Monday, February 7, 2011

The Hermit Writer Paradox

The writer’s life is often a lonely life, with hours upon hours locked away with a notebook, a typewriter, a laptop, away from human contact, shunning friends and family alike, until that masterpiece is finally finished. A writer’s social life often consists of their characters— and whoever restocks their microwavable meals in the freezer, does the dishes, and brings the coffee.

I know that as a writer, I wouldn’t love more than to be able to flick a switch, and for all of the outside distractions to just melt away, leaving me alone so I can actually get some writing done. It would be nice to have some peace and quiet, without anyone asking for me to do anything, or any phone calls to return. It would be nice, right?

There is a problem in all of this, of course. It’s not that I’m a total cynic, but most things in life are a touch too good to be true. Being a hermit writer is one of these things.

Days, weeks, or even months of isolation can lead not only to a lot of writing getting done, but it can also lead to stilted dialogue and paper-cut-out characters who have personalities to rival a plain concrete wall. That is DEFINITELY a problem.

As a writer, I have discovered that not only do I have to understand the English language on a level beyond what most people would subject themselves to, but I also have to know people on the level of a psychologist, and society on the level of a sociologist, etc, etc.

Writing is not a lonely business.

Yes, there are long stints where I lock myself away with my computer, turn off my wireless card, crank the music and spew words on the page. But there are also times where I’ll wander around the mall or other places where people tend to gather, walk around, and people watch. I take note of their body language, the way they splice sentences together (not necessarily the topics and often bizarre stories, since I write fantasy and sci-fi, not contemporary literature), the way groups form, and everything else I can possibly take in.

This is a great exercise for any writer. As writers, we generally write about people, trying to capture something about the human experience, even if we are not writing about humans, per se (I reference elves and the like here, not dogs and cats and other furry animals). The more we as writers know how people interact with one another, the better we can—theoretically—make well rounded, realistic characters.

The same goes for society building. As a writer of fantasy, I create whole worlds to set my books in, and then create cultures on that world, building whole societies from the ground up. This is necessary for original work. However, if I knew nothing about societies and how they worked, how would my created culture show up on the page? It wouldn’t.

Over the years, I have read about various cultures, their mythologies, they structure of their religions, how it effects everyday life, and just about every other book I could get my hands on about societies in general. While I am not researching a specific society, I am learning about what makes a culture, about the structure, the key elements required, and it has greatly enriched my writing—and hopefully the experience of reading my work.

Once upon the time, I was a hermit writer, locking myself in an office, never going out because I could never possibly be done writing all the books I really want to. That has definitely changed, and because of it, my writing has changed as well. I don’t produce less material, either, since I go out into the world. Far from it. I am writing more, and writing truer, and for that I am thankful.

So get out there, writers! A little bit of time away from the desk can be a good thing (in increments), and who knows, maybe you'll find a bit of inspiration.

As far as I am concerned, the hermit writer exists, but the hermit AUTHOR is a paradox.

~Tiffany “Kysis” Tackett

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Hope of the Mirra - Prologue (for #SampleSunday)

So, on Twitter today I discovered a thing called #SampleSunday where writers put up a sample of their work, in promotion and getting feedback. For this, I am posting the prologue of my current work in progress Hope of the Mirra, here on my blog. This manuscript was, once upon a time, known as Mikara Falling, which has been mentioned here quite a bit.

Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy.

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Hope of the Mirra

Prologue: The Great Seal

“Your name, V’ran… in old Mirranese, it meant hope.

V’ran took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Ter’sinna—no, all of Mikara—was still. His people were dead. V’ran swallowed the lump in his throat, looking up the main path to the ever shifting mountain cathedral. The summit’s altar was sheathed in dark, tumultuous clouds. There was nowhere else to go.

Splashes erupted behind him. V’ran barely turned to look; he already knew. The ynkedra emerged from the vibrant green forest surrounding Ter’sinna, colliding with the water between the island and the cathedral itself. There was no time. He had waited too long.

Picking up the hem of his frayed and charred robes—no longer pure and white— V’ran began his ascent, climbing the granite stairs as quickly as he could. Debris littered the path, metal columns melted into bizarre shapes across the stairs, statues toppled and covered in ash. It had been a bloody fight on Ter’sinna, but V’ran did what he had to do. Perhaps it was best if the Mirra were gone.

V’ran started to run, rushing up the stairs, leaping over columns, ducking under broken arches, and weaving around piles of rubble. He tripped on the final step, stumbling, falling. His knees crashed into the smooth glass of the altar. Pain seared his nerves. Grating his teeth, V’ran stood, turning. He faced the stairs.

From there, he could see over the thick plane of clouds to the distant horizon, still dark, though not for much longer. It was almost dawn.

Reaching down, V’ran grabbed for his belt, untangling a shirah chain from it. He put it around his neck. The amulet at its end, the Seal of the Ether, dropped against his chest with a thud, his heart fluttering.

An ynkedra fiend emerged from over the ridge. It stopped between the soaring columns ringing the altar, fangs glistening in the faint light as it let out a deafening shriek. V’ran crouched, not taking his eyes off the ynkedra as he reached for the glass. His fingers found the hilt of a dagger, hand wrapping quickly around it. He stood again, straightening his shoulders, lifting his chin.

The first light of the sun surged over the horizon, a bright golden flash igniting the sky. V’ran raised the dagger. It was time to end this, once and for all.