Tag Archives: writing

Sample Chapter: Path of the Warrior Shaman

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Just finished the intro to what is soon to be my newest novella: The Path of the Warrior Shaman: Book One. Take a look:

PATH OF THE WARRIOR SHAMAN: IDEAS, WRITINGS, AND CONCEPTS BY THE DISFIGURED, 2013

Clouds conspired to block the sun; its beams choked by the umbranous thunderheads. The Warrior Shaman stood against the dark edges of those thunderheads, watching the lightening flash within them. A roar of thunder made his pulse quicken, the blood in his veins frothing as his heart slammed into his sternum. Lightening struck nearby. He could feel its heat, but he did not shield himself from it. The rain came soon thereafter, and he accepted it, never looking for shelter.

The cliff he stood on overlooked a large portion of Galivec, Jol’Tah Hak was a merely a point of grey on the horizon. Soon, the shadows flooded the valley, and he was alone with the coming storm. He lowered his head and allowed a grimace to darken his brow and lips, his dark brown beard beading the rainfall and running rivulets down the middle of his chest. He was distant now, barely feely the icy cold water.

Thousands of soldiers were in the valley below him, looking up, waiting for his signal as their enemies approached. The storm above grew more violent. Massive arcs of searing hot lightening smashed into the ground, extending its branches, making his allies cower below him in the valley. The sky was completely overcast, a shade of steely grey, and pitch black where the clouds rumbled in fury.

The Warrior Shaman stood silently, his mind focusing on the storm. His sword at his right hand, his axe at the left, he drew them both and let them stand at attention near his hips. Water dripped off the weapons, but soaked into the wooden handle of his axe. He could feel its heartbeat thud into his bones, its anger mounting as the storm grew more violent above.

Soldiers, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, approached from the other side of the valley, their voices almost drowning out the thunder. Still the sky grew darker, casting the entire land into a false night. Torches and a few patches of haphazard sun illuminated the valley like an ethereal leopard’s pelt. The Warrior Shaman’s eyes glowed a dark orange, tiny pinpoints in the dark, but piercing and terrible. As the light changed on his face, the strange glow would flicker on and off, disappearing completely against the bright white strobe of lightening.

Now the battlefield was bloated with murder as the two armies stood against one another. A mere one hundred yards were all that separated the two opposing factions, one side clad in yellow, red and white, the other dark green and gold. The Warrior Shaman’s eyes widened, his teeth clenching, his breathing quick. He raised his left arm into the sky, and screamed in pain and fury as a bolt of lightning struck the axe head, transferring the unbelievable energy into his hand. He could feel the power coursing through him, the rage of nature contained within his tiny, fragile body.

The thunder from this lightening strike was deafening, and an eerie hush fell over the battlefield. He opened his mouth, his voice shattering the silence, carried on the thunder. “You will all die today if you do not lay down your arms and return to the north from whence you came!” He screamed. The opposing army laughed at him, and charged forward, blades, axes, spears, polearms, bows, drawn and eager for killin’. With a scream, he cast an enormous bolt of lightening mere inches from the charging horde, stopping them in their tracks. Those closest to the impact where blind and soon afterwards deaf as the thunder issued forth from the point of impact, no doubt an effect of the Warrior Shaman’s magic.  They looked up at him, and one solider stepped forward, recognizing the insidious dark orange glow of the shaman’s eyes.

He ran back into the ranks to find the general, who was safely ensconced behind a wall of archers and infantry. He screamed, “we must surrender! We must surrender!” and leapt upon an officer’s horse. Before the officer had a second to punish him for his audacity, the soldier said, “forgive me m’lord, but please, please take me to our General. I could save all of our lives today.” The terror in the boy’s eyes and the rabid urgency of his voice lead the officer on.

The crowd parted for the pair on the war horse, and soon, the soldier reached his General. He jumped down off the horse, and seized the General by his breastplate. “What are you?” He screamed, but the soldier interrupted him. “M’Lord, m’Lord! Please, do not strike me down! Listen to me! Their wizard possesses a storm cataract! We will die to a man if we fight today!”

“A storm cataract? I should gut you for such cowardly lies!”

“No sir, please! I saw glow of the demon in his eyes!”

“Blood orange?” The soldier had the General’s attention.

“None other.” The General looked at the soldier, and rode to the front line on his horse. He looked up to the Warrior Shaman, and yelled, “Wizard! My sources tell me you possess the storm cataract!”

“I do.” The Warrior Shaman replied. His voice was as thunder, and could be heard throughout the entire valley.

