Let's Talk Writing: Issue 12

Let's Talk Writing: Issue 12

Let's Talk Writing is my news article featuring five different writers that I've discovered here on deviantArt. It will be published every Friday. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to note me. I will take them into consideration. Now, Let's Talk Writing!

Writer #1: SolarumNyx

chromaWe were merely children when the stars came.
They rained down from the sky in a burst of light, like shards of glass pouring down from the heavens. Supernovas blooming in the night sky, petals raining down onto the barren earth - angels, falling with their wings sheathed, glowing, as they glided down. We watched, starstruck, as the glow overtook us - we were mesmerized. We waited with bated breath as the meteors landed, the celestial light subsiding as dark forms started to pick themselves up from the dust.
They moved towards us with an otherworldly grace, their steps leaving no marks on the earth as they descended upon us. Frozen to our spots as they approached, our bodies simply unresponsive in their wake. We were paralyzed. They stretched out their wings, embracing us in a softness unimaginable - a polymerization of silky feathers made of pure light, like a soft touch of a rose petal - and suddenly, our eyes were opened. The world was the same, yet so new, as it was washed with a gl from the heartbefore i begin
i solemnly swear
everything i write here
will be from my heart.
my birthday was yesterday
and the day before that was my father's
my family spent it planning a funeral.
my grandfather is dying
cancer
spreading through his lymphatic system
cells turning on themselves
consuming themselves
dying
tonight
a mere day after my nameday
my mother leaves us
for china
to watch as the life slips away
from a dear
father
grandfather
brother
son
sleep
it evades me
night after night
paralyzed
unmoving
rigid
as shadows dance across the walls
school is starting
soon
and the stress
threatens
to crush me
and this
is what i have
in my heart
go ahead and take it-
it's all i have left. wallsthere are walls between us all
mothers and children
brothers and sisters
incorporeal, invisible, immaterial
there are walls between us all
made of prejudice
made of conflict
made of beliefs
incorporeal, invisible, immaterial
there are walls between us all
made of paper
made of glass
incorporeal, invisible, immaterial
there are walls between us all
push them over
break them down
for we all are one family,
sharing one unshakable bond
incorporeal, invisible, immaterial the ties that bind [and the ones that break]the ties that bind
-
"hurry it up!"
the scream came from a young boy, 16 at most. his face ragged and dirty, he wiped his eyes on a dusty sleeve before turning around and glancing behind him at the endless desert that awaited him. his eyes dark , reflecting off of the light like ebony, glinted with bemusement as he stared back at his companion. the other was also young, perhaps 15.
in the world that they lived in, it wasn't as if age mattered. after all, it was just another number, another slow step towards the eternal oblivion of death.
"god, keiro, how do you even walk so fast?" finn spat into the sand, shooting an amused glance at his oathbrother. "why in such a hurry? there's nothing here but sand and sun."
"i think i saw something up ahead." keiro's tone was impatient and excited, which was par for the course.
"sure it's not just another fucking mirage?" finn said, exasperated. "there's nothing here, you know. nothing but this...this desert. that's all there is, keiro. there's not

What inspired you to start writing?

A lot of things, really - mostly that urge to express myself in a way that others could understand and sympathize with.

How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?

God, that question. I can't even begin to explain how much I've improved. I came from the depths of Mary Sue OC Naruto and Hetalia fan fiction and moved on to original fiction. It's really amazing, now that I think about it.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

In all honesty, I tend not to post very much of my writing to deviantArt. I only do it to share something with my watchers/friends, and even so, I still don't update my gallery all that much.

Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?

Both, depending on the mood. For me, traditional writing on paper conveys more raw emotion. It's easier for the words to flow. But then again, typing lets me flip through music and prompts at the same time, which really reinforces my creativity. I tend to type more, though I do write on paper quite a lot at school.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

Oh dear. Don't remind me. It was some horrible Naruto fan fiction. I think you can still find my old stuff on fanfiction.net with the username willowwispe.

