Hello there, friends and followers. It's been a while...or has it? I lose track sometimes.
For those of you who've read my previous posts, you know about Camp NaNo and my struggles with that writing challenge. Well, among many other things, I've learned this: don’t post on the Internet about something that one hasn't yet completed. To my shame, I didn't reach my goal. However, I do have the raw beginnings of an (hopefully) epic story, and evil plans for the ending. *masks snicker under an innocent smile*
Another thing I learned is that an odd piece of writing advice actually works. I’m referring to Mr. S.’s way of creating conflict when one is stuck: doing something completely unexpected. It sends the writing part of one’s brain (and one’s characters) scrambling to figure out what on earth just happened. It’s also known as making the house explode or dropping a body from the ceiling. (I believe I covered that in a previous post.) I opted for the pyromaniacal version and figured out a way to theoretically knock someone unconscious with a sharp edge of furniture and a firecracker. Not quite as useful as knowing how to chloroform someone (though I do intend to learn how to do that—writing purposes only. Well…probably.)
Now that I've gotten that piece of writing advice and my slightly sociopathic tendencies out of my head and into the world of the internet, let’s move on. The title of this post includes the words “Late-night Poetry”, so I suppose I should elaborate before I forget what I mean to say (which happens too often for comfort). Great ideas always seem to come at the wrong times (see The Marvels of the Human Brain). Sometimes they’re story ideas, sometimes artsy things, and sometimes…poetry.
Lately I've had ideas for poems right before bed, which usually ends in me staying up far too late and risking becoming a sleep-deprived dragoness the next day. Some of them don’t rhyme at all, nor have much rhythm to the words. Others (some of my favorites) are poems that attempt to be tragic, but probably don’t make much sense outside the context of the story they accompany. (In other words, yes, I do indeed write fanfiction (or I suppose it would called fanpoetry) for my own stories.) Still others are poems about stories not of my own creation. For instance, behold this limerick based off of Sherlock:
There once was a soldier named John
Who was never found mowing his lawn.
He sat drinking his tea
Away from 221B
Until the game was back on.
I may regret posting that, but probably not. The Sherlock fandom is exceptionally insane; the above poem wouldn't look at all odd among some of the more…interesting…works of the Sherlockians. Perhaps one day I’ll post a proper poem…or not. Showing someone one’s writing is showing them a piece of one’s self that nobody sees otherwise. We have to bare a piece of our souls to the often unsympathetic eyes of our viewers, and sometimes it hurts. Which is why I should be a bit more worried about what people think about my blog, but I’m not. I would blame it on the Perceiving part of my personality type, but that doesn't entirely fit, either. Hmm.
I shall sign off before I go off onto another long tangent. Mind your head as you go out; there’s a sword hanging on the wall somewhere around here, unless Tin had to go on another dragon-slaying quest. I really should keep better track of what my characters are doing.