“Prove it. Prove it, and we will all lay down our arms! I’ve only seen one other spellslinger like you before, and I don’t believe-“

Three bolts of lightening screamed forth from the black ink that was the sky, striking the Warrior Shaman’s axe. He sheathed his weapons, and wrestled with the energy, his teeth clenched and his browed furrowed with fury as he tried to hold back the wrath of nature. His body ached with the immense power, and his nose begun to bleed. Now disarmed, he held his arms out in front of him, palms up, his fingers locked into claws as tiny arcs of electricity climbed in-between them. Soon, a huge arc leapt from one hand to the other, a peal of thunder in short pursuit afterwards. He threw his hands to the sky, screaming as he flung the lightening into the sky, piercing the thunderclouds.

After the thunder died down, the valley filled with a new sound- the sound of countless weapons being dropped to the ground.

The storm calmed only after they were all gone.

Good or bad, long as its serious, I want feedback.

Writing is a Higher Form of Masturbation

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I’m not joking about the title.

When you think about it, what does a writer really do? Just that- we have stories in our heads, so we gotta get them out. Well, at least that’s what it’s like for me, but I must say the whole process from start to finish just makes me stiff. I love writing and comin’ up with shit as much as the next author, so I’ve decided to try out a new idea. All too often (and I’m sure 99.9% of you can relate to this), I have ideas that will never fit into a novel. They’re too small scale, or they’d be good for a scene in a novel, or something like that. And some of them actually aren’t all that asinine. So that leaves me with an overflow of cool ideas that might work together, but nowhere to put them. Until now, bitches.

Thanks to AutoRealm, I can create gigantic worlds as a framework for my ideas. All you do is download this program (it’s free) and you can create massive maps (or small ones) that can be used for role playing, recreation, or whatever. After getting used to the interface, I created a world called Melias, and this is where I will start with my new idea:

99 Cent Novellas.

I figured, what better way than to stroke my brain than putting all these little ideas and scenes into a novella? Like serials. They can be produced quickly (and with quality), and can be sold for cheap. Every single one of these novellas that I will produce will be 99 cents on Amazon. All of em’. And these novellas won’t stop at just Melias. I plan on creating a whole host of other worlds with a whole string of fresh novellas! And here’s the thing. Each novella will be its own story, with unique characters and places. Here, take a look at where the first group of novellas will take place:

99CN_Galivec

Galivec is a relatively small continent in Melias, and will be the stage for my first tale: The Path of the Warrior Shaman. Here’s some concept art of the main character:

99CN_WarriorShaman

Ah, fresh ideas, fresh starts. Love it. See what I mean? How can writing not be akin to pullin’ the mower? I created a skeleton where I can literally write with no limits as much or as little as I want. And since I have another job other than this one, I don’t need to worry about writing being my main source of income. I can focus on the writing and the art, and that’s all I really want. A limitless creative outlet that I can take refuge in.

Too many people see writing as a business. And that makes for shitty writing. More and more authors, writers, whatever need to remember (if they haven’t already) that you must be true to your art form. Take criticism, but don’t ever let it completely alter the fundamentals of your work. Because when we get down to it, who are we really creating novels, paintings, poems, blah blah blah for?

Our metaphorical authorpenis.

Focus

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Intensity has followed me since I was a child. Focus not so much.

Time comes, and time goes. But when we exist within it, we can truly make our mark. Motivation, skill, talent, understanding, knowledge. These things come if we are open to them, and willing to work for them. And I am starting to see that many of my problems, personal, professional, you name it, stem from myself. Myself and how I react to different situations.

I am not proud do say that I am petty and bitter. Angry. Unforgiving. I am proud to say that I am kind, compassionate, and peaceful at heart. I exist in constant contradiction, which causes conflict that is not welcomed, or unwelcome. It is accepted. So here comes the question, what the FUCK is this asshole writing about? Focus. That’s what I’m writing about. Focus.

Determination and focus should go hand in hand, and eventually, they should lead you to a zenith where they can both slice through any problem, any excuse, any qualm. And expose your true path. If you read my last entry, I’m shifting my focus a little bit. I still very much want to complete Blestemul, but my mind…my mind gets bored very quickly. Being locked in a shifting prison of haphazard thought has pros and cons. Fuck, now I’m rambling.

I wanna try something different!

I am going to start my own legitimate business very soon. An engine that serves all aspects of my life as a writer. Whether or not I make money is irrelevant at this moment. The point is, I want to try something different.

