A Writer's Mind

The Benefits and Negatives of Social Media

2012-03-07T21:43:00.001-06:00

Social media has been developing since around 1960. The internet was invented to share information from one computer to another in a different city. The concept resembles the purpose of the telegraph and then the telephone after that. And it created a new means of social interaction. It created a fast way to share large amounts of information across long distances. It was time efficient and convenient as well. For example, with the invention of the internet, companies no longer had to hold long telephone discussions with another branch somewhere else or visit that branch to get a report. They could simply look the file up of the internet database.

Social media has come a long way from databases used by companies to share information. We still use social media to share information, I should call it trading information, but I'll reserve that for a different time. We share things about our lives and what we find interesting or helpful on every social media site. This is social media at its core. On twitter we share links or short blurbs about our lives. On Facebook we share longer "statuses" about our lives and we share our opinions or joke around with our "Facebook Friends."

There are benefits and negatives to social media for everyone. But I want to concentrate on writers. Writers have stronger benefits in using social media than the average person using it.Writers also suffer more from the basic negative of social media.

And after an elaborate and useless drum roll, we announce the basic negative! Social media is, as we all admit, a prolific time waster. If used effectively and carefully it is not a waste of time. But when someone is constantly checking Facebook for no good reason (checking to see if a friend's relational status has changed yet again is not a good reason) and tweeting random stuff about his life is addicted to social media. If this person is a writer than he should understand the danger (financially) of spending too much time on social media. For writers, the saying "time is money" is far too literal.

Writing is a delicate craft that requires dedication to the max. Any time spent checking Facebook (and I'll admit I do this occasionally) is a distraction and cuts from your max dedication to your work.

The benefits of social media for writers are fantastic. With social media we can do one thing that makes are lonely occupation less overbearing. That thing is networking. With social media (even writing websites) this process is very easy. Facebook makes it easy to carry on light conversations with fellow writers. Twitter makes it easy to share and receive helpful writing tips or articles. Google+, I have found, is the best place to find and connect with other authors. I have also observed better feedback to a question and longer discussions there.

The other benefit to social media for writers is what some people consider link-dropping. I consider it an art. Sharing your own work such as a blog post, a short story, or a link to your e-book, is very important nowadays as an author. These things help get your stuff read and your name out there.

I am not condoning link-dropping. I am adding intrigue for my next post. When link-dropping becomes an art is when there is a balanced trade between the author and reader from a social media site. This concept of online trading (instead of the word sharing) is something I will talk in more detail about in my next post.

Wow! That was a long one! Thanks for sticking with it. I do hope you enjoyed the post. Let me know if you have any other disadvantages or advantages in regards to social media.

Dedication rises from disappointment.

2012-03-03T10:49:00.001-06:00

What normally should have hurt like a bullet ripping through my flesh, only caused me to flinch and sigh. I did not even make it past the first round in the novel contest I entered. (see An Adventure with Amazon)

I am thankful for my copy-editor, a fellow Professional Writing major, and for the rest of my mock-publishing squad. Through their tips and edits the errors of my work were revealed to me. The author, no matter how long the manuscript sits aside, will not catch everything. I ripped that manuscript apart over Christmas break and here, about two months later, fresh eyes are pointing out things I would never have seen.

It is the process of my copy-editor's hard work and the many things I've had to do (synopsis writing, back cover text writing, cover designs, pitch writing, and editing) during this mock-publishing process my professor is guiding me through that has enabled me to resist the disappointment that always accompanies rejection.

I am imbued with a fresh sense of dedication. That dedication pushes me to polish this manuscript close to perfection. It does not push me to obtain perfection because I know perfection on earth is impossible. Also, the perfectionist author cannot compete in the fast pace of today's literary market.

The author who looks upon his/her book with a critical eye is able to resurrect dedication from the grave of rejection and disappointment.

How Much Description is too Much?

2012-02-25T10:25:00.001-06:00

I don't honestly know how much description is too much. But I do know that every author has strengths and weaknesses. I know that the business of writing is filled with distinct individuals. I know that some authors can use massive blocks of description effectively and others cannot. It really depends on the author.

I know what I expect as a reader and reviewer though. I know that what separates the excellent writer from the good one is the drive for improvement. The excellent writers are never content with their writing. They constantly strive to provide the reader with better work and this is what the reader and reviewer want.

In the area of writing description there is always room for improvement. But there is also a basic reality to what the reader expects. Now, granted, the reader is an individual as well and some may be more tolerant than others, but here is the basic reality: The reader expects description to put them into the story, but not distract from it.

Some authors have their strong point in dialogue and action. Others have their strong point in description. Two authors whose strength is in description are T.A. Barron and Stephen Lawhead. They are masters at it. But both of their styles are wildly different.

T.A. Barron tends to have lengthier description sections and more often, but his language is so magnificent and easy to read that the reader hardly notices the absence of dialogue for a few pages.

Stephen Lawhead is a more balanced writer between dialogue and description, but he does have a strength is description. He is able to describe a scene vividly using unexpected details that successfully cast an image into the mind of his reader.

These two authors represent what I expect as a reader and reviewer. They use description effectively and are able to keep the reader's mind in the plot and run of the story. Scenes in writing are much like scenes in plays. The set (description) is in the background. It enhances, sets-up, and frames the scene, but it does not distract from the actors (characters.) This is what the reader expects from a writer in regards to description.

The Writing of Characters

2012-02-21T18:25:00.001-06:00

When I read a book I always consider it an adventure I have chosen to go on.I look to the author and say, "guide me." And guiding me is all Iexpect the author to do. I expect to be shown the story that is the adventure,but I want to see and understand some things on my own. Authors shouldnot be tedious tour guides. We, the readers, have a lust for the juicy parts of the adventureand it is what we expect to get. We want toexperience some things on our own. We have imagination too.

This week I plan to write about what the reader expects from a writer. Ihave some authority is this subject since I am an avid reader and honest,sometimes brutally, book reviewer. Today's post concerns characters.Particularly what the reader expects in regards to how the author presentscharacters to the reader through dialogue.

Museums are a useful illustration for how readers should see characters. Atypical museum display contains a small plaque that tells about the display.These plaques allow the reader to see more into the aspects of the display thanthe tour guide point out. Writing characters works the same way.

You can tell your reader a few of the prominent details about a character,but they do not want to be bored by every little detail. Some good details thatyou can give the reader safely are the eye color and the height. You could evensay a character is handsome or beautiful, but you must allow the reader toimagine what they believe the character looks like overall. This aspect makesthe character, especially the main protagonist, more personal and encourages the reader to care for them.

One thing that we rarely obtain from a museum is how the people in thedisplays lived and acted. We cannot understand the full character of someonejust by looking at physical appearance. You see, if you look at a mummy in acoffin…I mean sarcophagus…you would not say, “He’s a funny fella.”

The only way you could possibly know the character/personality of whoeverthat mummy was would be to don a lab coat, construct a time machine, and travelback in time to ancient Egypt. Then, if you don’t get stuck in a desert orkilled by nomads, you have to find out who that mummy was when he lived. In alllikelihood it will be some pharaoh and you would never get to him. Even if youdid find the man-before-the-mummy, you would have to get close to him and followhim around before you ever truly got to know him.

Reflecting on the past illustration, our job as writers is to spare thereader from having to do anything remotely similar to that. We can grant themimmediate access into the most personal recesses of a character’s life. We dothis through dialogue. No reader is going to want to be told that Jason arguedwith his wife and left her. The reader wants to hear the argument, see thepain, and watch as Jason leaves. Now if the main protagonist was Jason’s wife,and the reader had already developed a love for her, imagine how deeplyemotional that scene would be.

It is also easier to discover a character’s past through dialogue and it isinfinitely less boring. I’m not suggesting that a character details everythingabout his past to someone he just met, but the author could let a little slipand then allow the reader to fill in some minor details based on what theyalready know about the character.

These have been speculations with Joshua A. Spotts, tune in next time…

Research in Fantasy Writing

2012-02-17T17:51:00.000-06:00

How important do you imagine research to be? I know how important I feel it is. Very. I know some people, who will remain nameless, who believe that research is a waste of time for short story writing or fantasy novels. There is nothing farther from the truth.

Recently I wrote a short story for a competition. It had to be based on the Titanic. I wanted my work to look professional. I wanted it to be flawless. I spent several hours one night over Christmas break just reading information about the Titanic. By the time I was done with the research I was able to sit down and write my entire story in a single sitting. It actually made the writing easier since I knew more than enough details about the Titanic and its crew. Also, for once in a rare time, I was satisfied with my work.

By common sense research is necessary for things like Magazine article writing, modern or historical based novels, and research papers (duh!) But the one fact that must never be overlooked in research's necessity in fantasy writing.

Research for fantasy writing often takes a different twist than research for the things I've listed above. In fact it even defies the common conception of research.

Fantasy research involves studying people, which is fun, analyzing their conversations, developing characters from their faults, all that fun stuff. Fantasy must have believable characters that the reader can attach to. This is achieved by the research into real people.

Fantasy research also involves studying the world around you. The fantasy writer needs to be able to describe new things straight from his imagination. Thus the fantasy writer needs to study their surrounding and be able to describe them. How else, if the writer cannot do that, can the writer describe something no one has ever seen before?

Finally, fantasy research involves bookstores. Find out what has been written before. Know what fantasy ideas are original. People always enjoy a fresh, brand new fantasy. Also find out what trends are selling. I am not advising you to write a Twilight novel, but you can create something original along the same line of a selling book trend. It just takes some work and some research.

The Foolish Fly

2012-02-14T18:37:00.000-06:00

There is nothing more annoying to Cook than that one fly. I know it is a different one each day, but she insists it is the same one. She calls it the "demon fly." It has been her adversary for this past month and, in the fact that it hinders her work, it is our adversary. Papa doesn't like his meals to be late. Tonight he commanded that she spend the next ignoring the fly.

I chuckled, but he glared at me. Let me tell you, I shut my trap real quick. When Papa means business he means business and no longer. Period. When dinner was over I volunteered to help Cook kill the fly. She was hesitant. I managed to convince her that, with patience, we could kill the annoyance.

I put a dab of honey on the counter, grabbed the fly-swatter, and waited. I could hear Cook's heavy breathing beside me. I wondered if she would have enough patience for this. It turns out she did not.
As soon as the fly landed and started to eye the honey she left out with a rolling pin and tried to smash it. The fly darted away and hovered inches from her face, mocking her.

This continued for about three hours. The haughty fly grew more and more confident and ever the more obnoxious. Cook seemed to have steam coming from her ears. I sent her off into the next room. I had the fly right where I wanted it, right there in its overbearing self-confidence. It landed and looked at me. I waited. It buzzed toward me and buzzed back to the honey. I almost laughed. It was trying to intimidate me! I stayed still.