What room is your favorite to write in?

Anywhere and everywhere. c:

What is your favorite place for thinking?

Honestly? The shower.

How do you beat out your writers block?

I listen and write music. I love music, and it inspires me so much in my writing and my life.

Do you listen to music when you write?

Definitely. Sometimes I'll be writing a song when I suddenly get an idea for writing, sometimes vice versa, but music is always there.

Writer #2: ShailoX

Shailo Cross: The Journey BeginsShailo didn't know how long she had sat there for, on that mountain top, fluttering her wings absentmindedly. She had just run away from her hometown, and the first place she had flown to, was the mountains. She did not know why, but she had always found peace in the skies.
Shailo hugged her knees and rubbed her runny nose. Angels did not normally weep, but running away from her family, and her friends was a big thing. Her brothers abused her and demanded favours from her, and now she would finally be away from it all.
She didn't know what to do. For the first time in her life, she was completely free to do whatever she wanted, for how long, she didn't know, but the sense of freedom overwhelmed her. Frightened her, even. Shailo had nobody to turn to now. Her mother was murdered, the one person who really understood her, and her father had gone insane with guilt, and shortly followed suit by tying a noose around his neck, or so everyone in Shailo's village was known to believe, She wasn Behind the Sketchbook
"Come on then, Alex! You tell her, or I will! How long did you think you could get away with hiding this? How long did you think you could cope by yourself?" My brother roared at me from a few steps below me on the staircase of my parent's house.
I kept my head in my knees, squeezing my eyes shut as tight as they could go. I wanted everything to stop. To just stand still. I wanted the floor to just swallow me up and spit me out again somewhere nicer than here. Somewhere where I wouldn't be interrogated by my family.
It was none of their business. It was nobody's business but my own. I was thirteen, and perfectly capable of handling things by myself in my own way. I hated being treated like the baby of the family. Yes, I was the youngest, but I was stronger than I looked. I didn't need Dale's help, or Taylor's for that matter. It was my problem, and I would be the one to fix it. And if I couldn't fix it, it was on my own head.
It all started when I met her.
We had been friends for ages. Rio Song: The Time Lords' Daughter - Prologue
It was a cold winter night and all the streets in London were dead. The rain pattered off of the windows of the houses nearby. All the lights were out, and all of the curtains in every window were drawn tight. There was nobody to be seen for miles. The clock, Big Ben, chimed three times...
Ding. Chime one. The air began to feel eerily strange, like the atmosphere was moving. Yet everything stayed the same. Still, and silent, and desolate.
Ding. Chime two. The earth started to move, like a small earthquake, the kind you would expect people to walk up from in fright, grabbing their duvet covers and pulling them up to their chests, closing their eyes tight, but this was an even stranger feeling. Nobody had woken due to this disturbance. Yet everything stayed the same. Still, and silent, and desolate.
Ding. Chime three. There was a great CRASH! A strange noise had filled the typical London street, it was there in an instant, and the next, it was gone. The sound was so loud it should have w A Desire For Damaged Goods - Chapter 1
"Taylor! Table seven! Pay attention! What the heck is wrong with you today?" barks my boss, Shelly Ryan, from behind the gleaming marble counter.
I jump out of my daydream almost at once, nearly knocking over some salt and pepper dispensers as I do so. Gosh, today had just been dragging in. The weather was miserable, but that only meant we got more customers than usual, mothers with young children out on a day trip into the city, people coming in before and after work for their daily caffeine fix, business meetings, casual lunch dates, you name it, and I was serving each and every single one.
"Sorry Shelly! It's just so lousy..." I mumble and I pick up the empty mugs and plates from table seven.
"I don't pay you to daydream!" She says exasperatedly, I knew I was in for a talking to, but luckily, just in time, a customer was waiting to be served at the counter.
As I took someone's order, the familiar 'ding ding' of the door rang in my ears. I sigh and put on a fake smile to the woman in

What inspired you to start writing?