But this entry isn’t all about me and my new business venture. No, that was just a launchpad for the true purpose of this entry. Focus. Every single one of you have tremendous power within you. And I don’t mean that “YOU’RE SPECIAL” kind of power. No, you have cognition and awareness. When paired with human ingenuity, curiosity and mortality, you are able to create and destroy at a moment’s notice.

So what are you doing with this power? As for me, I was wasting it. Maybe I still am, but I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna at least try to tap into the gifts of humanity. Not my personal “gifts”, no. Gifts that we, Homo sapiens, are created with, evolved to have. Each of us is an infinite well of creation and destruction, and each action we commit to the Earth changes us.

With all that power, how could you fail? Better yet, don’t answer that. Just act.

New Projects, Old Ideas

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I have an idea.

I’ve been working a lot on Blestemul, but I’ve never undertaken a project this big before (it’s a long book, that’s all) and I find myself getting bored. Not to the point where I want to stop, mind you. No way. But I need something different to occupy my brain. I need to create something new. I don’t know why, and maybe? I don’t wanna know. But enough of that. Here’s my idea.

I’m thinking of creating a book, or a series of novellas, based on one character that is untouchable. Not invincible, untouchable. Undefeatable. And a whole shit ton of more -ables to come. Don’t think about the character, though. Think about this instead. What would you do if you could pursue any personal objective/mission/quest and know that you could not be stopped? I am creating a character that has no physical flaws, none, and can literally achieve any objective he puts his mind to.

Where’s the fun in that? Well. That’s the second part of my idea.

I plan to use this character as a way to express protest against modern issues and ideals for my own personal satisfaction. Think about all the travesties in the world. Think about all the people starving, dying, murders, rape, abuse, war, killing, destruction, etc. Think about how powerless you feel sometimes about these issues. Now imagine yourself being able to tackle these problems, alone, and solving them however you wished. Knowing full well that your agenda cannot be stopped. That’s the kind of character that I making, and that is the “lofty” goal I wish to achieve.

Say this plan takes off. I have a few more ideas that I want to put into play to see what happens. Just to find out how things will end up.

Humans for the most part cannot change the world. Activism, protest, petitions. They do good, true, but there aren’t enough well wishes, likes on facebook, donations, or philanthropists to solve the biggest problems we face everyday. War, for one, cannot be stopped by anything. But. What if you were the only thing that could stop it? What would you do?

That’s what this new book(s) will be exploring. The will of one man and that cannot be stopped, and how he can change the world. Am I writing it as an inspiration piece? Not really. In all honesty, I just really want to write about killing and maiming the enemies of humanity.

Writing with a Weapon

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Events in the world today make me fucking sick.

As humanity drags itself along a shattered glass highway, leaving a trail of shit and blood for us all to follow, I cannot help but feel a glimmer of rage that burns until nothing but hatred is left behind. Hate is a strange thing. Directed, it can change the world. Unsupervised, it can destroy it- but let’s not talk about hate right now. Let’s talk about what we can do in a world that wants to keep us all under control.

The pen is mightier than the sword, I’ve heard. And I think that’s bullshit. A sword is something that we can all understand, a symbol of violence and death, or a symbol of order and justice. Or pick your own meaning. No, the pen isn’t mightier than the sword. They are both tools, and the sword is clearly the better tool. The writer is the real lethal weapon. Rather the mind, the human mind, so hopelessly complex and always changing, always shrouded in mystery. There is the true weapon. Creation. Imagination.

One could read into the above phrase and discern what I have said, but at its bare face value, I’ve always hated that godamn phrase. It’s so…one sided and ambiguously frank. Why write with a pen and ignore the sword? Why not write with a sword?

Write with a sword.

I like to wield writing as a weapon. I like to administer punishment for the people who read my work. Force atonement. Just once, just once with one piece of work. As I peer into the abyss that is this planet and all the humans on it, I find that the inky black soup that has become our collective soul as a species churns with violence and anger. Opinions, words, thoughts, they are lost in that abyss.

Me? I don’t think I’ll change the world. Or maybe I’m being humble. Or maybe, changing the world is my goal, but I don’t think I’m up to the task. Or maybe I’m just blowing a thick column of smoke up your ass. Smoke that comes from a special source- a pile of burning bullshit.

Who knows. Who cares? Not me.

Wield writing as a weapon, godamn you. I see too many writers censoring themselves, lacking confidence, lying to themselves, procrastinating. It makes me sick. Writers used to be hard and desperate people, not the elevated “literary” pseudo-intellectuals that enjoy the sound of their own voice, a voice that sounds to me like a sloppy shit.