It soon grew bored of its game and, in its pride, it landed and began to eat from the drop of honey. Oh, foolish fly! I rushed forward, bringing the fly-swatter down. The last thing the haughty fly saw was that pile of honey. It had fallen for my trap. Patience was victorious over speed once again.

The End

Flies are the most obnoxious antagonists ever. There are certain people who are just as obnoxious. They are arrogant, they mock us, then they fall. No one likes these people. But only the patient people can ever tolerate or defeat them.

These obnoxious antagonists can be used rather effectively in short stories. The reader knows how irritating these type of people can be and therefore they connect more with the protagonist. Not every villain in a story should be brilliant, some need to be those obnoxious people that we all struggle against.

The Beatitudes of Writers

2012-02-10T15:40:00.000-06:00

Some would say that this modern age has thrown out the old writer, the one who signed books and interacted with people, and replaced them with a breed of instantly published e-book writers who lurk at their computers and loiter on the internet. I disagree entirely.

There are certain qualities writers need that are necessary for success, even perhaps survival, in the publishing marketplace. Many writers possess these qualities, some do not, others have yet to emerge from their shells. I have compiled a list of beatitudes for writers. I hope they help you.

1. Writers need to understand people and interact with them on a regular basis. Our readers are our lifeblood. Our characters are people. So why shouldn't we strive to understand (though this is hard at times) and communicate with people. The better we know how people act, the more believable characters we can make. The more we communicate, the better our dialogue is.

It is true that in this age the internet has arisen as the dominant method of communication. This does effect writers and allows us an easy method of communication with editors and agents and each other, but we must not forget how to communicate with people face to face. Think about it.

Say, for example, that you create a wonderful story, cultivate a loyal, online tribe, but never interact with people apart from a small circle, and a publisher notices you. They e-mail you and offers you a chance to pitch the book to their editor-in-chief. Now, you go out there, your knees shake, you are uncomfortable and pale. The editor stares at you and waits patiently. Then, because of your lack of face-to-face capabilities, you fail the pitch. This is a disaster.

So remember dear friends, even though the internet provides us with boundless marketing and networking capabilities, we must never abandon face-to-face interaction. I understand that many of you are dedicated and must be at your computer, but would it hurt to take a break, get a haircut, and just talk casually with the barber? Those guys are limitless sources of material too!

2. Writers should, specifically, interact with their readers. In the past this was through book signings (which are still done) and even letter correspondence. In this modern age of ours this quality of a writer has gone up in its necessity. Our readers are online now. They are on our website and blogs. They expect interaction and you should give it to them. This beatitude is easier to possess today than it ever was. Twitter is a prime example; short, quick responses to short, quick questions or comments. Then (KABAM!) the reader feels valued.

3. Writers should know their manners. This can be used in context to both the above beatitudes. When working with editors and agents, the editors expect and deserve respect. They are the gatekeepers. When publishing an e-book, be respectful and polite to the reader. When talking with an agent, be respectful and they will respect you. A lot of the senior members of this writing community grew up with manners and they are impressed by members of the younger generation who use it.

4. Writers should give the readers their best. Nothing more needs to be said on this beatitude. It is a rule and a quality that should not need explanation.

Dearest reader, I realize that there are some aspects in attribute/beatitude #1 that have not been thoroughly explored, but I do not believe blogs should be overly long. I do hope that these beatitudes (or behaviors) are ones you will apply to yourself. They are the ones I try to live by.

The Quadruple S

2012-02-08T20:19:00.000-06:00

I cross myself and spit to one side whenever a fellow Professional Writing major mentions Silent Snow, Secret Snow. It is a joking action that I thought up with my friend Nathan Sturgis. I should probably explain myself.

Silent Snow, Secret Snow is a superb short story created by Conrad Aiken. We are studying it in my Professional Writing class. My teacher, Doctor Hensley, adores the story; and for good reasons! The short story concerns a child named Paul Hasleman and how the people in his life, who should be uplifting him and causing him to bloom forth in his dreams, are pushing him back into a little, cold, protected seed. They want him to be normal. Paul, in reaction, develops a protective screening of snow that only he knows about. It separates him from the world.

It is an utterly frightening reality check on how we treat others, particularly children. Silent Snow, Secret Snow reveals the awesome influence adults have over children, especially those in adolescence, when they're developing their interests and going through changes. I am the older brother of several young siblings. I understand how little children look to their elders for guidance. I also understand what it is to have a dream and to have it suppressed. This story frightens me because I can put myself in Paul's shoes and, what is worse, I can see my little siblings in Paul's shoes. I know they aren't there in real life, but I can see the possibility and it horrifies me.

I apologize for rambling on up there in the last paragraph. I do believe you understand the power of this story though. It is a fantastic read. It is a literary masterpiece. But, above both these things, it is more powerful when read aloud. It seems as if it it designed to be read aloud. You can actually hear the whirlwind and the snowstorm in the reader's voice. This is due to the 's' and 'ch' sounds that are woven together in a miraculous symphony of alliterative prose. Everything in that short story is placed there on purpose. No color, no reference is out of place. Nothing is without meaning. I highly recommend reading this short story, both out loud and silently.

But, on a negative side, and to explain why I cross myself and spit at the story's mention, it does get tedious when we are analyzing it day after day. It is enlightening and I am sure it is teaching us something. But I believe that some short stories are meant to be enjoyed and not over-analyzed. The story had more impact on me when Doctor Hensley read it aloud than it did when we started analyzing it. But the analysis has brought out many aspects I would never have seen. I stand rather half and half about this "Quadruple S short story," as I have called it. I am appreciative of the analysis for the fact that it helps me see how to write better.

Also, it is a little frightening and could be self-defeating to compare one's own writing to such a masterpiece, but I feel that, for me, it has motivated me to writer better. It has motivated me and I tell myself that, "if a guy with a weird name like Conrad Aiken can create a masterpiece, a guy with a rather normal name like Joshua A. Spotts can create a masterpiece as well!"

Noisy Blogging

2012-02-03T23:36:00.000-06:00

In a household with children, noise is an ever present reality. That is, except for nap-times. The noisy bloggers of the internet world are like this. Link-dropping noisy bloggers are like this. They drop their blog link on sites and trumpet it perpetually, but the blog is filled with noise. The only time they are quiet is when they have not posted something new.

In these blogs there is rarely any focus. There is rarely any kernels of precise interest or profound knowledge. Have you ever tried to understand what a two-year-old is saying when they are excited? You understand only a few eligible "words" out of the slew of noise which could be called "communication." Indeed, they are trying to communicate; trying and failing.

I am not saying that writing that way can not develop into better writing. After all, haven't we advanced from our two-year-old method of communicating to the sophisticated (in comparison) communication we use on a day to day basis? But how did we get to this point? We got here because our parents coached us in our communication. They taught us manners. They suffered through our "terrible twos." They made us go to school. Yes, admit it, sometimes you didn't want to go.

So, in the same way, before trying to express an idea to the internet world of users, the writer should educate themselves and strive to write clearly, precisely, and without noise. We, as fellow writers, should guide our fellow writers to better communication. I know, my friends, that I enjoy feedback. If someone takes offense then they deserve to dwell in that pit.

Onward, fellows, to the second part of this blog! What is "noise" in a blog? Noise is found in a blog that has no set purpose. This blog's content tends to waver, to flutter from one snippet to another. This can be okay, if done right. Noise consists of poor writing. Noise consists of uninteresting blog foundations. Noise can even exist in blogs with a poor background and poor site structure. For example: A bland, white and black webpage with the generic set up and no personal information on the author.

We, as good writers, should avoid these things in our blogs. Make all your content interesting, write clearly, and have an interesting web design. Also, make the blog personal. Add a thorough profile and a nice picture. Make your writing personal. Blog readers are interested in your blog because they are interested in what you have to say. So, for the universal reputation of blogging, say it without noise.

Sincerely,
Joshua A. Spotts

Quality over readers?

2012-01-30T19:04:00.000-06:00

I have returned! But, before you read this blog post, please make sure you've read this one: Disappointment. It can be considered a prologue to this one as it introduces the main question we will consider. Should we sacrifice quality to make something that our readers enjoy?

Sometimes the human heart refuses to be challenged. Sometimes the human mind does not want to exercise. It is a good thing to have our hearts challenged. We need to get out of our comfort zone more often. It is a good thing to exercise our mind for we cannot learn if we do not exercise with something new. In writing there is a challenge. It is the challenge of interweaving take away value and pleasure. This can be done easily and smoothly, but there are times when it is difficult.

The writer can craft a rich, aesthetically pleasing story that is read by hundreds of people. But if the writer does not add any take away value (something to be learned from the story) all he really gave those readers were a few moments of pleasure that they will ultimately forget within a short amount of time.

The writer can create a story where the take away value is seen everywhere. The writer can create a story that is flooded with value and things to be learned. But, my dear friends, this makes for a rather boring story. This kind of writing is found in textbooks and cliche, dry novels, particularly Christian ones. I do not want to pick on Christian novels since there are many good Christian writers (myself being one) and novels out there. But, in brutal honesty, many Christian novels seem to be terribly cliche and the values are so vivid that the reader chokes and dry-heaves on them.

So, now that we see both extremes of the question, what is the answer? I believe that at no time should we ever sacrifice the quality, and by "quality" I mean take away value and memorability, of our writing in order to create something the reader will read. If you, as a writer, have something to say to the reader (even if it is a touchy subject) then just say it! It does not matter if you get many reactions or few reactions. If you believe it will touch someone whose heart is willing to be challenged then it was worth writing.

Remember, fellow writers, you always need to interweave take away value and the pleasure/enjoyability in your writing. But you also must remember never to sacrifice quality to give the reader what he wants. If you have a message say it! The quality is always inside the message of the work.

Sincerely,
Joshua A. Spotts

P.S. I apologize this was not posted sooner. I meant to post it on Saturday, but I did not have any internet access that day. Sunday I spent with my family. This evening I spent writing this for you.

Disapointment

2012-01-27T09:08:00.001-06:00

I have a confession to make. I expected too much from my readers. I worked hard on a short story for this week, posted it, and two days later there are no comments. It is disappointing. But if I did not write something they enjoyed reading why should I expect them to comment? I know that I enjoyed writing the story, I feel it is a good story; but if the reader doesn't like it then what can I do? This will be a short blog as I am leaving soon for the day. I may continue these thoughts tomorrow.

Here is my dilemma: I love the story and I am a reader, so shouldn't other readers like it too? I know I am probably beating myself over the head for this. I know that the real reason I am writing these weekly short stories is to practice my skills, to form them like a blacksmith, hammering out the rough edges. Yet, sometimes, I grow to attached to reader response and less to the quality and purpose of what I write. This is a fatal error on my part. By all means, we should write for the reader. But at the sacrifice of quality?

I will continue these thoughts tomorrow when I return.
Sincerely,
Joshua A. Spotts

An Adventure with Amazon

2012-01-24T09:28:00.000-06:00

Any bold adventurer always goes to the amazon. There he can find excitement in the struggle to survive, to not get sucked into the jungle and find himself lost amid vines, trees, and a impenetrable roof of exotic leaves. There are so many unexplored areas in the amazon jungle. There are so many things the adventurers have not found.

