them both, but Tristan had never had the will to keep searching for an answer.

    “I know.” Tristan said weakly, his voice shaking and quiet.

    Hagon stared at him for a long time. It only made Tristan feel more weak and small in comparison to his mentor’s hard gaze and imposing figure in the darkness.

    “Tomorrow. For now, bed.”

    Tristan didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength. Instead, he trudged his way inside with Hagon in tow to make sure he didn’t collapse again. Once he was safely to the little room he called his own, Tristan fell to his bed and closed his eyes. He was still focusing on controlling his breathing when he passed into an uneasy and restless sleep.

 ---

Click here to Read the Next Chapter
Go back to the Previous Chapter
Haven't Read Smithy before? Let's Start at the Beginning

Your own Worst Enemy - 07.04.16

Hello Lovelies.

Today I wanted to talk about one of the major blocks you will run into when it comes to writing. Many people out there like to write about a number of different factors. Some popular ones include: how you must ALWAYS write to avoid writer's block, write what you know, how you must write for yourself like no one is looking, etc. However, today I'd like to talk about some problems with these foundations. Additionally, I'd like to address accepting what AND how you want to write as well as simply letting yourself do so.

To explain, one of the things that I often see is encouragement to young writers to constantly write. Write like you're going to die tomorrow. Never let the words stop pouring from the tap! If you make sure to write a thousand words a day, you'll be a published author by next week! But where is the reality in that? Inspiration and motivation aren't an ever flowing stream and, much like water from a well, will simply run dry. That's not to say that a well stays empty forever, but having the understanding enough to LOOK into the well first to see if there's water sounds like a pretty good start.

So, first and foremost, if you're sitting at home stressing about writing your next thousand words, I have a recommendation. Don't. Take a moment. Take a breath. Get a coffee. Go for a walk. Talk to friends. The wellspring of writing is fed by the waters of life and experience and if you simply whittle away in front of a keyboard aching to be a writer than it's unlikely you will get anywhere if you have nothing to draw upon. No water equals no well. No motivation or experience equals weak, if any, writing. Let yourself live. Let yourself breathe.

That brings nicely into another core rule: "write what you know". Now, some people understand this and some people don't, but the idea behind "writing what you know" refers to the idea of drawing upon your own experiences, as mentioned above. Some people take this very literally, thinking that in order to be able to write about a racecar driver, they must race themselves to "get into the character's head". Other people understand this to be a much more metaphysical concept. "I have felt heartbreak and therefore will share a story about having one's heart broken," this writer might say to a friend. But hereso again, we must examine the wellspring of experience.

Maybe your own life was pretty easy? A mom, a dad, a dog and a car. A good job later in life and a significant other that treated you well. Happy friends and happy life. Nothing noteworthy whatsoever. What do you draw upon? At the end of the day, writing what you know is a recommendation based on the idea that experience and tragedy breeds the ability to tell a good tale. And they aren't wrong. Those with experience have EXPERIENCE that others don't.

BUT, what this concept ignores is the power of imagination. It ignores that most writers are what they are because they are so very thirsty, not just to share their experiences but to experience more. They want to see and do and know things that they've never done. To use the well analogy again: trying to limit yourself solely to your own experience is like having a well full of water and only allowing yourself one glass of that water. It may be sweet and tasty, but it's limited. Let yourself dream. Let yourself imagine. Explore worlds and realms and feelings you never thought possible. If you don't like the taste of the water, dump it out and try a fresh glass.

The last bit is probably the most subjective. "Write like no one is watching." This idea comes from the fact that many people feel judged when they write. They often believe that their work has little to no merit and sharing it will result in mockery of the work they've done. They worry that people will discount their tiring hours of labor and everything they hope to achieve. Therefore, many writers feel very nervous about sharing or the idea that their work will be shared. This is well and good, but discounts one major problem: some writers are simply motivated by the opportunity to share.

Ironically, this one really rings home for me. Anytime I've been encouraged to "just write" I generally ignore the recommendation simply because it won't have an audience. Authors like myself are fueled by the commentary. By the criticisms and praise. By the good and the bad. This is one of the truest examples of "no one size fits all". Some authors do well never sharing their works. Others will be unable to get off the ground because they need the motivation and the criticism and the compliments to validate what they are doing. So, if you find yourself writing at home and questioning "Why am I doing this?" that very well may be your answer. You might need to switch it up so you can make SURE you have an audience versus the other way around.

