What compels an artist to create?
There’s this inner beast of creativity that will consume me to the point of being miserable if I don’t let it out and do something with it.
–Ryan Woodward
That’s one half of it. The other half is the unceasing urge to perfect the creation while knowing it will never be perfect.
Here’s Ryan’s creation process:
Here’s his creation:
I distrust plot for two reasons: first, because our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning; and second, because I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible.
–Stephen King, On Writing
It’s been a while. My contribution to this week’s Inspiration Monday.
* * * * *
Peeling back the cover was the easy part. It was the thin sheet that concerned him. Cold air settling on bare flesh would be a wake-up call to the deepest sleeper on this ship, with everyone programmed to fear the cold like his kind were prone to fear the heat.
The ceiling ducts clicked, slowly at first, gaining tempo before the cabin heat blasted against his back. Now was his moment. He had to work fast or he’d melt before he got out of there.
Index finger and thumb of each hand pinched the top of the sheet. The sleeper shifted her legs. Her limp arm dropped from her side to the cot. She rolled onto her back, and he used the distraction of her motion to jerk the sheet down to her knees. And there it was–the device so valuable she slept with it. Not even strapped down. Waiting for him.
There was something else–a tension on his leg. His eyeballs burned in the sockets. That heat. It was shutting down his sight, his lungs. He’d discarded his suit outside the cabin to gain agility, but he’d underestimated how quickly their heat would affect him. He reached to free his leg but his fingers met the hot skin of an EF-19 human fist clutching his pant leg. One merciful moment of regained sight showed him her outstretched arm, her open eyes, her hardened glare. Just before he fell to his knees.
Paste some of your writing into this handy analyzer, and it spits out the name of a famous writer.
I’ve seen Fight Club the movie (and loved it, but who doesn’t?), but I’ve never read any of his novels. Maybe I should. Especially since I got this result four out of five times, using different parts of two of my books. My third try got Ian Fleming.
Thanks, Monica Lee, for posting this. Fun stuff.
And take no responsibility–for success, or for failure.
This is a fabulous talk given by Elizabeth Gilbert on writing and human creativity. Watch the whole thing.
Best movie I’ve seen in a long time. Best revenge movie ever. Tension, story questions, and a hook that will grab you in five minutes. One of those movies that has you begging the hero to do things… and he does them. And it’s awesome. It’s a masterful use of an anti-hero. The violence is tastefully done–it adds to the story, doesn’t detract from it by making you wish you could unwatch it.
Yeah, I’m not the greatest movie reviewer. Just watch it.
Now I must work to make my hero as conflicted and badass as this guy is…
“Beware the Hero” indeed.
It’s really hard to find the blend I like in fiction: just enough action, just enough sci-fi/fantasy, just enough of a love story.
SONG OF SCARABAEUS is one of the few novels I’ve found with that perfect blend. Toss in a captivating plot, great characterization, realistic dialogue, and several fresh story ideas that I wake up in the morning pondering, and I’m disappointed I can’t erase my memory of this book just so I can read it again. Maybe slower this time, so it can sink in more.
One of my favorite elements was the masterful male/female interaction. One example–the hero’s trigger finger is a bit eager even though the gunshots seem to do nothing to scare off a threat. The heroine says, “Save the bullets, Finn. There are hundreds of tons of biomass up there. Clearly it doesn’t want to have a hole carved through it.”
And at the end of Chapter 28? I actually put down the book and said aloud, “Oh my god. Awesome.”
I can’t wait to read the sequel.
SONG OF SCARABAEUS by Sara Creasy
Amazon | Goodreads | Sara Creasy’s website
I didn’t intend to contribute to Inspiration Monday this week, but this one just popped in there without my consent. Can anyone find the word with the double meaning?
* * * * *
I was inspecting the puncture in my chest armor when something slammed me from behind. My body joined the others on the ground, and I rolled until I found the hard flat surface. I grabbed the side of my helmet–a reflex, to fling it off. To breathe free air.
Your world is your suit. Anything outside your suit will bring death until proven otherwise.
This air was not free, and I couldn’t afford what they were charging. On my back, through the dust on my helmet’s visor, I watched the largest moon’s moon, its visible spin, its tarnished brown surface rolling to brilliant pink. Moons of moons. I wanted to go home, to my single, unencumbered moon, my one reliable piece of the infinity of space.
My head swam when I braced my elbows against the ground and pushed up, and wet heat crawled down my arms and back. I moved my eyes to Suit.Status on my helmet’s control panel. Status normal. No breach. All strength left my arms and I fell back, into a slough inside my suit.
My training officer had warned of death outside my suit, never of one inside it.
My contribution to this week’s Inspiration Monday.
* * * * *
I round the fender of the car and power on my scanner. Just a chick fumbling with her keys. Nothing to see here. The car chirps twice, disarmed. I get in and push the ignition button. The dash lights up all around me like a miniature city at night. The engine growls–a surprised grizzly woken early from deep slumber. Easy, boy. And all this in less than ten seconds from the bushes to the driver’s seat. I owe Shayd for his new program. How I’ll pay him? TBD.
Shove into first, and the car squeals out of there. Let them hear. At zero to sixty in three point five seconds, it’s far too late for them anyway. I check the rear view mirror, and that’s when I see it hunkering in the shadows surrounded by tinted glass. A bent form. A shoulder. Human hair. Buzzed short, like a man’s. I have no weapon, not even some lousy pepper spray. Be cool. If he was supposed to be here, he wouldn’t be hiding. If he was going to attack me, he already would’ve.
“How did you get in here?”
Clothes rustle against the seat. His eyes appear in the mirror. “Same way you did.”
“Yet I’m the one driving it away.”
“I thought you were the owner.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
He reaches to the front seat and picks up my scanner. “This doesn’t look like the factory key.”
I snatch it from him. “Where do you want me to drop you off?”
He laughs. “Not so fast. I was here first.” Arms, head, and torso shove between the headrests and into the front passenger seat, then legs, too long for such a maneuver but he does it anyway, all without kicking me in the face. “Seems there’s one thing we both want.”
“No, there’s something I have, and something you want.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s waiting for me to look at him. I shouldn’t, but I do.
He raises both eyebrows. Smiles. “Are we still talking about the car?”
…to the AWP Annual Conference.
Are you?
Kay Camden 