This morning, figuratively speaking, I placed a fedora on my head, pulled some leather boots unto my feet, buckled my 66 Colt revolver to my hip, and wrapped a thick rope around my torso. Then, taking two steps, I sat down at my computer and plunged myself into the jungle that is Amazon.com. There are so many books on that website and so many things that the normal user would never find. Indeed, it takes an adventurer to find all that Amazon has to offer!

It was during my Christmas break that, while adventuring around in Amazon, I found the Breakthrough Novel Award contest. It intrigued me then and I marked the location, planting my favorites flag in its soil. I returned to it this morning and signed up for the contest and wrote the pitch for my novel. Once I am done polishing this pitch I will submit my manuscript into this contest.

Granted, there is the danger of disappointment if my novel does not win. In fact, that risk is rather high. But there is always danger involved when adventuring. I have never submitted a manuscript to any real form of judgement before. I am nervous, but my nervousness will heighten my senses. It will drive me to do the best I can. Sometimes, in the writing world, one has to explore unfamiliar territory.

Online Platform Perseverance

2012-01-20T22:51:00.000-06:00

Creating a platform is one of the most difficult challenges I have ever encountered. It involves intense dedication combined with a ridiculous amount of perseverance. This blog is just one of the many tools I am using to try, (sometimes vainly I think,) to build a platform. This blog is probably the strongest method I use, but I also write short stories for Cleverfiction.com, interact with various writing groups on LinkedIn, circle writers in Google+, use twitter, and have an official writer's website.

I have gotten to know many people, most of them writers, through these methods, but I feel I am lacking in the construction of a platform. This consideration does not deter me. I know that the process of creating a platform is a long and arduous process; but I have the perseverance necessary, of this I have convinced myself. In the slow ticking of time I know that the only way I will build a platform is by steadily supplying quality posts, short stories, and social network interaction.

Conquering Creativity

2012-01-17T21:16:00.002-06:00

I am going to be lynched for saying this, but there is really such a thing as too much creativity. Now I use the words "too much" in reference to a hindering amount of creativity. If you have an overabundance of creativity and you let it drag you down and draw you away from your self-designated important projects, that is having too much creativity. If you have a thousand book beginnings (like the first three or so chapters) and no almost complete book projects, then you are suffering from too much creativity.

Well, that's the end of this blog and here comes the lynch mob! No, no, I do not believe there is such a thing as having excessive or "too much" creativity. The problem comes when you let that high level of creativity control you and your work. This is also a cause of writer's block. The trick with too much creativity is learning to channel it. You see, if you must work on every idea that comes to mind you will end up never doing any real work on anything.

There are several methods you can use to channel your excessive creativity. For new book, story, or article ideas all you need to do is write a short synopsis and a title then archive it. I use an excel sheet to archive ideas by alphabetical order. It is a very efficient method if I do say so myself! You can also use Micrsoft's OneNote program and save the word documents containing these ideas in that program.

You can incorporate a new idea into a current major project, thus eliminating an excess idea flab documents that, let's be honest, you may never return to. Sure, it is a good idea to get the ideas down, but many of them won't be seen again. At least, that's the way it is with me. Now, incorporating ideas is difficult but sometimes there are benefits. Think about it. If you can incorporate a really good idea with a major project that has a really good idea behind it...ah, consider the possibilities!

Lastly, you can channel your excessive creative energies into other things like art or music, but if your focus is writing you should channel it as much as you can toward that. The two things above are more ideas on how to skim the ideas from your creativity, record them, and then channel the collaborative mass into a major project of yours. This idea is more of an outlet escape to keep you from suffering from too much creativity. There I go again, getting myself lynched.

Well, I will return Friday with another blog post. That is, if I survive the lynching.

Sincerely,
Joshua A. Spotts

Psychology And Sorrow

2012-01-13T18:20:00.001-06:00

I have a perfectly legitimate and functional excuse for the absence of a blog post on Tuesday. (eh, maybe not.) My entire excuse is summed up in one word: Psychology. Or, if that is not satisfying, I can explain it all in five words: Four hour morning Psychology class. In truth, dear reader, this is not a strong enough excuse. Indeed, no excuse is strong enough to justify how I have failed you. I apologize from, to use a cliche expression, the deepest depths of my heart.

I enjoy my psychology class. I enjoy seeing the theories. I enjoy analyzing people (a thing I do anyway), and learning the hidden ways the mind works. Psychology is great for developing characters, but it is not great for my mental stability. (Working 9PM to1AM several nights probably doesn't help either.) This last Wednesday I was so exhausted from Psychology and work that I caught myself talking out loud to myself several times. Still, the psychological research has shown that writers (particularly fiction writers) have a 75% to have some sort of mental disorder during their lifetimes. So, I'm not really that surprised that I am talking to myself already. Overall, my Psychology class is giving me interesting character ideas and is teaching me how to develop those characters into more lifelike forms. Psychology teaches me how to connect characters with common human characteristics.

Now on the subject of sorrow, it plays a very interesting role in the life of a writer. Recently, as in just this last Monday, I attended the funeral of my grandmother. She had lived along 95 years, it was a good life, a life worthy to admire. We loved her dearly. I take consolation in the fact that she is in the presence of her Lord and Savior now. She was a godly woman. She will be sorely missed.
An interesting thing is the fact that the sorrow at the funeral was subtle, there was no loud weeping, yet it was prevalent. It was sorrow mingled with a deep respect for my grandmother. This combination still puzzles me.

I spent most of the visitation pondering how I could comfort people in my writing who were experiencing sorrow. I am glad, in some ways, for the death of my grandmother. One, she is no longer in pain. Two, she is with God. And three, I now have experienced the death of a loved one and I can now communicate comfort for those experiencing similar sorrow. It was a good, but sorrowful experience.

Ah, the life of a writer! It is a very interesting one indeed!
Rest in peace, Grandma. I will always remember you.

The Adventures of Blog Duck

2012-01-06T15:12:00.000-06:00

DUCK! Ah, I do so enjoy unconventional beginnings. They allow for so many questions that force the reader to continue with the story to answer all of them; or to find out which question is the real one. For example, with the start of this blog there are several questions. Is someone commanding you to duck? Is there someone with a gun? Is someone pointing out a the presence of waterfowl? There are many, many more possibilities for questions.
Questions are the fuel of the writing hook. In my opinion, the more questions a hook causes, the better it is. When I read a great hook (admittedly mine isn't very good for this blog) I analyze it for how many questions I can form from just the beginning sentence. I love good beginning. I believe I may continue my speculations at a later time when I am more prepared and emotionally stable to think clearly and provide you, dear reader, with a better blog post.
I apologize for the short blog but my mind is not thinking straight due to the death of my grandma. Maybe I'll blog at that experience next. Again, I apologize.

Denying Loneliness

2012-01-03T21:53:00.000-06:00

What is the point of denying loneliness? I'm going to put this out there. Writing is a lonely career. It consumes so much time and is such a delicate work that I have difficulty, especially being in college now, balancing work, study, and play. By "play" I mean interaction with friends. I am involved in several activities; fencing and volleyball being a few of them. But I am so tired, so so tired. I am tired and lonely. I felt this way over my Christmas break as well.
I was living my dream, but my dream is lonely and tiring. To sit and write for hours on end...you see, even I, with all my personalities, grow tired of my own company. We, as human beings, are not meant to be alone. Sometimes we must be. But we are not meant to be. I have made a decision to dedicate a certain amount of time each day to social interaction. Not so much physical activity, just relaxation, casual conversation, and card games.
Also, on a lighter note, my pining for social interaction may originate my my large family. Also, dear reader, I hope you have a wonderful new year and accomplish all your new year's resolutions, I guess this post could be considered mine.

Freelancing: Fiction and Reality

2011-12-30T09:11:00.000-06:00

I was experiencing a dream in fiction, then I discovered the ultimate reality of my dream. Let me explain. These past two weeks I dedicated myself to the editing and partial rewriting of my novel The Masterless Apprentice. I arrived home from college late at night. I hugged my parents, talked a little bit, and then went to bed. The next morning, a Saturday, my alarm went off at 6:30AM. I got up, showered, dressed, and grabbed a breakfast of bagels and Shredded Wheat. Precisely at 7:00AM, after checking my e-mail, I got to work on my novel.

I started at page thirty because I had done some editing while at college. Two hundred and ninety pages left to go before the 31st of this month. That was my goal and I have beaten my goal by two days! For a while, those first few days, I was living my dream. I was living, working all day, as a writer and making progress at it. I wrote several short stories, a book review, a devotional, and made good progress on the editing during those few days. I worked 7AM to 5PM. My watchwords were dedication and quick meals.

I was in paradise for those days. Then came the holidays and my demise. I transferred from my fictional dream of what freelancing is like to my probable reality. I liken it to being a young, single freelance writer and being a married freelance writer. My probable reality is the married freelancer with kids and parties to help with. Instead of 7 through 5 solid writing, my days became something more like 7 to 10 writing, do some housekeeping, 11 to 12 write, 1:00PM to 3:00PM write after having lunch with family, 3:00 to 5:00 PM watch children. I did a lot of catch-up work late at night.

My fiction world faded last Wednesday. Ever since then I've been living in what I imagine my probable reality. I am sure I would have failed my goal if I had given up on my watchword, dedication. During the second week of probable reality I stopped writing short stories, only did one book review, and dedicated my every writing hour and spare time to editing my novel. Yesterday, the 29th, I finished the editing process. I then went back through my comments and rewrote parts that needed rewriting. The novel still needs some work, but I feel that it has improved greatly since the beginning of these two weeks.

Honestly, there were times where my motivation sunk to a terrible low. These were painful times when dedication became as a rope covered in ice, by which I hung with one sore hand. I clung on though, I clung on for my life. Sometimes that is all the writer can do when it comes to editing and rewriting. Laying the words out unto the paper (or computer document) is relatively easy in comparison to the final editing and rewriting process in which we polish our work. At least, this is my opinion about such differences in difficulty levels. If you have a different view, please, let me now.

Sincerely,
Joshua A. Spotts

Subconscious Experience #2

2011-12-27T16:00:00.000-06:00

Christmas is gone. It has passed by once again. I am not too sad, it will come again next year. Christmas seems to be an eternal celebration. At least, it is a very reliable one. The reliability of Christmas reminds me of how I rely on my savior, Jesus Christ. I rely on the fact that Christmas will come again in the same way I rely on the fact that Christ has saved me from my sins. I wish I could spend this entire blog post speculating on Christmas, but I promised to continue my considerations from the last post. I, Joshua A. Spotts, do not break my promises. At least, I sincerely try not to. ;) But I am a fallen human.