I have written ever since I was a small child and had learned how to. I have read so many books, and one day, at about the age of six, I decided that I would like to write my own stories. Many books and authors have inspired me, mainly, J.K. Rowling. It may sound a bit cliché, but the Harry Potter novels made me really begin to believe in myself and made me want to keep going with my writing at all costs.

How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?

I started taking writing seriously when I turned thirteen years old (I am now 16), in the last three years, I think I have improved a lot, mainly due to the pact that the more practice you get, the better you will get at something.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

I post my writing on dA, because I feel that I need to get my work recognized, also, I wanted to see if other people that I didn't know thought it was any good.

Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?

I write with both, I find that I write my notes on all of my stories on paper, and also some short stories on paper, too. But I use a word processor for my bigger pieces, as it is much quicker.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

The first piece I ever wrote doesn't have a name. I think, if I remember back to the age of around eight, it was about a little girl and boy who moved to America from Scotland together and their families lived next door. I was quite fond of that story, although it didn't have much of a plotline.

What room is your favorite to write in?

I usually write in my schools library, I find it peaceful and somewhere where I know I won't be disturbed, but I also write in my bedroom.

What is your favorite place for thinking?

A village about ten minutes away from where I live. Its right by the seaside, I find it really good for thinking because I get to be alone with my thoughts.

How do you beat out your writers block?

I usually listen to music or look at prompts, the amount of ideas you can get from a song, or an image on the internet, is surprising.

Do you listen to music when you write?

I sometimes do listen to music hen I write, most of my ideas for my stories come from lyrics from songs. I find that sometimes it helps me concentrate, but other times, I don't bother. Only recently I have been able to listen to music when writing.

Writer #3: Gryphonboy

SunsetThere's a story or so I'm told
Of a land Far, far and Cold...
Where an old man lay down
and watched his last summer sun set.
Now we find a man
who will rise to face his final day
For living the life of love
when all who turned away will say...
'His summers' sun has set
taking his love away...'
Do you know How I feel?
I'm Alive
and I've got this funny feeling inside
That you know I'll survive...
As the light begins to fade,
He sets out cold and afraid.
But now its judgement that calls
And we all know, that everyman must fall.
If I could only hold
My lovers' hand
Oh wouldn't it help to slow,
the steady fall of sand.
Do you know how I feel?
I'm Alive…
And I've got this funny feeling inside
That you know I'll survive…
Words and music © Bryn & Ryan
For Jax. Who sent me a story that inspired me to write my own.
And for my father who on a subconscious level was probably the real inspiration for this song. Rest In Peace. The Firewall Saga - Chapter 1
"Civilization ends at the waterline. Beyond that, we all enter the food chain, and not always right at the top."
               -Hunter S. Thompson
.
Imagine for a moment that your mind's eye is floating in the blackness of space. Cast your gaze upon the pale blue globe of the Earth. This, was once your home. Everything you ever did, happened here. Everything and everyone you ever knew, existed on this tiny island, floating through the oceans of the cosmos.  
Things are different now. The first half of the twenty-first century bore witness to an event that came to be known by the survivors, as The Purge. Very little is known of the exact nature of this event, nor for that matter, the ultimate cause. The results however, are plain to see.  
Earth is now the fifth planet in the solar system with a permanent ring. From your vantage point in space the ring straddles the equator like a golden circ Dog Star Detective
"So Gader'el, the task is a simple one."
Lucifer was seated behind a large mahogany topped desk, resting his aquiline chin against steepled forefingers. He was dressed in a conservative, immaculately tailored grey suit. He contemplated Gader'el through horn-rimmed spectacles with alert, grey-green eyes. Gader'el suspected that nothing escaped their scrutiny.
"Uh huh." Gader'el nodded, swallowing nervously. He was acutely aware of the creases and grease marks that sullied the lines of his grey Premark special (50% off in the January sales).
"I have it on good authority," Lucifer continued, "that our eternal friend is making a play for market share."
He spread his hands across the desk, unraveling a crisp white chart. The desk itself was bare, apart from a nondescript silver name-plate which displayed a small white star in lieu of an actual name.
"Based on our current projections we're forecasting some astonishing growth rates." He said, pointing at a line graph on the chart.
"The R&D de The Firewall Saga - Chapter 2
A Ferrum Horse
Antigua cast her eyes wearily across the distant horizon.
She had been out beyond the Firewall for over a week now and was beginning to suspect that the legends were true.So far it appeared that nothing in the Southland had survived the purge of flame that had split the earth in two.
The scan-line on her HUD flashed amber, alerting her to distant motion. She concentrated on the amber line as it passed up and down over her field of view. When it flashed again she zeroed in on the motion. With a deft flick of her wrist she brought the visor down over her face and allowed the optical unit to zoom in on the spot.
"Well now, here's a spot of luck." She thought to herself, tapping her heels into Argentum's steel flanks.
The horse leapt forward with a soft hum, steam snorting from his nostrils. Antigua adjusted her posture, bringing him into a brisk canter.
Carrion fowl spiralled lazily across her view. The visors optics were strong enough for her to identify them as vultures.

