The following is my narration of a piece of flash fiction I wrote some time ago, a dark fiction story, "The Crow Princess." Enjoy! ^_^

​Ever since I was a child, I’ve always been a fan of mythology. The only thing is that myths can be hard to digest because of their age, or they can be dry and tedious because of poor translation or such. That is why I found Neil Gaiman’s “Norse Mythology” a breath of fresh air. 

​This book tells these myths the way they were intended to be told—not by a scholar or such, but instead by a storyteller! Gaiman does a fantastic job breathing life into these ancient tales, bringing their lush world and rich characters to life. As a fan of both mythology and Neil Gaiman, this book was a match made in heaven! I would definitely recommend it to anyone who loves myths or even fantasy in general.

​My first serious project took place from 2016 to 2018. This project, a manga version of what would later become my Angelica/Demonica webnovel, would ultimately fail and lead me to pursuing a career in writing prose.
The project failed, yes, but it was an experience that I duly needed to truly begin to understand the wild, mercurial beast that is a story—and thusly, understand the concept of fantasy.
“Fantasy” is an odd word for the genre, given that the proper definition of the word aptly applies to all fiction. But I speak of the term in the common disambiguation that one would consider when they think of it in terms of fiction.
That, in turn, refers to a genre that often has a unique world (or an unnaturally modified version of our world), magical components, and possibly (and usually in some form or another) mythical characteristics.

​This is a short list and is in no way comprehensive nor does it give justice to the vast area of themes and elements that the genre encompasses. My point in this list is to gravitate the mind to the idea that fantasy is the greatest creative form available to the writer.
Given its creative breadth, the beast of fantasy holds a unique power, akin to that of literary fiction, yet more covert and easier to swallow. That is, what gives the fantasy genre its power is not its ability to exit or warp reality; it is instead its ability to mimic it.
You might say: “Wait! You just defined fantasy as unnatural or far from reality!”
This is true. But it is that very element that allows the power of fantasy to work.
In this, short and simple, fantasy allows the reader to approach the self and the world in ways that they might not in another genre. When we follow a hero or heroine, we meld with them. This is a key component of fiction in general, but more so with fantasy. Given the idea that the reader wants to escape, they are drawn into the problems of the illusory world in the book. And, in turn, they see themselves in the characters. This may happen subconsciously, but it works as a mirror.
Within the character’s struggles, we see our own; within the character’s world, we approach our own.
Fantasy is the jagged black mirror, its truth only available in the light of suspended belief. Its truth is not the truth of the tale, but the truth of the one reading the words. The reader follows the character, but they’re really following their hearts.

I write all the time, typically to a rigid schedule with personal deadlines to which I impose upon myself as a tyrant proposes some oppressive edict. To be honest, writing is such a crucial and essential part of my daily life that I can’t imagine life without it. I often jokingly say that writing (and art proper) is a “most beautiful burden.” This is irony, of course, because if I didn’t adhere to the making up and writing down of the stories and characters that plague my mind, I would be a rather miserable fellow.

But, despite my ascetic and monk-like attitude toward writing—despite the fact that I have written a novel, several short stories, and even won awards, I still experience something that seems to pervade the mind of every author.

Impostor syndrome.

​Everyone, no matter how successful or obscure, experiences it. It’s impossible not to. You write and write, only to feel that it’s not good enough and that you aren’t a “real writer.”

Writing is in every form a drug, a chasing of a dragon to a point that does not exist. Writing is a freedom bound in chains; it is a passionate romance with a fickle muse who only speaks to you when she feels inclined.

But we have all experienced this discouragement. Anyone who writes can definitely tell you that the occupation is not as romantic as it seems to those non-writers who find the idea of making things up and writing them down foreign and exotic.

But I have realized that, despite the discouragement, it’s a waste of time to feel this way. There’s no benefit in doubting yourself. I’ve written a novel! That alone makes me a writer—no matter what my brain tells me. And even if you haven’t written a novel, you still write, and that’s good enough. The writer writes. That is all there is to it.

We’ll get there soon, slow and steady wins the race.

Impostor Syndrome, I find, comes when I look at others and what they’re doing. I think “they write more than me” or “they get more book sales...”

What a waste of time!

What good does that do for you? Even if those things are true, they have nothing to do with you. All you can do is move forward. Move forward and cut your path.

To end, this reminds me of a quick story. When I was in high school, I was told relatively late in the year that I needed a quote to put under my picture for the yearly book of school staff and students.