Here goes. In my last post I discussed a writer's sense of color and their symbolic meaning. The attributes put forth in this post will be less specific and easily applicable to the dedicated reader. But all writers are readers, aren't we?

Born writers enjoy reading and discussing books with their friends. I know that I saw deeper into the books than any of my friends and have a knack for analyzing a book's positives and negatives. I can also see deeper into the characters and predict what is going to happen much more easily than my friends, with the exception of one, who is a writer himself. This attribute applies to movies as well. My friend Nathan Sturgis, an expert at predicting things and a fellow writer, has cemented this observation in my mind.

Born writers have an active imagination even when grown out of childhood. This is one of the traits that places me particularly at the knife's edge of some people's patience. I tend to drift off in my thoughts if the current things happening around me aren't strong enough to keep my mind anchored down. Sometimes I even give myself away to a character that has been on my mind.

There a vast treasure chests full of peculiarities and traits of born writers. I cannot even began to examine all of them, so I have placed before you the three most common attributes within this post and the last. Many of the peculiarities of born writers are personal and scattered. Yet there are many more that unite us all. Indeed, I attended a writer's conference once and found it so very easy to talk to the people there. We all had one connection, we were writers. Sure, we wrote in different genres, different styles, but we were all brave warriors. We writers must be brave to occupy this career of ours!

Subconscious Existence #1

2011-12-23T06:59:00.000-06:00

Let's not deny it, writing is a gift. There are certain people who are born writers. Then there are those who choose to become writers and, given enough training, practice and perseverance, they can do so. I am not advocating whether or not people who aren't born writers should become writers or not. I am not saying that born writers are better than people who work really hard to become writers. I am simply saying that the ability to write is a gift and certain people have what I like to call "A Writer's Mind." {reference to title, eh? ;)}

Here I want to concentrate on the subconscious existent of the born writer, untrained as he may be. I will use a story to illustrate one of the attributes of a born writer.

When I was younger I knew I wanted to be a writer, but I did not realize all the vast areas to be a writer in. I was set on being a novelist, but I was not very good. I could describe a scene, but I could not make the readers feel what I wanted them to feel. In truth, looking back, I despise what I was. Yet being that made me what I am today. And I am a much, much better writer today. Well, I'm rabbit trailing again. It is time to slap myself upside the head and get on to the story.

I entered the house and frowned. It seemed bright and cozy enough, but something told me otherwise. The blood red couches and the black carpet and walls made me feel something. I could not place it. A black and grey picture of a child in the rain hung on the wall above the black entertainment cabinet. Above the red couches hung a picture of a stone street. On it stood a man and woman. Rain rushed down from above, splashing off an umbrella as the woman pulled the man towards her. The entire picture was black and white except for her lips, they were bright red.

Moving on into the kitchen I was confronted by bright red appliances and black marble counter tops. I was amazed at the wife's obsession with those colors. But I was even more amazed at the indescribable feeling in my gut while I sat in that red and black house. I knew I used those colors to bring a sense of foreboding into a scene, but foreboding was all I knew they provided. Ultimately my feeling about that house of those colors was right. The relationship broke and died. It caused great pain.

A few years later I was told that red symbolized pain and black symbolized death. I had discovered this beforehand, but the memories of that house flooded back into my mind afresh. Now I'm not saying anyone with a black and red interior for their house is going to get a divorce, but I am saying there was something in her character that made her obsession with those colors pop out at me. As a writer I analyze everything, most of the time subconsciously. It was my subconscious that was warning me of the relationship in that house and its ultimate end. The ability to understand color symbolism and use it effectively, to show and to know, is one of the subconscious traits of a born writer. By subconscious I mean without the writer having to concentrate and bring the thoughts to the foreground of the mind.

I shall continue considering these traits of the born writer next week. For now, may you all have a very merry Christmas!

Sincerely,
Joshua A. Spotts

Guestblogging

2011-12-21T12:50:00.000-06:00

The internet is a massive community. The more someone interacts with it, the more they get from it. Guest-blogs work in much the same way. In the basic scheme of blogging, guest-bloggers are fellow bloggers that you invite to write a blog post on your blog. It is a mutually benefiting thing. The guest-blogger gets exposure to new people and the host-blogger, not only is he freed from having to write a blog post, he often times gets some exposure to the guest-blogger's readers as well. Another benefit for the host-blogger is the fact that the guest post is likely to be very good, seeing as the guest-blogger wants to attract attention.

With all this being said, I want to announce to you, my dear readers, that I have written a guest post! It is a very interesting post. I was able to use an illustration I had always wanted to. So, if you will take a look at it I would be very appreciative. http://jrnova.blogspot.com/2011/12/guest-post-joshua-spotts.html

Schedule an Edit

2011-12-20T07:33:00.000-06:00

6:30 AM. The red numbers on my alarm clock declare. I stare at it for a moment as the perpetual beeping progresses up in volume. I don't see the numbers at that time in the morning. All I see is a red blur. I slip on my glasses and the world becomes solid and shapely once again. I see new numbers, 6:35. My finger seems to switch of the alarm by itself as I sit up in bed.

Stark reality slapped me as I got out of bed and felt the icy floor beneath my bare feet. I curled my toes inward, raising myself on them, to avoid full contact with the sheet of ice that made up my floor. At least, that's what it felt like so early in the morning. I wondered if I was still sleeping, but this feeling was too familiar, as if it had happened several times recently, for it to be one of my dreams. As I put on my slippers I knew this sharp world to be reality because, fortunate me, I received a present from the floor. A sliver.

Well, 'tis the season of giving, I thought as I pulled the sliver out. Heading downstairs my mom caught me, not literally of course. I'm not that clumsy. She asked me to get my little sister up. I knew it wasn't seven yet; I had time. However, getting a little girl up and ready for school takes a lot more time than I had anticipated. By the time I got back here to my desk, it was 7:30 AM. I was a half hour late.

Welcome to my Christmas break! It turns out I get up earlier on break than in school. You see, I dedicated the hours 7AM to 5PM as editing/rewriting/writing time. Most of that time is used editing my novel The Masterless Apprentice. I plan to have the novel through two edits by the end of this break. I also plan to write two short stories, one under 1200 words and the other above 1500 words, by the 31st. These were my goals coming into this break and they will be my completed goals heading out.

Sometimes I have to take breaks to help my parents with the kids. For example, today I am going to drive my little brother to his Basketball practice and back. But, nevertheless, setting the time frame of 7AM-5PM for my writing day (often I'm working later too) has helped my make great headway toward my goals. I force myself to bed at 11 each night so I can be, at least, moderately rested for the next day. Tomorrow morning I'll wake up at 6:30 again, but hopefully this morning's process will not repeat itself. Maybe it would be a good idea just to sleep here at my desk.

The god Writer's Block

2011-12-15T22:51:00.000-06:00

I'm feeling funny, perhaps someone is tickling me. One moment. Oh, I guess not. So, Writer's Block. Yep, I just capitalized it. Why? Well, to some writers It is a god. It controls them and frustrates them, yet they worship it. They cannot be free of it, but they use it willingly as an excuse. I know how it feels. I have experienced the ice block your brain becomes when there is no inspiration to provide heat. So, in fear of that cold pain, you turned to the god Writer's Block. I know why you did it. I, too, fell prey to that fiendish demon of our invention. Writer's Block is an excuse of the weak. Be strong, fellow writers, conquer that demon. Keep writing, it is the only way to destroy Writer's Block. But, for your amusement, I have compiled a list of things that people try or that I have just invented. It is for you to judge which are which.

1. Pace, like a lion! There is nothing like walking in circles to get the old ice block melting. Friction does that right? Admittedly, I do this while I am writing, but NOT while I have told myself I am a victim of Writer's Block. It just doesn't work if you keep dwelling on the Block.

2. Stop sitting at the desk and staring at the screen. Get up! Go and watch a movie then come back. Sometimes this has worked for me, but only when I need to mull over an idea. Once again, it will not work if you continue to worship Writer's Block.

3. Stand two thumbtacks upright on your desk and hover your wrists over them while you concentrate on your computer screen. In this way, if you give up, a sharp prod will remind you to keep staring. Just keep concentrating, eventually you will overcome your own mental block...that you put there...that you are maintaining....let me know how that works out.

Well, that was a short list, but I think I got my point across. The only real way to stop worshiping the god Writer's Block is to develop the mental attitude required to just discard the excuse of Writer's Block and just get on with writing. Who cares if the first draft comes out terribly, at least it came out, at least you have progress! Sit in your seat, stop complaining about the Block, and get to writing. You can edit later, comrades, just keep writing!

P.S. Any other methods of dispelling writer's block? Perhaps an argument for a working cure? A method of motivation? Please, let me know your stories. Post in the comments section or e-mail me at author_josh@yahoo.com

Sincerely,
Joshua A. Spotts

Keep on writing!!

The Final Chicken

2011-12-14T09:48:00.001-06:00

For this week's Cleverfiction.com weekly challenge I decided to write something different than I normally would. It was an interesting experience. I formed the entire story from my head, I never experienced anything like it, yet there is a strange connection. I think the connection grows from my being its creator. Ah, well, enough speculations. I'll let you read the story for yourself and decide whether I am any good at this different genre (modern-day, slight romance, bullies, and a bit of funny).

The Final Chicken

By Joshua A. Spotts (Final/Stare/Elated)

Ben Beanglanced around the corner. They were there. He pressed his back tight up to thewall, so tight that he felt the indents between the linoleum tiles. He inhaledthe pungent mix of cologne, sweat, perfume, and shampoo. A football player anda cheerleader, how original, he thought. He almost choked on powerful scent,but he stopped himself from coughing. He heard their footsteps approaching. Itwas time to run.

Hissneakers squeaked as he bolted from his hiding place. He heard their gruffshouts. They were giving chase. The hallway seemed to shake with their poundingfeet. The sneakers squeaked again as Ben made a sharp turn to the right. Hedodged into a bathroom. The door swung shut. The picture of a stick figure is adress smiled at Ben’s pursuers as they barged into the boys’ bathroom.

Glad it’s after hours. Ben thought as heunlatched the narrow window close to the ceiling. He grabbed the outside ledgeand pulled himself up from the sink where he had stood. He tumbled face firsttoward the ground. He flipped and landed on his feet like a cat. One hand wentdeep into the dirt and he brushed it off on his pants. As Ben mounted the bushe saw the bullies rush from the school. “Get back here, you chicken!”

The buspulled away and headed up the street. Imay be a chicken, Ben thought, but I’mstill alive. He eased his skinny frame into the torn, vinyl bus seat. Hisheart’s pace slowed. It no longer ran a marathon. It rested, but Ben knew itcould not rest for long. Tomorrow they would chase him again and he wouldescape again; at least, he hoped he would.

The nextday crept in much as it always did for Ben. His alarm screeched in his ears andhis eyes snapped open, welcoming his mind back to consciousness with thepicture of his little sister standing above him with a syrup container. “Emily!”