What inspired you to start writing?

Boredom at work. Literally. During the months of April through July I have very little to do at work so I basically just started typing stuff into a blog and it spiraled from there.

How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?

Hard to say really. I don't really have a good handle on whether I'm any good at this yet. Put it this way, I'm 32 now and I can't really say my writing is any better than it was when I was in high school. I guess I know more and have more life experience and that probably helps.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

Feedback. Writing seems like such a lonely activity and since I'm not in it for the money I figure sharing it doesn't hurt.

Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?

I don't use a pen and paper, but I do use multiple word processors. Namely Word, Google Docs, Fastpencil.com and Wordpress.com

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

Ever? I have no idea. I certainly don't have access to it now. I only started writing properly last year and this gryphonboy.wordpress.com/2011/… is it. Has a very apt title I think

What room is your favorite to write in?

My Attic. It's like my Bat cave.

What is your favorite place for thinking?

My head. I don't really mind where my physical body is located as long as I have room to think.

How do you beat out your writers block?

Haven't experienced it yet. Thankfully. In fairness I'm not very prolific so I reckon writers block won't ever really be much of an issue.

Do you listen to music when you write?

No. It's too distracting.

Writer #4: Leonca

Talking to YourselfWind drove snow over the trees with such force they seemed to step into the distance. The whiteness in the air covered everything until it was as faded as an old scent trail after a rainstorm. The snow was already deep enough to suck in a man’s leg past the knee if he wasn’t wearing snowshoes, but the figure trudging through it was no longer a man.
Prankster wendigo had given up on snowshoes long ago in favor of simpler footwear. The straps challenged the clumsy fingers of his stolen human body, and he could never figure out how to move in them without tripping. He lurched onward with the tenacity of a wolverine gnawing through an inch of deer skull to get the gooey treat in the center. The pain in his stomach howled to his feet. He gave little thought to their control. His mind was focused on making the most of sensory information diminished by the storm. Sounds and smells were difficult to pinpoint. He almost felt as if the wind were a rival, come to mask the trails of pr Talking to GodIn my twenty-fourth year of life I was selected for the annual duty of "person who talks to God." I suppose I should have been flattered by what that said about my expanding fame. The offerings for the previous two years were a philosopher and a scientist, both well into their fifties and highly esteemed within their guilds. They had never bothered to send a taleteller, and an apprentice at that.
God was handled by a collaboration between the two guilds, you see. The scientists tried to explain him and the philosophers tried to understand him. They did an equally excellent job at failing to accomplish either.
I can't say I was looking forward to my impending encounter with the divine. God had developed quite a taste for human flesh.
It should be noted that God is a self-appointed title. The creature claims to have come to our world from another dimension. He also invokes this fact as explanation for the reason our weapons have no effect at either harming or subduing him. I never did le Coyote's GiftThe Creative Spirit couldn't remember where he came from, but he knew where he was going. He was going to find company even if it took traveling to the farthest reaches of the star-speckled emptiness to do so.
He looked and looked, but there was no one else to talk to. Disappointed, he stopped to rest on a large empty rock floating in the blackness and let his mind wander. There was water on the rock. He imagined a being that could absorb it into itself, combining it with energy taken from a nearby star to grow and become beautiful.
He thought and thought, until tiny green tendrils began sprouting from the soil. A smile bloomed on his face. He thought up more and more, until he lost count of how many different types he had created. He named them plants.
The plants were pleasant to look at, but they were not company. The Creative Spirit thought harder about what kind of beings could do this. He thought of beings that could move over the surface of the rock, through the sky, and under th Off LimitsMary is unusually quiet on the drive home from the doctor's visit. I'm so wrapped up in my own excitement that I don't even notice until she breaks the silence. "Well, now that we know it's going to be a boy, how do you feel about Jonathan?"
"It's nice, but I still prefer Jacob."
"I was just thinking. I mean, I only met him a few times when I was little, but it was my grandfather's name."
Her sudden change of mind puzzles me. She didn't have any stronger relationship with her grandfather than I had with my own granddad, so why does it matter? "I'm sorry if you like that name better, but you know how it is. Pop would throw a fit if I didn't follow tradition."
Even with my eyes on the road I can hear the roll in hers. "It's still a grandfather's name. Would it really bother him that much?"
I know what's coming next and I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. "Uh, yeah, yeah it would. Pop is, well you know how the old ones are. Tradition, tradition, tradition. They breathe it, and th