Last, but not least, this brings us to the point that isn't spoken about so often: accepting what and how you write. Every author is different. Everyone has different needs and wants, motivations and experience, goals and end games. For some, they are satisfied by scribbling away in a basement with a journal. For others, their ego-maniacs with blogs telling others what to do. But for many, it's somewhere in between, and trying to force yourself into any one role based on any one expectation can easily be one of the most damning things you do to yourself. For many of us, the very act of writing is a learned process that we use for our own gains to share our experiences. We take what was given to us and make it our own while simultaneously making it like those writers and books we look up to. We ache to make a place in the world through the unique alteration of 26 letters that every other writer has used.

But, many of us limit ourselves based on the ideas of what should or shouldn't be written. Perhaps you are a science fiction enthusiast with an ache to write some romance? Do you go for it or simply wait because you're busy and it's not your normal genre. Perhaps, as noted earlier, you are motivated by being able to write for others, but something occurs to you that you aren't able to share. Do you write or let the feeling pass? Maybe you're just a giant, dirty pervert who likes penning down your most horrible fantasies yet you never, ever want to share it. Do you keep those thoughts in your head or put them down to enjoy later?

It doesn't matter what YOUR answer is, so long as there is an answer. One huge writing block that often doesn't get addressed is simply the fact of accepting the feelings you get and writing what and how you want. Don't be forced to follow a code and don't ignore your desires because they are outside of the norm. Some of your greatest ideas can come simply by playing with something you don't often touch. Maybe you want to create something completely different and just haven't had the heart to admit it yet.

Writing is expression. Whether that's an expression of yourself or an expression for others to see, denying any given facet of it will limit you the same as removing one's arm. You may be able to function without it, you may not, but you will not function the same as if you had both arms.

With that said, go out that and do what you want. There are rules to live by, but writing isn't one of them. Use them as a guide. Use them to help. But never use them to limit your own love and creativity. Let them drive you forward, never backwards. While you might trip or stumble, you will never fall.

Smithy - Chap 1

 

http://anglofilmia.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/Picture-98.png

    Clang!

    Clang!

    Clang!

    Tristan’s hammer came down on the hot metal with a flash of sparks. Each hit gave it a bit more shape, a bit more life. With each strike, it started to resemble the sword he had imagined versus the chunk of near-molten metal he had drawn from the mold.

    Clang!

    Clang!

    Less sparks. Less give. The metal was cooling too fast. He needed to finish before it got any worse. He’d already reheated and refolded the metal so many times. If he didn’t work it just right...

    Kt-cl-Bang!

    No sparks. Just metal on metal. The hammer ricocheted off the cooling steel. With a sigh, he tossed the unfinished sword into the barrel of water next to him and left it there. He couldn’t work on the damned thing anymore tonight.

    The shop around him was empty. It was well past midnight and everyone in town had probably retired hours earlier. Even old Hagon, who always found some reason to stick around when Tristan was working, had finally gone to bed after hours of waiting. Tristan himself should have given up long before, but he just couldn’t let himself go. Not until the blade was just right.

    But it wasn’t right.

    He had been toiling away for hours. Heating and reheating, hammering away and grinding away bits here and there. It just wasn’t right.

    Why couldn’t he get it right?

    Tristan gripped his hammer tighter. He desperately just wanted to throw it. Somewhere. Anywhere! He wanted to scream and break things. To just throw up his arms and curse the gods that invented the very concept of blacksmithing and whatever piece of shit lord that requested the damndable piece of metal that was giving him so much trouble.

    But he didn’t.

    He wouldn’t let himself.

    It wasn’t his shop to throw things. Not his tool to break.

    He set down the hammer and stepped outside. The air was cool and brisk. It felt good. He was soaked in sweat and his shirt was dripping wet and covered in grease and metal shavings. It clung to him in the chill night.

    “Boy…” said a familiar, gravelly voice from the darkness of the house nearby.

    “Hagon. I thought you were asleep.”

    Hagon didn’t bother to respond. He stepped from the shadows of the house and into the weak light streaming from the open door of the shop. The mountain of a man was covered in scars and burns that were hard to make out in the dim light, but his shock of short white hair stood out like a beacon. His one good eye glowered at Tristan in the darkness.

    “Why are you still working, boy?”

    Tristan turned back to look at the open door to the shop. Why was he still awake? Why was he so focused on finishing that damned sword?

    He felt like his mind was racing yet little of it was a coherent thought. It was all just noise. A loudness in his mind that wouldn’t ebb. That made no sense and only worsened as he focused on it. His hands were trembling and his palms felt cold and clammy, like they’d been dipped in ice water.

    “I can’t get it right, Hagon.” He said, his voice cracking.

    Hagon stared at him quietly. Waiting. He was always waiting for something more.

    Tristan felt the anger and frustration boiling up inside him. Felt fresh sweat accumulating on his brow. He felt his heart start to hammer like he was running. Running for his life. Why was it pounding so hard? Pins and needles began to run down his fingertips and up his legs.