She giggledand rushed from his room. Ben felt the cold panels of the wooden floor beneath hisfeet as he stumbled over to the closet mirror. He saw a reflection of himself,the zombie version that is. He ran a numb hand through his hair. He patted itdown and stumbled down the stairs, following the scent of his mother’s waffleiron. He rounded the corner, elated that she was not making her infamousblueberry waffles. Those were the ones she always burned.

The buscame at the exact same time as it did every day. So far, so good, Ben thought as he sat in his seat. But somethingwas different that day. There, in his seat, right beside him, sat a girl. Hehad to glance at her twice before he fully realized that she was a girl. Shedid not dress in the same promiscuous way as the other girls. Her hair waspulled into the gentle pony-tail, brown and long. Ben could not help but stareat her.

“Excuse me,”Ben choked on his words, coughing into his sleeve.

“Pardon,”she turned towards him, as if noticing him for the first time.

“I said, ‘excuseme,’ but I do not remember ever seeing you on this bus before.”

“You haven’t.”A twinkle vanished from her eye the instant it appeared. “I am Claire, Claire O’Cariethat is.”

“I am BenBean.”

“It is apleasure to meet you.”

“I am sure,gah.” Ben slapped his forehead. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

Clairechuckled, it wasn’t high-pitched, but it wasn’t disturbingly deep either. Infact, it was perfect. “You are funny, Ben.”

“I try.”Ben blushed and turned away. “You’re new to the school then?”

“Yes.”

“Would youlike to be shown around today?” Ben knew he might be involving her in his ownwar, but he didn’t realize it until the words escaped.

“That wouldbe wonderful. How generous of you,” Claire declared.

Isn’t it? Ben mused.

He exitedthe bus before her, glanced both ways and then, in a bold move, grabbed herhand. Before she could object he pulled her into the school. She jerked herhand from him, but felt a small tingle in her heart. She reprimanded him. “Whatdo you think you were doing?”

“I don’tknow what I’m doing currently.” Ben told her. The sincerity in his eyesinformed her that she needn’t worry about his strange behavior. After all,there is a story behind everything.

The couplemade it through most of the classes that day. Claire laughed several times atBen’s witty comments and Ben felt calmer around her. He stopped glancing overhis shoulder. He was at peace. He had broken every line of his personalsecurity that had once governed his existence. He did not know it, but he wasabout to break the final line.

When theclasses ended that day, Ben stepped from the classroom. Claire grabbed hishand, entwining her fingers with his. They were there. They stood before them.The bullies had ambushed Ben, something that would not have happened before. “Hello,chicken! Why don’t you run?”

“I am donerunning. This is the final line I am drawing. It is here that I will stand.”Ben quoted from one of his own poems. He squeezed Claire’s hand. It gave himcourage and purpose. It gave him a reason to stand up for himself and breakthat final line he had established.

The headbully gave Ben a hard shove. It sent him stumbling back, but he did not fall.Claire upheld him. Ben Bean squared his shoulders and gripped her hand. Thebullies slapped him around a bit, but he stayed upright, Claire was behind him.The head bully spoke. “Come on guys, this isn’t any fun anymore.”

His minionsfollowed him away and Ben Bean and Claire O’Carie lived on in peace.

Headaches and Paragraphs

2011-12-10T21:01:00.001-06:00

Oh, the tragedy! Alas, forsooth, and all that mumbo-jumbo! I forgot to post yesterday. I feel as though I am eternally shamed. I have failed my readers and I apologize from the very entirety of my soul. With all that said, I'll move onward to today's topic: paragraphs.

Remember when you were in that English course in High School or College? Remember that massive compilation of tiny print classics. For the writers, I am sure that you enjoyed the classics or, at least, recognized the art in them. You all know that feeling of dread when you cracked open that dumbbell-weighted volume and saw a massive block of text spanning two whole pages.

In their book Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, Browne and King warn writers to "beon the lookout for paragraphs that run more than, say, a half-page inlength." Our purpose as writers not only entails giving the reader pleasure, but teaching him something as well. How can we teach the readers anything if they only open to page one before closing our book and leaving with a headache? The answer in each and every one of your heads is simply, "we can't!" So, fellow writers, look out for those long paragraphs.

Tech Black Out

2011-12-06T15:19:00.001-06:00

Last night at approximately 10:30pm the internet at Taylor University slowed way down. Some websites wouldn't even load. Youtube videos were interrupted. Hulu made people mad. Gmail became equivalent to Snail-mail. It seemed that in those darkest of technological hours Facebook was the only thing that worked, but only slightly. I was amazed at the reactions. It was as if the world had imploded. It is amazing how much people rely on something they take for granted and then, when it is gone, they feel that it is owed them.

As a Christian, I find it sad when I reflect on the reality of this with my fellow Christ-followers. I have seen a growing amount of passive Christianity. I must admit that I too am guilty of this at times. The gift of God in His son Jesus Christ's death is an amazing reality that we take for granted and overlook. At times even, we feel that He owes it to us! I cannot express how ludicrously terrible this feeling is. The gift of Christ is freely given and freely received, but it is NOT to be undervalued and we are NOT owed it. A gift is not a debt.

Home, sweet or sad? 'Tis still home.

2011-12-02T22:14:00.001-06:00

It is good to be home. My brother and sister are here along with my aunt and uncle. My Grandma was also here for awhile. It is amazing how my family can gather so quickly, interact, and go our separate ways still bound by love's tie. I appreciate my family. I apologize that this blog post isn't as deep or profound or interesting as some of my others, but I spent most of my day in school, traveling, and then spending time with my family.

In brief, I want to say that my family is a wonderful source for writing material because we are not always happy-dory, we have our sad moments, our wrong choices. We are, however, still a family and will always remain as such. Think about what you can be thankful for about your family as we transition from Thanksgiving to Christmas, both seasons should be about thanksgiving and, if you think about it, both seasons are about giving. There will be more on that come Tuesday.

The Stranger Dream

2011-11-30T17:56:00.001-06:00

I wrote this raw version in an hour. Enjoy!

The Stranger Dream

By Joshua A. Spotts (grateful/stranded/dream)

AlbertMersault was a man of the darkness. His shadow was never seen. In the sunlighteverything seemed as an image in a broken mirror. He clung to the thickdarkness of the night, cowering in the darkness of the earth in the day. Hewalked silently with footsteps softer than a cat’s. He was master of the night.No one heard or saw him. He moved and did as he pleased until they arrived.

The gaslamps were bearable. In fact, Albert liked them. They flickered and werefamiliar. They assisted him when the moon and the stars cut through the nightceiling for he hid in the shadows they caused. Those shadows were lighter andthen darker, ever in a constant state of change. He enjoyed the effect thisproduced. If anyone glimpsed him there they would only see an illusion. Theywould dismiss his presence to the deception of their own eyes. This was all before they came.

They cutthrough his home. That wonderful darkness he embraced and which had embracedhim. It was no longer safe. Those horrid beams of brilliant illumination bitthrough all he held dear. A spear of pure hate caught him full in the chest. Heblinked at the dazzling light for a moment before he heard their voices. Theyhad found him. Those silver badged varmints with their beams of light.

Albert ran.He ran with all the purpose in him. He scaled a nearby fire escape. It didn’tcreak and groan beneath his light weight. At first, he thought they wouldn’thear him and they didn’t. The lights, they found him. He winced in their cruelillumination. He felt utterly naked, even swathed in dark robes like he was.

“Climb,boys, we have him now! Circle ‘round.”

The pursuedplayer of the shadows fled across rooftops and the men with their illuminatingbeams chased after. Hate swelled in his chest, combining with his fear of thelight. He glimpsed out across the skyline and glanced the reddening cloud. Hecursed the light and dived through an open window. He moved silently throughthe room. A sleeping child rolled over in the corner. Down the hall, he sliddown a banister and out the front door. As he left the building he heard thecrash of furniture, curses of men, and the crying of the frightened child, thenthere were hands on him. Those long-fingered claws drug him to the ground asthe sun rose in the sky. Albert Mersault screamed his hatred to the world.

“He’s athing of passion, be cautious.”

“I think Ican handle myself, captain.”

Alberthuddled in a shadow behind one of the parapets. A man dressed as a princeemerged unto the tower roof. He held a sword in one hand and a club in theother. Albert hissed at him. The man towered over Albert. “Tell me what youheard.”

AlbertMersault shrunk deeper into the shadow, fearing the light. A heavy, gloved handpulled him out into the center of the tower. The hand slapped him to the leftthen backhanded him to the right. Blood trickled down Albert’s chin. He heldhis eyes closed. He sat in a humiliated, pathetic heap at the man’s feet. Theclub came down and he remained motionless, sprawled out upon the tower top, fullyexposed to the hated light. “Tell me, fool. Or I will kill you like I killedyour family.”

“I do notfear death.”

“Then livean eternity in the light,” the man stormed off the roof, his crooked nose heldhigh. Albert chuckled, had he actually offended the man’s pride? Two men withthe silver badges emerged unto the roof. They had clippers and needles andthread. They laughed as they sowed Albert’s eyelids to his eyebrows. His entireworld shattered like an image in a mirror. He saw the pyramid symbol on theshining badges and cursed under his breath as they beat him with rods. He wasstranded on that tower all day and the sun burnt his eyes out.

LouieMersault awoke with a start. What a horrible dream. He leapt out of bed andstared around. The red numbers on his alarm clock read 3:23. They gleamedthrough the darkness. He could still see! Louie sighed. That dream had been soreal. The light turned on and there, in the doorway, stood a tall man with ashining badge. The pyramid and eye boldly declared who the man was. The Illuminatihad finally come for him. The man spoke, his voice like tires on gravel, “whatdid he hear?”

Meat and Dessert Editing

2011-11-29T10:04:00.001-06:00

Recently, while I was talking with a fellow Professional Writer, Katie Irons, she mentioned a particularly interesting illustration concerning editing. She told me that editing should be like polishing off a dinner plate. You start with the meaty parts first and finish with the dessert. This illustration stuck in my mind and now I am outpouring my thoughts on it.

I thoroughly agree with her. The "meaty parts" of her illustration concerns the first draft edit, which I am currently going through on a book of mine. The first draft edit is a run through to make sure everything fits. It is a test that the story is properly filled out and constructed. I have strayed from the method of first draft editing, though. I have added a scene and am struggling to tie it into the next. I believe that I should just make a note of that page and the issue therein and then move on. In this way, I can complete the entire first draft and then look at my list of details to fix for the desert part of my editing process.

Think about it. The dessert is often the most detailed part in a meal and it is typically reserved till the end. This is the same way with the finite details and the scene insertions and/or reworkings of editing. I believe that grammar falls under this section of the edit. There are so many details to grammar that if I looked for every grammatical error in the first draft it would take a really long time.

Overall, I believe the first part of an edit, the "meaty parts," should go quickly so that I can enjoy the dessert...okay, so maybe I won't enjoy it. I will enjoy the fact that it will be the last part of my self-editing process and that, dear reader, is sweet enough.