Teachers, professors, literary agents, publishers, editors. They all tell you to write a certain way, to be refined, to make changes where you don’t want to make changes, to write what they want you to write, all the meanwhile, you are dying. Your creativity is dying. Why be refined? Why submit to format? Who gives a flying fuck about MLA rules? Citing your sources correctly? Who fuckin’ cares if my essay doesn’t have a godamn intro, body, and conclusion? Who the fuck are you to tell me how I should be fuckin’ writing? Nobody, that’s who.

Fuck the teachers. The professors, the literary agents, the publishers, editors, bosses, friends, acquaintances, proofreaders, police, politicians, fuck ’em all! They all seek to stifle your voice with formatting, rules, and/or censorship. No, no, no, use your writing like a weapon. Wield what you write, don’t read it! Where is your spine as a writer? Where has your fucking fire gone?

Get dirty! Write violence, fucking, dying, breeding- write what you feel and only what you feel, and if someone doesn’t like it, who. Gives. A. Flying. Fuck?

My next project is going to be just that. It is going to be a piece, or pieces, of writing that will be written with a sword. Too long have we all conformed to what our “teachers” and “leaders” have told us. I am writing a piece that will attack, that will punish, that will make people think differently through personal connection, or by completely hating me.

Do I want attention? I don’t know. All I know is I’m going to write without boundaries anymore. Without rules. I’m going to strike this planet with my words, and inflict the pain and anger that I have screaming inside of me that I cannot let out. I am going to write like a savage, and there is nothing this fuckin’ world and all its bullshit can do to stop me.

Don’t let it stop you, either.

Approaching the Zenith

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Anticipation builds as I approach the most climatic moments of Blestemul.

As a writer, I find these feelings difficult to deal with. Sometimes, I can accept them. Channel them. Sometimes, the thought of finishing a book, or writing along to the end is very intimidating. It’s not the size of the project (a book is done when it’s done) its the…well fuck. I don’t know what it is. It’s a weird backwards anxiety that wants to be embraced and ignored all at the same time.

Writing hand to hand combat scenes, gunfights, large scale battles, these are things that are well, once again, intimidating. The violence and intensity, and the utter intimacy of combat is difficult to capture. And I still don’t know if I am doing it well enough. And it’s not just action sequences- there are many large and powerful plot points that are coming up, ones that will completely change the face of the book and allow it to go into a different direction. There’s a lot of pressure there, but then again, all I’m doing is tellin’ a story.

But that point is trivial. The feelings are still there.

Big moments in books come in many shapes and sizes, and they are all a little scary to face and actually flesh out. You name it: love scenes, loss scenes, pivotal parts where your protag meets your antag, killing important characters, dialogue, oh the list goes on and on, and every author worth their salt meets these challenges head on and the good ones execute with precision and merciless vocabulary. And the gravity of these plot points can be daunting to anyone that means to tell a story. But it must be done.

I guess the purpose of this entry was mostly confessional. I talk harsh, violent, and to the point, but I’m still a human wrapped in a greasy shell of meat, and I can still feel fear. Anxiety. Sheepish. And…I think that’s okay. Such vulnerabilities makes a better author, which in tern makes a better book. What about you?

How do you deal with such pivotal points in your stories? Novel or no, you’ve faced these challenges in fiction, and in different forms with non. Confess to us all. You’ll feel better.

And you’ll be a better writer for it.

Creating Natural Dialogue

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Dialogue can be difficult.

I think the hardest part about it is making it seem natural. In all honesty, a writer is simply an individual that talks to him/herself. So when you’re just talking to yourself, how the hell can you create good dialogue? I took a gander on the internet to see if other people had tips, or stories to share. One link I found was pretty good. I usually stand against NaNoWriMo materials, but this one seemed pretty on par.

But, I didn’t read all of it. Couldn’t be bothered cuz I really didn’t give a shit, but you may. I don’t think I’m the master of dialogue. In fact, I fuckin’ hate writing it. It’s annoying, and it NEVER completely feels naturally to me, even when I’m reading the works of supposed “masters”.  Once again, I fucking HATE writing dialogue, but it’s something that must (should?) be done.

Dialogue usually comes in good moments. Or at least I’ve found that. I’ll have days where things just fit between two characters. I don’t have to think, and their personalities literally allow a conversation. But let’s be real, shall we? I’m simply talking to myself. So here’s something I try that actually works pretty well.