What inspired you to start writing?

I loved reading stories as a child, anything from folk tales to modern fantasy. My interest in writing grew out of a desire to inspire the same feelings in others those writers gave me. One of my earliest writing memories is the time I was thinking about a story in a children’s horror anthology, told myself, “I could have given that a scarier ending,” and wrote something based on it to see if I could.

How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?

My prose has improved by leaps and bounds during the last three years. I actually started out writing poetry more as a child, and have put that to the side for the most part to focus on prose. I credit much of my improvement to the unfortunately inactive prompt group simplyprose, which helped me find more readers, critiques, and genres to try.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

I love how focused this site allows people to be in pursuing their interests. My family and friends have always been supportive, but I find it difficult to share and get feedback on writing from them because of how time consuming reading is compared to appreciating a visual piece. People who know I do both think of me primarily as an artist, even though I spend more time writing these days. They are also less interested in the genres I favor, especially horror.

Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?

When I started with prose I would often write with pencil and notebook paper and copy it onto a computer later, but I haven’t for several years now. Sometimes if a story or poem is very short I will get it out of my head onto paper without bothering to turn on a computer.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

The farthest back I can think of was the time I was given a little sketch book as a kid, and got the idea to write a story and illustrate it. I think I only got a few pages into it, and it was one of those “make it up as you go” processes that rarely end well for a writer. The plot involved a mad scientist in a creepy van kidnapping a boy and turning him into a dog.

What room is your favorite to write in?

I always write on my laptop in my bedroom. It is a quiet place that I have control over, which is important for focusing. I can draw or read a book almost anywhere, but I need quiet and familiar surroundings for writing.

What is your favorite place for thinking?

I prefer being at home where I can write as I think, but I get a lot of good ideas at work too. When I’m not assisting the veterinarian or looking after patients at the vet clinic I find something to clean and let my mind wander over plots for future stories.

How do you beat out your writers block?

If I don’t like the direction my writing is taking I switch my focus to visual art. If I can’t motivate myself to make that work I take a break and spend more time reading or watching movies.

Do you listen to music when you write?

No, unless it is a response to a prompt to write a story based on a song.