The Peculiarities Part 2

2011-11-25T11:14:00.001-06:00

Aye, that is me, standing out there in the rain. In this blog I am going to confess two more peculiarities that apply to me as a writer. The first is my compulsion that drives me outside in shorts to feel the weather fully upon my naked torso. (gasp, I used the word naked!) Sometimes, while I write and when it is stormy outside I feel an urge to rush into the weather. I stand out there, becoming one with the character in my head. After this strange ritual I hurry back to my laptop and pound out a scene involving what I just felt. I am quite sure I look rather strange while doing this. But, how would I know how to describe something if I had never experienced it?

In the past, I have spent hours outside in a jacket and jeans, during the winter, to feel the pain of a character who is lost in a frozen wasteland without adequate supplies. I can imagine magnificent things, like dragons, but to experience an encounter with one would be truly wonderful. I can imagine hours-long sword fights, but to experience one. To feel the tremendous fatigue. I can imagine the calming, magical touch of a fairy, but to experience it in our world today? Perhaps there is something wrong with my mind. Are these the normal urges of a person?

The second peculiarity may not be as strange as the first. I have a tendency to spend entire days around my house with a cape around my shoulders and a sword at my waste. I have worn capes and tunics into public places. I didn't feel ashamed or even wonder why people were staring at me. In fact, I felt proud. I enjoyed throwing something shocking into their monotonous lives. Another time I wore a grey wig for an entire day for no particular reason at all.

And thus concludes my four prominent peculiarities. I feel that most of these come from my writer's mind. I could keep going with these confessions, but I do not believe that is necessary. I could mention that I carry around a pocket notebook that I use to, as I call it, "steal people's souls." I will consider explaining this habit of mine to you, dear reader. We shall see come Tuesday.

The Peculiarities Part 1

2011-11-22T10:31:00.000-06:00

There are voices in my head. I am a writer, of course there are voices in my head! Those ideas and characters, all struggling for my attention. Sometimes they is a pain, but at other times I enjoy them. They keep me company into the long night hours. They emerge in midday as I pound away at my keyboard. I stop typing, rise, and begin to act out the scene I was writing. My roommate, a math major, has been genuinely disturbed by these voices as he plays his life-sucking Facebook games. I cannot keep them in. The creative voices must be expressed! The creative voices are the peculiarities commonly exhibited in the writer. Here are two REALLY common ones:

One: There are times that I just start talking to myself. I do it in public. I do it in private. I don't always act out the scenes I am considering, but I have talked through entire pages worth of dialogue between two or more characters while walking back from the Dining Commons. I am entirely conscious of the world around me, but I am also entirely conscious of the world in my mind. Luckily, there has only been a few times when they've clashed.

Two: I have a disorder. I call it ORAU disorder (Obsessive Random Accent Usage.) I slip into accents, commonly Scottish or Irish ones, randomly during conversation. I also use accents when answering questions. For example, the lady at the checkout asks me, "do you want a receipt?"

"Aye," I answered. My Mom had to tell the cashier that I was saying "yes" in Scottish. I mean, what has the world come to? How have we reached such a deprived stage in our existence where the cashier at Wal-Mart doesn't know what "aye" means? It's preposterous! There are times when I purposely use accents while talking. A writer friend once dared me to speak in a Scottish accent for a week. I did it. Most of the time, however, I do not intend to use an accent and I just slip into it. I have talked to some other writers and they experience generally the same thing. Some writers need a trigger (someone else speaking an accent or a thought connected with an accent), others are more like me and just slip into the accents.

And now, dear reader, you know my dark, secret disorder. Have a good week. Part 2 will be released on Friday.

An Adventure in Class

2011-11-18T20:08:00.001-06:00

This afternoon I attended my Expository Writing class with my awesome professor Dr. Aaron J. Housholder. In this class we were given a list of writing prompts. We could choose one or several and merge them. I chose, according to my peculiarities, two prompts. One was "confusion," the other was "the voices in my head." I flipped open my writing journal and starting scribbling along with my quickly dulling pencil. I let the prompts pull my thoughts out and unto that lined paper. We had thirty minutes to write. Thus, after a lengthy introduction, I present to you A Dream of Confusion, a short work by Joshua A. Spotts.
Disclaimer: This is not fully edited and for that I apologize.

It is the fourth year in the month of Tuesday.
So the voices tell me.

Sweat drips from my brow. It splashes off the iron face plate of my helmet. I feel the salty moisture burning my eyes, but I dare not close them. My limbs are sore. The sword in my hand trembles as I struggle to hold it out before me. The armor that rests on my shoulders drags me down. I am tired.

It is now the eight month in the year of Friday.
So the voices tell me.

My feet are like the ice all around me. The bitter wind tears at my sweet, healthy flesh. My hair is hardened by the cold and my nose hosts icicles. The sword in my hand is rigid, but my shoulders shake uncontrollably. The armor that I bear is like the surface of a frozen winter lake and I am trapped beneath. I grow weary.

It is now the day of year in the third month.
So the voices tell me.

The rain falls in torrents. The feel of those droplets on my bare arms reminds me of the waterfalls of my home. I watch as the rain dances on the shivering sword. The armor I wear restricts the pleasure of the rain. My mind is tired. My left side is numb. My right side is weary. I drop the sword and the creatures of the night come faster than the rain falls.

It is now the seventh day of the sixth month and the voices say, "wake up!"

(I plan to create my own list of prompts and then give myself thirty minutes to write up a story on one or two, just like I did for this story. I believe it will make a great exercise for quick writing. Another short story exercise can be found at www.cleverfiction.com)

I hope you enjoyed this strange story and I apologize for posting this blog so late today, but it is still Friday, is it not?

The Wind is God's Breath

2011-11-14T23:19:00.001-06:00

I am fourteen days intoNovember. It has been a busy month. I have no regrets about making it busier bydedicating myself to National Novel Writing Month, because I have gained agreat novel idea. I have failed miserably at this dedication. My school workgrabbed me by the throat as I already struggled to keep up with my NaNoWriMogoals and it threw me down. Last week was terrible. Assignments weighed downupon my back. One night I wandered outside, leaving my writing on my desk. Mysoul was weighted down by my troubles. I sought solitude and I found it,partially.

I walked outside in my shorts and t-shirt. The wind caressedmy body. The wet grass kissed my bare feet. I sat beneath a pine tree andallowed its scent to invade my nostrils. I welcomed the sweet scent. The windcontinued to move around me. The trees danced in their places. I saw my breathas steam in the night air. I was alone. I had found solitude. I had also foundsomething else.

I found that I am never alone through the wind on thatnight as I sat there and cried. My tears were taken away by the wind, alongwith my burdens. God is in the wind.Indeed, the wind is God’s breath for it animates all things. I can say fromexperience that God used the wind to animate my soul that night. The windshowed me God’s presence is everywhere. He upholds and relieves me when I amtired and weak. Praise God for His all-encompassing presence.

Tuesday and Friday

2011-11-11T15:13:00.001-06:00

Dear reader, (wow, that's a standardized blog start...though you really are dear to me, no kidding.)
In the interests of increasing my personal focus and discipline, I have decided to publish a blog post every Friday and Tuesday. These specific publishing dates will force me to prepare the blog post a few days beforehand and thus, hopefully, give you better material to read.
I feel that discipline goes hand in hand with revealing how dedicated a writer is to his career. These self-imposed "deadlines" will force me to be dedicated to you, my readers. My teacher, esteemed writer Dr. Hensley, once told me, "the good writer always meets or beats his deadline." This is my goal. Keep me to it, dear reader.

Sincerely,
Joshua A. Spotts

To Divorce a Gem

2011-11-09T18:24:00.000-06:00

To Divorce a Gem

Joshua A. Spotts

SilviaColdspoon was a strange woman. She wore multi-colored bathrobes that draggedalong the ground as she walked. A nightcap lingered awkwardly atop her head.Inside her house, atop her lush blue carpets, she walked barefoot. Her toenailswere bright pink.

In public, herapproach was always announced by her flip-flops whether it was winter, summer,spring, or fall. She wore black trench coats that were far too short for hergangly frame whenever she went to or from work. All in all, her appearance waseither seedy or silly, depending on the lighting around her. Yet this strange character had a goldenheart.

Miss Coldspoon,she had been Mrs. Whithernarrow once, in fact, throughout her entire life, shehad been Mrs. Swatchz, Mrs. Dunhow, and Mrs. Stuart; anyway, she owned an icecream parlor. Every single one of her former husbands had died. You may thinkthat the sorrow from these deaths forced her to revert back to her maiden name.You are wrong. She changed to her maiden name when she opened her baby, Coldspoon’s Ice Cream Parlor.

She was knownaround town, not only for her vast host of oddities, but for her constantsmile. That and her ability to spit gum from her mouth into a trashcan withperfect accuracy. Her parlor quickly became the chief social gathering place intown. It was open from six in the morning—she sold coffee as well—to eleven atnight. During that entire day, Silvia meandered around among the customers andtalked with them or sat in her office writing children’s stories while her fewemployers manned the parlor. She found her work delightful.

“Goodbye, Jess,enjoy your date. Jack…he’s a fine man.” Silvia hugged her employee in thedoorway.

“Thank you forletting me off work early, Miss Coldspoon. This means allot to me.”

Silvia smiled asJessica hurried across small town street and got into Jack’s parent’s minivan.They were such a happy couple and yet they had nothing. All of Jessica’searnings were going toward college and Jack was helping pay off his family’sdebts with the money he earned from his laborious construction job. Silvia knewthese sorts of details about everyone in town, but she was not a gossip.

She returned tothe counter and started to polish it. She ran a finger across the laminatedoak. It was smooth and pleasing to the touch. The bell above the door rang.Silvia glanced up at the Coca-Cola clock above the shake machine. It was12:01AM. She assumed that it must be Ernie coming in from his shift at thelocal packing plant. Before she even turned around her assumption wasdisproven. Instead of Ernie’s heavy tread she heard the gentle tap of highheels upon the tile floor. “Becky?

“Yes,” asoft-voiced answered.

Silvia turnedaround and approached the woman. She brushed tears from Becky’s cheeks. Sheswitched the sign on the door from “open” to “sorry, we’re closed” as sheguided Becky to a nearby booth. “Sit down, Becky. I’ll get you some tea andthen we can talk.”

“No,” Beckyspoke up and then hung her head. “No tea, please.”

“Come now,”Silvia placed her fist on a hip. “It’s on the house.”

“No, but thankyou,” Becky answered.

“Alright,”Silvia slid into the seat across from Becky. “What’s the matter, darling?”

“It’s Mike andI,” Becky savagely swiped away her flowing tears.

“Shush, dear,shush.” Silvia reached across the table and grabbed Becky’s hands. “Let themflow, let them flow.”