Literally, I speak dialogue out loud (when alone, or one the shitter hopefully alone) like I’m rehearsing a part for a play, or movie. I’m tellin’ you, it works for me. It works, and I’m gonna stick with it. Sometimes, I play out entire plot points in real time. Often in the car. I’ll choreograph fight scenes, plan conversation/confrontation, and see how they play out. Also, you have to know your characters.

That is one thing I can say with confidence. I know my characters very well, and when they surprise me, I’m delighted. These sudden left turns add definition to a character, and keeps readers interested while punishing them at the same time. Also, being an only child with OCD, my imagination is stronger than my concept of reality, and it helps me weave decent stories and dialogue. Fuck, I hate writing it so much I had to find a way to make it fun for myself.

What about you? How do you create dialogue? Plot? How do you move the story along?

Kone 2.0 Concept Art and…Other Things

by in The Chronicles of Urth: Blestemul, Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Life is one long stretch of time where shit happens that is good and bad.

True is this for real people and fictional characters. This blog entry will focus on Kone, one of Alistar’s friends in Blestemul, the new book I’m writing. Kone is an Ironsoul, which means that he has mechanical parts mixed in with organic ones. After a particularly nasty bit of business in the plot line, Kone had most of his living body destroyed, meaning now he is almost completely mechanical. His brain did not survive; rather they stuffed “Kone” into an extremely sophisticated CPU, where he is who he is, but now he can process like a computer. Traumatic to say the least, but not without its benefits. Kone now is a sophisticated war machine, meaning that he has all sorts of military-grade treasures and goodies (I won’t reveal why). Navigation systems, enhanced tracking and sensory awareness, strength, reflex, and agility augmentation, hacking, electronic disruption, and a whole laundry godman list of other terrific shit. Take a look at some (shitty) concept art that I drew for Kone 2.0:

KoneConceptArt2_TCoUBlestemul

The skin on him cannot even fit over the mechanical parts, making it look unnatural. The face plate is synthetic, and does nothing to add humanity. I can’t say why I did this to Kone. And not in a “reveal the ending” kind of way, I truly don’t know why I did this to him. Perhaps I deemed him uninteresting, and needing a new angle. Maybe I was getting lazy, and needed an ace in the hole for later chapters. Maybe I just felt…cruel that day. Or maybe it was a combination of something else entirely. I don’t know.

Shit happens. We are all aware of this, whether it is fictional or real, everything happens to everybody for a specific reason. These reasons are either identifiable immediately, or take some time to reveal themselves. Sometimes, I can feel the world plotting. And I don’t mean people, I can feel the noose of life tighten around my fragile, mortal neck and then loosen when I least expect it. I felt the world plotting against me all my life, but I didn’t really understand what it meant until recently. Yesterday, my car got smashed into by an old man with shitty eyes and a big car. I could feel the incident looming long before it occurred.

Sometimes, I feel as though it maybe is death keeping my ego in check. God, devil, demon, angel, who knows. I worry. I worry because I this time of year always means trouble for me. And as the demons travel in threes, I worry. I worry because maybe this isn’t the end. I worry because maybe there’s more darkness to come.

I will always be on the edge of the abyss, staring into the black. It’s where I belong. Partially (mostly) by choice. And maybe sometimes this bleeds into my writing. Maybe all this shit means something, and I am just a lil’ ol’ pawn in a Chess game so grand and convoluted that I’ll never be anything more than just a basic piece. Maybe I’m full of shit.

Feelings of doom, bad omen, signs. They are everywhere. They can be heeded, ignored, embraced, destroyed, hidden, a whole manner of things. The feelings I get, the thoughts I have, the dream I dream. They are all connected somehow in a massive web that connects me to life, and all the forces that drawn upon it.

Or maybe I’m just a Pawn aspiring to be a King.

Dire Times = Dire Changes

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So…Blestmeul ran wild last night.

I was just putzin’ along, writin’ my shit, and low and behold, the story threw me a curve. Not me, the story itself. In this situation, one of the main characters, Kone? He makes a very big decision that ultimately effects how the story will run. It’s strange sometimes how that happens.

Well, I don’t want to tell you what he did of course. It’ll fuck up the book if you ever want to read it. But I changed him completely all the same. Due to an event that I won’t disclose, Kone went from being partially cybernetic to almost completely all robot. That’s not all, either. He got a shit ton of military grade robotics and upgrades to make him a more efficient man-machine (I’ll post concept art detailing this in the near future). I’m not sure why I did that, to be honest. The story just…took a left turn.