As I said, it was late in the year, and I eventually and happily submitted a quote.

But the quote was too late, and I was given a random one instead of my choice. It was:

“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson

So do just that. Go forth as the only thing you can be. Go forward as yourself.

Carcass of a Star is a piece of flash fiction that I wrote back in 2016. A concise tale about the feelings of love and loss, this story would later win me the Cygnet Fiction Award in 2019, earning me my first real award as a writer!

The following is my audio narration of the piece. Enjoy!

The life of the author is not an easy one. It takes patience and perseverance to write a novel (or anything for that matter), and quite commonly, the writer feels like they exist in a vacuum. The writer is a strange animal, an entity that seemingly exists here and “there” (wherever “there” may be).

We pop in and out of this world, between the odd landscapes within our minds. There are many times when I ask family and friends to repeat things because I was “there” instead of here.

​What exactly a writer is—well—that’s a rather interesting conversation. I say this mainly because not everyone is a writer. Not everyone has these curious voices in their minds; not everyone dreams intently about scenes or plots. The writer constantly is a deviser, an ever-working clockmaker, fixing and crafting a tale while hoping that the muse will look their way. Sometimes, she will. The muse is a fickle woman, but her voice is sweeter than song.

​Everything about writing is mysterious, and there’s a beauty in that. Perhaps it is because if we writers understood our craft fully it might be harder to respect it. The humble wish to grow; the comfortable are content.

And the writer must always be humble, for it is when they believe they understand the art that, like a feral dog, it will betray them.

​So, what to take away from this. Well, if you’re a writer, then you should know that you are a lucky creature to hold the beautiful burden of imagination and the love of storytelling. Don’t—and I mean never—take that for granted.

​Enjoyed this post? Comment your thoughts! I'd love to hear them! :)

An interesting question came to me in a conversation with a friend. That is, the conundrum of “Where do story characters come from?”

I say that it is interesting because I quite candidly don’t know the answer. The arrival of a character is almost as enigmatic as the character is themselves. Characters are, in a materialist’s opinion, figments of the imagination. They are merely creations of the engine of the mind put forth for the writer’s use in a story. But we know that’s not all there is to it, though the above opinion is partially correct, of course.

But it is not wholly correct.

Characters are human; they are just as human as you or I. They have personalities; they have quirks and nuances; they laugh, and they cry. And most human of all, they possess the most remarkable resilience.
But their origins are unknown. Perhaps they are mere figments, ghosts of the psyche that are conjured for the very purpose of slaving to a plot. Or maybe they are a stroke of providence, a unique piece of “somewhere else” (if you believe there is somewhere out there that one could consider “else”). Of course, both explanations seem fitting on a philosophical spectrum, I believe there is more to it than that, and my beliefs come from a particular part of my writing process.

I do not brainstorm characters. Honestly, I rarely research name meanings to fit a character’s personality. Though there is no correct way to make or name a character (just as there is no correct way to write a story), I personally believe this takes away the sense of organism that the character possesses in my mind.

So, what do I do when I need a new character, you might ask? Well, I’m a bit careless. I clear my mind and simply ask:

​“What’s your name?”

It’s curious to me how I will always get an answer. Of course, I have planned characters, but most are happy surprises.
And because of this, I cannot say that they are mere figments for a story. Many of them don’t have a story yet. And as for providence, I don’t believe any of them are given to me.

No. Characters are something entirely other. Perhaps they are real? And I believe I love the mystery of it. They are blessings to the writer. They teach us; they surprise us; they show us the beauty in the world when they overcome
adversity. They are unique and wondrous little voices that speak to our hearts and minds…

​And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy writing.

A friend disagreed with me once about the blessings of art in contrast to the curses of the artist. It is a fascinating subject indeed. And those who are not a slave to the muses have difficulty understanding the yoke the artist wears around their neck.
Art is the most beautiful burden, and that does not necessarily make it a bad thing.
In a conversation with my wonderful editor on if writing my second book will be easier than the first, I replied that, for a writer, ease is the enemy. Ease is the sign that you have stopped; ease is the sign that you have become comfortable with your writing ability, and that—well--that is a most dangerous position to be. If you ever believe that writing is “easy,” you must know that you are simply fooling yourself:

Danger! Danger! You must turn back!

