Yes, well the words “Epic Failure” are ringing in my head, bouncing back and forth across the void between my ears.  This relates to why I have posted so infrequently and why the excellent writing projects that I’ve begun and even committed to have gone begging.

Now calling them excellent may be a bit of a hopeful valuation, but if you are reading this perhaps you feel as I do.  I’ve got to say that I love my world of Tir na Nua, I want to paint my world of Tir na Nua, I want to share my world of Tir na Nua. 

So I feel like a complete idiot for being seduced by Writing dot Com.  I’ve so little time to write, so reviewing and doing contests is clearly not what I aught to do, it disipates me.  Beyond even the tasks of writing is the research that leads to what I want to write.  Instead I’ve spent time trying to gather information to write stories that I don’t actually care about.

I have a lot of illusions (had planned to say I don’t have any illusions but I realize that I am probably rife with them) but a claim to writing excellence is not currently one of them.  I know I need to work on my craft, my story-telling skill, my clarity. 

That is part of what I wanted to do at Writing dot Com.  I think my instincts, my realization of need, was correct.  At times I really suck as a writer.   Unfortunately, sometimes I don’t even realize when I’m sucking and when I might be tickling something that is of actual value.  Sometimes I discover how truly vomitous my writing can be while re-reading something that I thought was pretty good.

It is all part of what this blog is supposed to be, my process, my development, my journey.  Have I drifted into the vomitous?  I think perhaps I have.  But I need to get back to what I want to do with the little time I have to do it.  That includes writing on the projects I’ve begun.  I do think that I should re-work some of what I wrote that stinks.

So this is my confession.  I’m an idiot.  I hope to be more focused.  I’ve known I needed that for a month and yet failed to effect the proper changes.  Maybe now I can.  I’ve just finished George R. R. Martin’s latest and though it only left me wanting more it did help me realize that I really want to write on my projects.  The world of Tir na Nua should not wait.

I’ve been struggling.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it can tend to move me toward the philosophical.  I’ve been struggling to find the time to write and the limited time I have garnered has been unproductive.  Perhaps it is time for me to think about why I write.  Contemplating that may spur me to greater, more consistent, and perhaps goal achieveing efforts.

To the philosophizing: Stories can be lies.  I don’t want to be that sort of story-teller.  A story may contain a lesson.  It would be nice if I had wisdom to impart.  Stories can entertain, they can motivate, they can inspire.  Stories are simple enough that they can be truer, or at very least, clearer than regular life. 

Almost anything is clearer than regular life.  Indeed clarity is, for me, a rare thing.  It is valued in diamonds and minds and for good reason, clarity is precious.  I certainly think I could do with more clarity in my writing. 

I begin this project, this writing, in hopes of speaking truth, Lord give me truth.  I wish to impart more than entertain, but a good tale can draw an enthusiastic audience, God give me listening ears.  I would hear your voice and spread it to those who need it as I do, Lord breath on me breath of life.

I have been encouraged to focus on this writing and not be distracted.  I always hear echoes and I wonder who is speaking behind the speaker behind the next.  I should not be distracted.

Give glory to God.  May I not be distracted from what is my clear duty. 

God make clear to me what will give you glory.

At least that’s how I feel at the moment.  Life is complex and simple.  There is not enough of it, and more to do than time allows.  I’m failing to use it as well as I might.  That’s why I like fiction, it is clear, fantasy is clean, stories can be an escape or salvation.

Escape or salvation.  I imagine those are two among the many things stories can be.

LSO

Hunter heard the old skald telling his stories to the children of the tec.  He had noticed that the man liked to test out new material on the young, sharpening it with a few trial tellings to those young ears before he presented it to the tec at large.

Hunter had decided that this was a wise practice and something good he would carry away from an otherwise frosty relationship with Barnen.  Hunter was happy about being back in the warmth of Winter-hold.  He’d gone a bit mad alone in the wild.  Things were good, for the most part, Hunter had one enemy however, and that was Barnen the Skald.

The old man was focused on his audience and didn’t notice Hunter, “OH, the man was fae, no doubt of that, and most likely mad, but he could sing like a bird, play harp even better, and I can confirm what you’ve heard, he talked to the elves.  The children’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“How did yo meet him?” a bold little boy in front asked.

“Oh that?” Why I was telling the Rig a tale in the great hall, it was the black of night and the wind was howling.  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! there was a fierce pounding on the door.

“More and more interesting,” thought Hunter, “he’s turning the children against me having failed with the adults.  Hunter Wilde slipped back into shadow.

Barnen was warming to his tale.  Each time he said boom the children jumped, “Boom, Boom, Boom went the door like a war drum, Old Lars fell off his chair getting to it before it got knocked in.  Lars throws open the portal, Who knocks at portal of Murchadh, says he? The door swings wide and there stands a man, it seemed, twice the size of Bran the champion and white as snow!”

“Hunter Wilde ain’t even as big as Bran” said the boldest child.

“You’re right there, not half as big, but that snow giant in the doorway stepped once, and again, and fell flat on his face! By that time, Lars was back with the axe he’d forgot in his hurry to open the door. But by then there was nothing but a big pile of snow on floor so Lars shrugs and shuts the door.”

There was a buzz among the children, Barnen drew there attention back with a flourish. “It was warm in the Tec, a fire roaring to keep out the chill, so it wasn’t long until the snow melted away and there on the floor. . .”

“Hunter Wilde?” the children chorused.

“Who knew?  There was just a heap of rags.  It was strange, a rag bag walking about, but strange things do happen.  So a couple of slaves were going to pick through it when one thinks he sees a wee animal amongst the sodden rags.  He reaches in and pulls on a tail, but instead of a fox, out comes Hunter Wilde!”

“Was that his beard?” the children laughed.

“No no,” said Barnen, “Hunter Wilde is most likely part elf himself and he can’t grow a proper beard at all, that’s why he wears a fox tail for a moustache.”

“And why he talks to elves?” a big eyed little girl asked.

“Oh no, that’s not why.  Hunter is a strange one sure enough, but he serves a purpose.  He’s too small for a warrior, he’s not so very smart either, but one thing he does do is he takes bad girls and boys with him and he gives them to the elves to teach them manners.  So you better get off to bed or you’ll be liven in the trees and eating flowers and moss.”

“Come on Barnen, tell us more. . .”

Hunter stepped out of the shadows behind the Skald letting his last two footfalls thump hard on the floor, “Who’s hungry for flowers and moss!” he shouted.  The children shrieked and ran for their beds.”

Barnen, the old skald laughed, glancing back at Hunter he said, ”I never liked you Hunter Wilde, I’m glad you’re going, but I expect we’ll be old friends when you’re gone.”