“Mike,” hereBecky dropped her head into her hands. Her shoulders heaved with deep sobs. “He’sfiled for a divorce. We go to court in the morning. He says he’s restless. Iasked him what was wrong with me and he said ‘nothing!’ I just can’t believeit. We were so happy. Am I too fat? Have I been too emotional? What is wrongwith me?”

Silvia rose andsat beside Becky. She wrapped her in a motherly embrace. “There is nothingwrong with you. You are perfect just the way you are. The fault is Mike’s. Heis a fool for leaving such a gem as you. Now, shush, shush.”

Becky cried inSilvia’s arms until one o’clock. She raised her head from Silvia’s tear drenchedshoulder and said, “thank you.”

“Come stay at myplace for tonight, dear.” Silvia helped the shaking Becky into her coat. “I’llgo with you to the judge in the morning.”

So, Silviaclosed up and drove home with Becky in the passenger’s seat. They passed thecrooked-branched maple tree where Becky had contemplated hanging herself whenshe first entered Coldspoon’s Ice CreamParlor. Silvia Coldspoon looked over, placed a hand on Becky’s knee andsaid. “Whenever you need me I will be there for you.”

A single tear ofhappiness wandered down Becky’s cheek.

Does it Matter?

2011-11-03T11:36:00.000-05:00

The rain hit the carwindshield and scattered in a million directions. Puddles had invaded the lowspots of the road. Teeth rattled together as the faithful car carried itsoccupants along that washed-out country highway. Chocolate mud stained thecar’s brown fenders. The windshield wipers swung methodically, fighting againstthe eternal rain. A young man leaned forward at the steering-wheel. His handsgripped it as his eyes narrowed, trying to cut through that watery assault ofnature.

A red octagon appeared ahead and to his right. His footfound the brake paddle. He felt the vibration of the anti-lock brakes as thecar struggled to a stop. Looking left, though he could not see through therain, he knew an old Victorian home awaited him. He knew it would be filledwith light and the smell of burning wood would once again drift into hisnostrils. He knew a plate of cookies, warm and perfect, awaited him on thekitchen counter. He could almost taste them.

Taking his foot of the brake, the young man let the carlurch forward. He jerked the steering-wheel left. His father’s grey head lolledto one side, but the snoring never ceased. Gravel ground beneath the car’swheels as the young man turned into the driveway beside the old house. Heparked the Buick in the garage. Grabbing all his bundles, he stood for a whilebefore his dad shot out of sleep, “why’d you stop? Oh, we’re home.”

A wall of rain confronted them as they stood inside thedoorway. As soon as they stepped out into the storm, umbrellas held overhead,the wind changed. The rain shot through the night at a near-horizontal angle. Thepair, father and son, made a mad rush across the open yard to the front door.

The son wrapped his knuckles against the rough, wooddoor. The cast iron handle clicked as the latch was loosed on the inside. Thedoor swung open and warmth embraced the son. His mother wrapped him in herarms. “Welcome home, son.”

“Thanks, mom.” The young man wrapped his gangly armsaround her. A smile was on his face and in his heart. He felt as though hismother’s love warmed him more than the gentle wood heat drifting up through theornate iron vents in the floor. The door was shut and the rain banished to fallin lonely exile.

The smell of the thanksgiving turkey in the oven filledthe kitchen as the young man meandered through it to deposit his baggage in hisbedroom. Cookies were stacked like corporate towers on a cooling rack by thestove. Little feet rushed around a corner. A curly, brown haired bundle ofenergy charged at the young man. “Andy!”

“Hello, little buddy!” The young man, Andrew, scooped hislittle brother up into his arms. Those plump arms wrapped around his throat.That head nestled against his neck. Andrew held his little brother out beforehim and stared into those deep brown eyes. He saw a flash of light out of thecorner of his eye and he set down the little fellow. In the back of his mind heheard his mother scolding his little buddy for being out of bed.

He knelt down and peeked around the corner. Big, blue eyesstared at him. They were shy at first, then recognition filled them and Mae,his little sister, through herself at him. The light from the kitchen played inher golden hair as he grabbed her up and held her close. He kissed her gentlyon the forehead and then led her to bed, where he prayed over her and wishedher a good night sleep. She snuggled into the covers with a smile on her faceas he left the room.

Laughter filled the air as Andrew embraced his elderbrother and his wife. His mom passed out cookies and milk. As the family sataround the fireplace with smiles upon their faces, primarily due to thewonderful cookies, Andrew’s father called for their attention. The room fellsilent. They all knew the look on his face. A fan whirred somewhere in thehouse. He spoke, “as you know, we’ve been having some tests done concerningMae.”

The family nodded. The mother’s smile vanished and afrown replaced it. Tears gathered and spilled down her cheeks. The father spokeagain, his voice trembling. “Today your mother and I received the test results.The doctors have placed her only a few points of retarded. So, when she can’t spellher name or asks the same questions over and over…”

Andrew’s mom broke into deep sobs. His father rose andwalked over to his wife, those strong arms encircled her, and a large handbrought her head to his chest. Tears moistened his white shirt. “You will allneed to be patient with her. It is likely that she will never graduate fromhigh school.”

“How can this be?” Andrew’s mother asked. “Were we tooold?”

“No, no, honey, the doctor said it was nothing we did tomake this happen.”

Freely, the tears flowed, though the sobbing slowed.Andrew’s brother and his wife bowed their heads. Andrew joined them in prayer,placing his hand on his father’s back. He could feel the heaving of thatmuscled back as his father wept freely.

They all returned to their seats and Andrew’s fathersaid, “we just wanted you to know.”

Andrew leaned forward and with his deep voice spoke, “Ido not see how this matters. Does it change who she is? It does not make herany less my sister.”

His mother looked at him with her teary brown eyes. Asmile was born on her face.

Perfection, Flaws, and Character

2011-10-31T21:35:00.000-05:00

Pouring rain, the feel of your lover's soft lips on your wetcheek, the sensation vibrating through the air at that simple brush of flesh onflesh, yeah, I've never been one for romance novels. This past week I read one. It was one of the best books I’ve ever read. If you’re interested, the book isby Jenny B. Jones, it is called There You’llFind Me.

A particular quote struck me as Iwas reading it. This quote lodged itself in my mind and, though I have writtenit down, I can’t get it out. So, once more, I shall commit it to paper (on theweb…) A peculiar nun named Sister Maria told the main character that “music isnever perfect. It has flaws, it has character.”

Through the few days that havepassed since I found this quote, I have come to the realization that it appliesto writing as well. Writing is never perfect. It has flaws, it has character.No matter how hard the writer tries, his work is never perfect. But, it isthose flaws, those imperfections that make his writing unique. Writers, do notconcern yourselves with perfection. Concern yourselves instead with character, withdeveloping your own style.

Sister Maria’s quote applies tolife as well, perhaps that shall be the next post.

Keep writing my friends,

~Joshua A. Spotts

The Writing Tree

2011-10-28T21:56:00.000-05:00

On a blustery day a mansat beneath a tree. In one hand he held a feather pen and in the other hegrasped a stack of paper. As he sat, pondering, he would laugh. A passerby,hearing the curious laugh, stopped to inquire; “Good sir, what are you doingbeneath this tree with a feather pen, a stack of papers, and such a ridiculouslaugh?”

“I am writing a book, good man. This laugh though, itgives me endless trouble. You see, laughter makes hard things difficult toconsider, oh, me! oh, my!”

“May I humbly suggest a solution to your problem, goodsir?”

“By all means, yes,” answered the man beneath the tree.

“Well, good sir, it seems that every time you do somethinking you are tickling yourself with your feather pen.” The stranger left.

The man beneath the tree fashioned himself a pen from atwig and continued his work. He placed every page he wrote to his right.Another passerby stopped and watched the man labor for a while. Finally heasked, “Hullo, sir! What are you doing with that twig pen, a stack of paper,and no finished pages?”

“I am writing a book, good man, but every time I finish apage the wind steals my work away and I must begin again.”

“May I make a slight suggestion, sir?”

“By all means, do so!”

“It seems to me that if you were to place your finishedpages beneath a rock the wind could not steal them away.”

“Thank you, good man,” and the man continued his writing,placing his finished pages beneath a rock.

Within a short while the sound of bagpipes filled theblustery air. The piper came marching along the trail and his song stoppedabruptly when he saw the man beneath the tree. His march continued for a fewthudding steps before he turned about and asked. “What are you doing?”

“I am writing a book, good man, with this twig pen, stackof papers, and my finished work beneath this rock.” The man beneath the treebeamed with pride.

The piper chuckled and adjusted his purple hat to sitmore nobly upon his balding brow. He spoke, “I fear you are not.”

The befuddled man inquired, “how so?”

“You simply have no ink, daft sir.”

By: Joshua A. Spotts

Focus, no pride

2011-10-20T22:10:00.000-05:00

Recently I wrote a short story in fifteen minutes for a writing class. I thought it was admittedly clever, but terrible as well. When I read it aloud in class my teacher said that he had been brought into the setting. There was a pause after the story ended, the class sat in shock. After a few long seconds they realized the hilariousness of the main character's predicament. Apparently it was good. I thought it sucked after I had read it out loud.

This class period made me realize, once again, that the writer does not think of their own works as amazing. It also forces me to realize that I am not writing for myself, but for my readers. If it moves them in any way, or if they simply enjoy it, I am glad and have accomplished something with my writing. I hope I will never grow so prideful as to discard the reader. This would be the bane of my career, it would be the death of any true writer.

The Rewards of a Writer

2011-10-16T20:10:00.001-05:00

In my last blog I promised to explore the rewards of a writer. So, while at a writer's conference this weekend, I talked to the venerable Doctor Dennis Hensley about it. Unfortunately, our conversation was cut short because the session started. It did help me organize my thoughts on the matter though. Furthermore, I have talked with several other writers tonight on the matter and they have helped me further.
The reward of the writer is not money or fame. For example, Doc Hensley and one of his writer friends were talking. They joked back in forth in sarcasm. "Why did we take this job, Dennis?"
"Oh, it must have been for the money!"
"Well, if not that, then surely the fame."
The writer who aims for such things is in for disappointment. They will never achieve the true rewards of the writer. It is probably one of twenty writers who ever gain a fortune through their writing. That is, without writing and saving all their life.
The rewards of the writer are strange. They are feelings-based, not material based. They are the feeling of fulfillment, glorious accomplishment! Michelangelo put so much effort into his sculptures that he literally put his blood into his work. After completing the David his hands were scarred, calloused, and bleeding. This is the effort good writers place into their work. The comparison of the editor's red pen to a knife and the marks on the manuscript to blood is very accurate. To finish a project that we have placed our entire beings into is an amazing feeling of fulfillment.
Another reward is a sense of happiness the Christian writer finds when their writing is published. They are happy that God is being glorified through their work. This is a noble purpose.
In truth, I believe the writer cannot obtain these rewards to the fullest if he is not writing to glorify God. The ability to write is a gift from God and therefore the rewards are much greater when used for him. Not the material rewards, though perhaps they will be, but the feeling rewards. That glorious happiness and sense of accomplishment!
Sincerely, dear reader, consider your purpose. Do you seek money or do you seek to glorify God?