Writer #5: Tanashai

Out of ThymeIt wasn't until after she died that Trevor realized he couldn't cook.
The realization came six months after the funeral, when all the casseroles and baked goods were eaten and when all the flowers had long wilted, but before the critical time when he knew that it was time to box all her things away and donate them. He had started to do that, but when he got to her clothing, he couldn't take it anymore and the job was left unfinished.
There was no sudden moment of epiphany for him. He was able to cook simple things-spaghetti, soup from a can, microwave dinners, pasta and sausages, things like that. But as he stood over the stove, stirring his noodles, his eyes fell on the spice rack by the oven. It was made from wood and carved with whorls and loops-a unique piece which she had chosen from a craft fair and likely overpaid for the honour of owning. It was too small for her collection of spices; they were crammed in and had to be stacked two jars high.
The spice jars were covered in a lig And The Gods Fell to the SeaThough we were once great in power
Ancient beings of times now gone
Takers of the Ewe and Ram
We stepped from time's stream
Careless of our dripping hems
And of our footsteps in the sand.
We who were once great gods of men
Now our center cannot hold
We
   all
        fall
             down
Few mortals watch the silver rain
Unremarked go our once great Names.
Lament oh mortals on your plane
The last of the great ones no longer remain
Through pride and fear we took ourselves away
To our empty idols do you still pray?
Are you still a God fearing man?
Watch as another star falls down
And wonder now:
Which God has drowned? Chapter One ElstariaTo say that Cyril's first memory was of the kitchens was a bit of a misnomer. His first real memory was of his uncle bellowing at him because he had put his toy blocks in the pie crust dough. It had left bits of wood and paint in the crust, rendering it useless so that his uncle had to start all over again.
Not all of Cyril's memories were bad of course. He remembered the time spent helping to peel apples (stealing pieces every once in a while), his uncle teaching him to read and write and the triumph of the first unburned cookie. But the memory of his uncle shouting at him always stuck, not because of the anger; but because there had been fear in his eyes. Cyril didn't think of it at the time, being only about three years old, but when he thought back on it later it seemed odd, though he always forgot to ask about it.
The kitchen of the Elstaria Palace was a distracting place, so it was no wonder Cyril forgot such a small detail. It was a huge room with three massive fireplaces; two l Selling IdeasAnd so when people bought thoughts for a cent
Everyone who had them said great
For thoughts they'd be told
Were useless 'til sold
And the penny at least had some weight.

What inspired you to start writing?

Hmmm, inspired me to start writing? Honestly I have no idea; I started when I was seven, lol. I think nowadays I write to spread a message (even if it's just a silly little one) and to help readers get out of their own lives for a little while. Plus I get all these characters clamoring around in my head and if I don't let them out, they do weird things to my brain...

How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?

Beyond all recognition really I have some great groups to thank for that (Quill Cafe when it was still around being a huge one), wonderfully supportive readers, and of course the wider community.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

To get feedback, to share my work, to connect with others. Same reasons as anyone else I guess, lol.

Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?

Nowadays I type on a word processor; my hand writing is atrocious! But when inspiration hits (usually at 1am), you'll still find me scribbling away on any loose piece of paper I can find.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

A short story about an owl in grade one. I don't remember it at all and the only reason I know it exists is because my mom still has the second place prize hanging on the fridge, lol.

What room is your favorite to write in?

Usually my bedroom; it's a little quieter than the rest of the house.

What is your favorite place for thinking?

The shower, definitely, lol. Also anywhere I can hike.

How do you beat out your writers block?

A couple of ways. I'll sometimes let the block simmer in its own juices until it falls apart of its own accord. If that doesn't work (or I'm on a deadline), I'll actually write the block out of existence in NotePad. I find that writer's block is caused by a problem in the plot that has yet to be resolved. If I go back through my plot, find the problem, and solve it, I'm usually well on my way to getting rid of writer's block. Sometimes it means totally revamping the plot, but if I have to do that, it probably needed the work anyway. I have entire pages given over to things like what happened in the story, what I want to have happen and then answering questions that come up as a result. It takes time, but it's worth it.

Do you listen to music when you write?

Sometimes. It depends on my mood. I like listening to instrumentals/mood music when I'm writing.