    “Every time I try, I mess it up.” Tristan said weakly, his eyes locked on the shop. “I keep messing it up.” He didn’t dare to look at Hagon. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!

    “Why?”

    Tristan felt like a hand was tightening around his throat. Like the weight of the question and his own incompetence were strangling him. He could feel his heart beating even harder and he found himself struggling to breathe through the pounding.

    “I DON’T KNOW!” Tristan snapped, trying to catch his breath.

    All at once, he felt as if his heart was trying to rip itself from his chest. He was gasping for air and he felt like the world was spinning around him. Tristan closed his eyes. It was all he could do to keep the world upright.

    All the while, Hagon watched him quietly.

    Finally, without saying a word, Hagon stepped into the workshop. He doused the flames and extinguished the candles. A few moments later, he stepped back out and pulled the doors shut, locking them as he did.

    “Enough.” He said gruffly. “Off to bed with you.”

    The words made no sense. Tristan found himself just staring at Hagon. Could he not see what was happening to him? Did he not care? Help me! He screamed inside. Make it stop! Why won’t you make it stop?! I’M DYING OLD MAN!

    Despite all this, no words came out.

    “Boy?” he asked, with just the slightest hint of concern.

    All at once, the world went black and Tristan felt his knees begin to buckle under him. The last thing he heard sounded like Hagon screaming his name.

---

Click here to Read the Next Chapter

The Smithy - 06.03.16

    With a heavy sigh, Hagon wiped the sweat from his brow. He set down his smithy's hammer and leaned back against the hard stone wall behind him.
    "I've been thinking about what you said the other day. You're wrong." Hagon said bluntly.
    Tristan was taken aback. It was so rare that Hagon ever spoke that he was surprised to even hear the man's voice. On top of that, he could not think of a single time that the smithy had ever voiced outright disagreement on anything short of a mistake in his metal working.
    "How do you figure?" Tristan asked after a moment of stunned silence.
    "You spoke of how a man cannot change. That from the moment they are born, they are born to do a single thing. To perform a single purpose or sets of purposes throughout their life." Hagon closed his eyes as he spoke. "You're wrong."
    It was only then, looking at the smithy, that Tristan suddenly realized just how old the man looked. Covered in sweat, dirt, and metal grime, Hagon was a wall of meat and hard muscle from his years in the forge. But, in this instant, Tristan could see the many decades of wear and tear plainly upon his mentor's face.
    "No man, or woman for that matter, is born to die in some damned cave because some fucking priest wrote it down a thousand years ago." He continued.
    Tristan set down his own hammer, his gaze fixated on Hagon.
    "I have to g-"
    "Boy." Hagon said with a familiar sternness. Tristan shut up.
    "You might choose to go. You might choose to throw your life away in the dark and the damp. But do it because you choose to, because that's where life has brought you, not because someone told you that you're supposed to."
    The smithy's gaze fell to the mass of molten metal before him.
    "You know what I've found out about life, boy? About humanity?"
    Tristan didn't answer.
    "Humans are much like this metal here. At birth, they are molten. It doesn't matter what type of metal they are made from or what they will become because they burn with passion. As time rolls on though, they start to cool. They start to take shape. Everything around them acts as a hammer or a mold, forming them into what they will become. You start to realize that perhaps one is made from iron or another is gold. You recognize that one might be a sword while another is a hammer. But as they age, they take shape. They became who they are meant to be."
    "But as time goes on, that metal begins to cool. The strikes that once shaped them now begin to warp them unless they can rekindle that fire. Some are lucky. Some have another who comes along who relights that fire inside them. Makes them hot. Makes them soft again. Allows them to be shaped into something better...or worse."
    Tristan swallowed hard, his thoughts drifting to Elowyn.
    "But just as before, most will begin to cool again. Life continues to try to shape them, but they've become hard and cold now. They aren't willing to bend or change.Their fire has gone out. Each hammerfall weakens that which was once strong. Blades are blunted. Hilts are broken. Steel is cracked and bent. As you get older, unless you have something to keep you warm at night, life will freeze your insides and destroy you one hit at a time until you're nothing but a shattered pile of what you once were."
    For a moment, they both sat in silence, watching the molten melt in front of Hagon slowly cool. One moment turned into two. Than two to three. Finally, the reddish tinge of the molten melt had begun to turn leaden gray before Hagon spoke again.
    "Remember, boy: you are what life has made ya. If that means you need to go down into that cave, so be it. But don't let someone use you as a spear if life has mean you into something else."
    "And what would that be?" Tristan asked quietly.
    "I don't know, boy. I'm just a tired, old hammer." Hagon said as he went to reheat the cooling metal before him.