Sweet Victory

2011-10-08T15:50:00.000-05:00

There is a certain feeling of joy, sorrow, and worry when a writer finishes a manuscript. This is the way I feel right now. Aye, I have finished a manuscript, at least, the first draft of a manuscript. It is important to make this distinction because of the vast process involved between the first draft and the manuscript that is published. There is self-editing, then re-editing, it helps to read the manuscript out loud multiple times, and then, of course, finding a publisher who is willing to invest in me.
There is a vast amount of work ahead of me, but I am ready for it. Writing is not an easy job. Indeed, it is not a job, it is a calling. It is a difficult calling, but a rewarding one. Not in fame or fortune...more on that later.

The Library and the Writer

2011-09-29T21:36:00.000-05:00

When I have a dozen things to do in a few days I try to avoid libraries. Wait, what?!? Don't writers love books? Yes, they do. My particular problem is that when I am busy I will go into a library with the intention to accomplish something without the distractions of my dorm cubical that is called a room, surrounded by all those books the temptation is just too great. I see a book across from my chair on pagan religions, I see another book in a side isle of Irish Poetry. Basically, I don't get anything done if I sit in the library among all those books. If I use a study room it is fine, but if those books are within sight, if I can smell their delicious pages, if I can imagine the limitless volumes of knowledge stored on those shelves...ah, nothing gets done...ever. When I am busy the library is my nemesis.

Driuna and the Dragon

2011-09-25T17:41:00.002-05:00

Driuna and the Dragon

A Short Story by Joshua A. Spotts

In a deep and long valley there was a village that was not as it appeared. The precise rows of houses, the brilliantly laid roads, the lovingly arranged gardens, and the gilding upon every door, all these things were masks. Even the people, those gorgeous boys and girls with their perfect bodies, were masks. Deep down, the soul of the town, underneath those perfect masks, was rotten. The people, constantly searching for imperfection, were blinded to themselves and each other. And so the hate and disgust of the entire village was turned upon one girl. All spurned her.

This wretch was named Driuna. She was, however, labeled by all the others as the "Plain Lass." She spent her days begging for food, which gave the townsfolk amusement. They cast pieces of moldy bread from their ornate windows and laughed as she groveled in the mud for those rare morsels. When passing her on the street those perfectly formed people would kick her to one side.

Driuna, patient behind her pallor, allowed them their amusement as she grew strong in knowledge, stronger even than those who called themselves wise in distant lands. At night she left the city and wandered about in the woods, examining and gaining knowledge of all sorts of plants, befriending the animals. She loved being surrounded by all those green crowned trees while dangling her feet in clear, blue water.

It was a stormy day when, high above the village, flashes of lightning and fire flared across the darkened sky. Driuna watched with mild amusement as the lightening crackled horizontally across the dark amidst plumes of fire. All the townsfolk fled inside. Driuna was left outside in that pouring, rushing rain, but she really did not mind it. A great blast of fire burned the darkness and single bolt of lightning careened slowly down into the woods. There its light died. The fire vanished over the northern mountains.

Rising from her meager bench, her one possession, Driuna crept from the town boundaries, hurrying into the woods. The storm was clearing quickly overhead and the curious townsfolk came out, they began to blame and curse Driuna for the storm, which had caused several buildings to become ash. Driuna paid no attention to their shouts, feeling the storm-kissed wind blow through her brown hair and across her skin. Running through the woods a laugh broke free, she loved the woods; she loved existence after the beautiful terror of a storm. She watched all the life around her and her laugh was considered beautiful by the host of creatures she had befriended.

The woods held its breath as she approached the scarred place where the lightning had fallen. The trees were scorched and a crater was carved from what was once a gentle green bed of peaceful grass. Chaos had intruded upon the tranquil complexity of Driuna’s wood. That which she found in the chaos-formed crater was terrible and beautiful at the same time. It was a silver scaled dragon, a thing hated by all humans, when it should be loved, for its beauty is far greater than many things. Blood ran from a large wound in its underbelly. Driuna returned into the forest and gather mounds of herbs, she boiled some in a nearby hot spring and crushed others between rocks. Slipping down into the pit she began to apply the mixtures she had made, the dragon awoke and snarled. Driuna continued her work. The magnificent creature felt her care and trusted her.

In three days the dragon was healed and she pulled herself from the crater with Driuna on her back. Driuna got off and stood before the creature. The eyes of the magnificent creature observed its tiny healer. "I thank you for your deed. I am in your debt. If there is anything you want, take it now."

Druida stood for a while, silent. Not even the woods creaked, no animal called out, no bird sang, everything waited on her answer. She had the power to obliterate the entire village which had been so cruel to her. She held the lives, nay, even the beauty of those people in her scarred, thorn-pricked hands. The wind swirled about her, awaiting her decision. The dragon did not move a muscle. It was as if time had stopped as she pondered whether or not to exact revenge. She realized that true beauty was not external but internal. She realized that beneath her plain, base body, there was a heart and a soul that were exceedingly beautiful. She looked up into the dragon's eyes and said. "No, I need nothing."

Division

2011-09-16T22:49:00.000-05:00

I have been considering deeper things since being brought into this group of writers here at Taylor. The similarity that rose to sight among us right off has now drawn back, revealing the differences among us. Each of these differences, I realize makes each of us what we are, it makes each of us a writer. If we were completely similar we would be a boring collective. We would all write exactly, we would not be writers. We would be a writer. The differences make us all what we are and the similarities unite us. This is a glorious thing.
There is one problem I have observed among us. It shows that not all writers' look out for others or at least seek to encourage them. It is the problem that one writer, who admittedly is smarter than many of us, acts like he wants to help and then offers advice that is not insightful and only proves to confuse. It seems that he does this on purpose. I do not know why. As writer's we all share a common goal, successful communication, and should help each other achieve that goal. This means that when another writer or even a non-writer asks a question concerning their writing we should be willing to help, even through constructive criticism, but it must be constructive. In no way should we make each other feel stupid for asking a question or insignificant. We are called to be writers, let us help each other. If not by the writer's bond, then by the bond we share as Christians!

The Round Table of Writers

2011-09-08T19:12:00.001-05:00

Writers are an odd breed. Sure, there are people out there who will talk about books. Who enjoy books. But writers are a class to themselves. They go deeper. There is a passion when they talk about their favorite author or when they proclaim how much they disliked a book. Now, take a six of these writers and stick them at a round table. This is what happened tonight in Taylor University's Dining Commons, though this group of six accidentally sat away from the majority of the writing majors.
They discuss, they laugh, they disagree, but they do not get angry at each other, or seek to make mockery of one another. They all now the travails of writing. They all fear the red ink of editors. They all celebrate each others' success while competing in the same market. These are writers. We are writers. I am a writer!
Such fellowship is a wonderful thing!!

New out of the Old

2011-09-03T21:18:00.000-05:00

In an effort to refrain from cliche in my writing I spent an hour today speculating how to describe the movement of leaves of trees and of slender plants in the wind. Easy? You think it's easy? Eliminate the use of the words, dancing, swaying, bowing, and then see how easy the description comes. Finally I set upon the use of the word, shiver, because if you watch closely everything moves in the wind. Indeed they shiver to varying degrees as we do according to varying degrees of cold.
Avoiding cliches is one of the chief challenges of a writer. The English language is powerful, broad, and magnificent. With enough thought a new phrase can be thought up to replace the old cliches. Nature and the description of her intricate actions help me to train my mind. This training, hopefully, will make it easy to replace old cliches with new, bold descriptions. Even old phrases can be made new if a writer rearranges the wording, perhaps replacing a word here or there.

Comrades

2011-08-30T18:50:00.000-05:00

The writer is a strange person. Not everyone can claim that they were not lonely after five or six hours of solitary writing. Not everyone gets up at excruciatingly early times in the morning to write with the rising sun, or stays up late, watching the waning moon while their fingers pound away on a keyboard. In fact, so strange are these individuals that they are often bred from soil which does not understand them. This is how I felt growing up, I only had one friend who was a fellow writer and we were closer than any describable bond. Eventually I moved away and found myself surrounded by people, including my family, who could not understand my odd ways, eccentric habits, and all those other fun phrases I could say that mean essentially the same things. I could not discuss story plots, nor stories and how they were written.
Then, one fateful day I came and visited Taylor University and sat in on their Professional Writing Class. Instantly I felt a connection with everyone in that room, which was filled with nods as the speaker discussed how many people say you can't make a living at writing. Now that I am here, however, the comrade feeling is all the greater. We gathered together and talked as a group, there is a planned dinner where we all sit together, and tomorrow my classes with my comrades start! I also found out that you can start a conversation with any writer by just mentioning what book you're reading. The feeling and understanding found between writer and writer is fascinating. I look forward to finding out more about it.

Speed

2011-08-28T00:12:00.000-05:00

At times my writing comes from mind to fingers to text really fast. Some call this "inspiration" or "flow," but either way it comes to writers at times and at other times it does not. For me, when it comes my plot also goes faster than I think it should. This is a difficulty and one that I have yet to find a solution for. Perhaps there is no solution. I am currently struggling with this sort of problem in The Chosen Three. I believe I will go to bed and sleep on it. Start back up later and see if the plot can't be slowed a bit.

College

2011-08-23T21:41:00.000-05:00

Getting packed and ready for college plus working 30 hrs this week...PLUS being a procrastinator is a terrible decrement to writing. Writing takes perseverance, but this week the few hours of it I've gotten in were very unproductive. The text came from my fingers like a bland monologue, but the ideas and story are still good. I'm just having trouble producing them into imagery and good writing this week. It sucks, there's nothing worse than a writer having good ideas and not being able to find the right words to place them down in. Luckily, the first drafts of every story is not written in stone, otherwise we'd all be reading rather abhorrent outlines and monologues.

Stealing Souls

2011-08-21T15:47:00.000-05:00

Look at the title...it is rather interesting for a first post, but that's the way my mind works. I suppose I should explain the rather devious title. I have taken up a habit, one that involves 'stealing souls', as I call it. I carry around a small notepad in my back pocket and when I hear some interesting phrase or talk to a person whose general character traits amuse or intrigue me, I write down the phrase or make a overview of the certain character. I then archive these characters and phrases to use in my writing. It is a very amusing habit as I've run into some phrases such as, "fine as a frog fart."
As I read Jerry Jenkins, Writing for the Soul, I came across this quote, "novelists who think fiction is easier because they can just make everything up will soon find readers disinterested." This quote made me dig into the characters all around me even more. You see, I had realized that if I took real life traits and introduced them into an entirely different world it would produce a familiarity between the reader and what he is reading. This is probably the greatest revelation concerning writing that I obtained from Jenkins' book.