So how do these two topics amalgamate? How does the burden of writing keep us from the dangers of ease?
Burden is the sign of growth; hardship is the sign of progress. Triumph over burden means that your passion is true, and true passion is the crux of good Art.
So, let me broaden the words of the great master above me...

​“[Art] is life. Breathe deeply of it.”

"Carcass of a Star" is one of the first pieces I wrote when I began to seriously pursue writing as a lifelong endeavor. Since its conception in 2016, it has become one of my favorite works, and has even, to my surprise, won an award.

Anyways, enjoy. :)

Eli stood as he stared straight up into the night sky. He viewed a great beyond, dotted with subtle freckles of light here and there. Silence was the accompaniment of the occasion, and every now and again it seemed his mind could place patterns in the way the stars hung, creating the illusion that the vespers were connected by faint lines. He knew, however, this was merely his eyes playing tricks on him. The sky was a black canvas, and, the longer he looked, the deeper it appeared. He remembered his teachers in high school science class saying that some stars had died out millions of years ago and that the light we see in the sky simply hasn't reached Earth yet.

It was a melancholic moment; to think the brilliant light of a star could merely be the grandeur of a glory long gone.
​
Eli lowered his head.

He told himself he wouldn't think of her; he told himself he would forget. He would come outside, look at the stars—put it in “perspective.”

No.

It was futile.

Eli sighed deeply as he walked across the weathered boards of his back porch to the door. Locking the door behind him as he entered, he sunk into the recliner. The old cushions seemed to swallow him whole, casting him into an abyss shadowed by the darkness of the room around him. He had no words; loud emotion enveloped a silent man.
Turning on the TV was useless; he couldn't focus. He tried calling her. Once. Twice. Four times...

Nothing.

Even the stars live in the past, he thought to himself, remembering how close they were at one time. His stomach tore and writhed; her smile made him anxious. Her hazel eyes were akin to the stardust illuminated by a distant sun. She was a spectacle: a marvel that danced around him when they walked the historic district. Nothing about her was commonplace, but everything about her absence was. The days without her voice were deafening.

The air was stagnant.

Eli raised from the chair and walked down the hall. The scuffing of his feet made a scratching sound as the rubbed against the aged carpet. He changed into more comfortable clothes, then went to bed. Another day had gone; another day had been wasted. He lay for a while, then slumber took him. A chilly autumn night, once more: alone.

​But even worse: once more, mundane.

There is a deepness and unsung clarity to this quote. Over the past few weeks, I have been reading Joseph Campbell’s magnum opus, “The Hero With A Thousand Faces,” and it is odd just how much this single book has caused me to grow as a writer and overall as a storyteller.

​I have always been a lover of stories; I have always believed in their power. They move us, teach us, and cause us to grow. Stories are inherently and inextricably human, and you probably couldn’t imagine your life without them.

So what makes a story “human”? And just what does it mean for a story to be “human”?
When you read a tale of heroism or extravagance, you might read this and think “How am I anything like this hero? They’re so larger than life!” And if I told you that these heroes are not so different from you or me, would you believe me? Would you believe me if I said that these heroes and heroines are all a part of the same archetype—the same human spirit and psyche?

I must admit that, as a writer, I do.

Stories are things that have the power to transcend the contrived boundaries between humanity and yet, deep within them, they hold the keys to our very essence. All peoples, when moved by a tale, will weep at its beauty.

The above quote is a favorite of mine, simply because it captures the message of Campbell’s book so well, and I think it's so wise because often times we don't strive for the things we desire because we're afraid of failure. In a sense, our lives aren't so different from that of the hero who journeys into the cursed cave to find his sacred treasure. No. The heroes of myth and legend, in many ways, are not so different from us everyday people. While we will indeed never journey to obtain the Golden Fleece or wrestle the wild man Enkidu, we still have two things that the heroes of ancient tales possess: We have the fear of the unknown and the proclivity for courage.
Indeed the unknown faces us, its visage abysmal and grim. We know that our desires lie within, but darkness is daunting, isn’t it? But with only a little courage does the hero solve the riddle, escape the trap, slay the beast. When one’s virtue supersedes their self-preservation, that is true courage.

So, then, how are you like the heroes of ancient myth? Easily put, you are kin in that all humans struggle, and all humans possess desires, loves, romances. The heroes of ancient times may seem so alienated from the common day, but the truth is that they are not. The protagonists of these age old epics are merely hyperbolic archetypes of what it means to be human.

​Go, bravely into the cave, for there is thunder within you.