This isn’t the first time its happened in this story. Originally, Kone wasn’t even a character. He came in to help progress the plot early in the book. I built him on a whim, and then added dimension as needed. No, he was supposed to forge a greater relationship with Alistar as time passed. I wanted them to be in each other’s pockets, but that might not be the case right now.

Turns out, Spek, my Groar character? He took over. His life force and personality in the story completely overshadowed Kone, and I simply ran with it. Now now, I’m not ditching Kone. I just found his purpose, and his purpose is not what I expected. The only relationship that is headed in the original direction I intended was with Jala and Alistar. Blestemul isn’t even the same anymore.

See, that’s why I don’t like to plan too much. I don’t like to have the whole story piece by piece, bit by bit laid out for me. If I start sticking to a well crafted plan I’ve made for myself, the writing turns to shit. I mean it too. Unreadable, even by friends or family. My mind is too obsessive and frantic to follow a plan. Does that make me better? No. But it does…force me to think in a different way. Special? No. Unique? I like to think so.

Anyway, this whole entry was on sudden changes if you’re playing the shitty home game. Sometimes, a story just doesn’t go the way you want it to. But that doesn’t mean that you no longer have a story. You simply have a new one. Everyone is so afraid of change, I feel. Especially writers. That’s why I don’t identify with that crowd.

Sometimes, a sudden turn in what seems to be the wrong direction can be the best godamn thing you can do for whatever piece of art you’re working on. Fuck, it can be the best thing for just living your life! Don’t be afraid if your novel is going in a place you don’t like, or understand straight away. Let it run! And if it still turns out shitty?

Just write another one.

Writing and the Mind- Getting Back on Track

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Finding the strength to write is like gripping sand.

Dragging myself out of the brine of complacency, I have lied to myself as to where I need to be, and what I need to do. The mind is a terrible thing. Not to waste, but a terrible thing. I have imagined and seen things in my mind’s eye that have irrevocably changed how I think. By a little bit. Every day. Completely changing, over and over again. That’s how all minds work. Not just mine. I’m not unique there.

I’ve been writing again. Who knows why the flow slows? Who knows why my stomach drops when I think about slamming down a few more words outta a keyboard? I don’t know. And I’ve spent too much time in my life trying to figure out a final reason, a final truth. It might as well be a holy grail for Christsake. Unattainable. Impossible. Unreachable. The mind is too complex for me, or for anyone else to fully understand.

I’ve discovered that forcing myself to write just a little bit begins the flow again. I haven’t been able to write for hours in a long time, but I can feel the inspiration coming. It happens like this every time I write a novel; I reach a point where I’m goin’ through the motions, and then I come back full force. I can feel it. It’s there. As for drawing and art, there isn’t much left now. Concept art for Blestemul I mean. In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve been clutching and clawing for exposure through posting pictures. Simply because the content of my blog has been shit lately.

Time to get back on track. I’ve written over 200 pages in this new book, and I’ll I’ve been doing is pissin’ and moanin’ about how hard writing is when I should be doing the thing I created this fuckin’ blog for. So here we go.

As of right now, I’ve been trying to develop character connections through difficult experiences and trust loops. Along with this, I’ve been changing my main character, twisting him into something the reader might not like. But I always have a plan when it comes to something like this. I won’t disappoint.

As for the beginning of the novel, it starts out simply enough. An alcoholic, washed-up “soldier” eeks out a living on some godforsaken shit hill town when an opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of himself presents itself. Alistar, the main character, has given himself up to the demon, Blestemul, his symbiotic demon-pistol. Stuck inside his head, the demon goads, supports, and torments him as he strikes back at those who have held him down, and are continuing to destroy other peoples’ lives in plain view, under the guise of innocent righteousness.

I also tried to break stereotypes in this book. I created races that seem more bestial, but I developed them like any other “human” character. They have personalities, they wear clothes, cologne, they have opinions, jokes, likes, dislikes, loss and gain. It shows that a good person is a good person, and one can transcend any ignorance with a little effort.

Right now, one friend of Alistar’s, Kone, is missing. One recovered after a traumatic event that she (Jala) shared with AListar, and Spek is now looking for Kone inside of a primordial and very dangerous swamp. They are close to reaching the location of their main objective, and then the book should take off with aggression and grace.

That’s where I am. Now you know, and now I’ve said it. Wrote it. And I feel better. I’m giving you the writing you deserve to read. Am I god’s gift to the written word? NO. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to try. Thanks for reading and sticking with my fury. I won’t disappoint you. I promise.