Peredhil

Looks seamless to me. *big Poilte hugs* thank you so much.

True thought, Snypiuer - I've noticed, though, that when people are happy, they are too busy being happy to make time to write. Unfortunate thing, that.

Interesting. I think many of us have felt that way. There's a subtle arrogance in this - that all the control and decisions must be made by the writer. No wonder the other can't leave, if they've never been empowered to be equal? Giving up is always easiest...

Couple of things inspire me. I find that making myself go out and be with people, like going to a group thing and actually listening will help. Reading books and what-iffing the things the author didn't write. Oddly, reading the Bible will trigger things. The biggest thing I've found about being a writer is writing discipline. Zool is the one who first exposed the idea to me, and more than anything else, it's true. Write every day. Write about life, ideas, what excites or upset you. Be totally and ruthlessly honest with yourself. Write about not being able to write if you must. Have pity parties, rejoice without guilt and modesty, But write. And never ever show it to anyone else. It's a private contract between you and your muse, a place you can meet in privacy, authenticity, and work through things. You'll find reoccuring themes happening. You'll reveal the issues of your heart. Plus, like priming a pump, you'll flush out the "bad water" of really crappy writing, and ideas will bubble up that are worthwhile. *hugs* I for one have been a lurker for a long time, and do read and enjoy your writing, and hope you continue.

That's wonderful and snarky and echoes Dr. Seuss. Polite Hugs

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Wow. Usually I'd just cover this, but I'm skint at the moment. I'll see what I can scrape up.

My Beloved has done this and has the T-shirt. I highly recommend this for anyone. Even if you don't make 50K words, there is nothing like forced writing to purge the gunk out of your pipe-line to your Muse and find the silver and gold nuggets.

Gygax watched sourly as Bark scraped the wyvern hide with his battle-axe. It made sense that the flesh had to be removed from the inside of the hide, but the repetitive sound was beginning to scrape his nerves as well. The New Hat, "Our Distance Weapon", as he thought of Cass, was still powerless after her incredibly deadly striking down of the wyvern with lightning, followed by the surging display of power that had made the magic tent in which they all rested. Too bad she really hadn't controlled either. Rather like a crossbow with a damp string. Worked well unless it didn't."I'm going to go out and explore," he announced quietly. Cass was lost in her magical studies or mediation or whatever a powerless Hat did. Bark continued to work at the hide, occasionally pausing to backhand his hell-hound puppy, Dammit, when the pup's teeth managed to gnaw painfully at his thick hairy skin. Gathering his own pup, Cindy (short for Incendiary,) into her pouch at his waist, he prowled out the hanging folds of the tent fabric's "door". The shimmering light that made the tent's awning was sagging in front of him nearly to the ground. Something big was on it. More boulders from giants trying to bury the tent? He edged over to the left, along the tent wall. A misshapen lumpy elbow was protruding beyond the edge of the fabric. It was covered with large scales on the side, diminishing in size as they approached the point of the elbow. The overlapping curved elbow scales were merely the size of a small buckler, perhaps two feet in diameter. ... The small scales. Edging back ever so very slowly, he retreated back into the tent. "There look to be a dragon sleeping on the tent," he announced. He was proud of how calm he sounded. "A green dragon," he amplified. He thought he sounded calm - it was hard to hear his words over the pounding of the blood in his ears. "I'll explore later."

It lay on a stone bier, arrayed in robes, jewels on rings, necklace, crown, and piercing ears. The type and color undetermined due to the lack of any light. The skin of the death mask had dried to a parchment texture and stretched paper-thin and taut over the jaw, the cheeks, the forehead. The sunken eyes were deep in sockets. The withered hands held crossed hiltless dagger and short crooked staff. A beetle wandered out of the headdress and trekked across the face, finally pushing between the lips to explore the hidden cavern of the mouth. Far to the north, a beacon-light flared in the Dead Plains. Like moths to a torch, the restless dead began drifting toward it. It was quickly extinguished, but inertia kept most moving. Days later, the beacon was lit again. The shambling ones altered their movement to proceed toward this newest summons. Back in the tomb, the sunken eyelids fluttered and failed to open, sewn shut. A hand twitched on the staff, long dead tendons tightening and loosening. The next time the beacon lit the Dead, the beetle scurried away from its new home and off the face, falling to bounce off the stone table, and then to tumble to the floor. After a minute, it dragged itself away on five legs, not looking back, and so missing the twisting of the head as the sewn eyelids followed its struggled until it was lost into the wall. The head stayed turned at it's unnaturally strained angle, seemingly looking north toward where the beacon flared last.

This really captures the emptiness and exhaustion after a relationship dies. I remember feeling this way. In the chasm of exhaustion Broken deep inside Tried too hard Clung to the past My heart ripped open wide, I could not envision yet (Limited point of view) Futures bright Well worth the fight Depression has no clue.

LOL. The ladies don't look good with bruises...

One of the reasons that I made time when online to swing by was to see what you'd written. difficult challenge, and well done in accomplishing this. Some of them are rough, but many gems look unlovely before they are polished. Well done indeed.

That's when the psychiatrist asked, "were you there when the log was thrown?" A flash of memory. A wrinkled grey limber tentacle releasing a log. The bark was rough, peeling, and the yellow wood, fine-grained, was exposed in places, like a teasing tart, small stubs of branches had been shorn as closely to the trunk as Samson's hair. "I... I think so?" They whispered together, and he leaned forward to listen. They stopped. He explored this new power, leaning forward and back in the chair, to the limits of the handcuffs, controlling the pace of their conversation. Only one wisp of meaning came through to his awareness. It hadn't been human blood on him.

Core Warez ships!

I have two shirts - Mynx has one. We <3 them.

That's beautiful.

Peredhil saunters in, and hugs everyone huggable. Jechum! Often on my mind of late, since Mynx has me playing FARS again. I do look forward to seeing you again, in person instead of an apparition!

*wipes brow and hugs Politely* welcome back in a big way!

cool!

Marion Zimmer Bradley wrote the best-selling Darkover novels. She also mentored many of today's top-selling fantasy/science fiction artist, and was one of the first to take the best of fan-fiction and publish what had been written well in her worlds. She knew what sold, and how to sell it. If you want to be a selling artist, read this ~ Peredhil

*dies laughing* PLOP

Peredhil in haste I volunteer "Should I post" for it. Might make a good lead-off poem? Keep me informed and I'll contribute money as well.

Oooh, I like this. Good stuff. Even if it were inspired by something else - is there truly anything original? - you made it yours and shared it here. thank you!

I like it! and I have a new TSHIRT!!!