Inspiration

There are times I love having other friends that are also writers. Without them, I don't think that I could finish anything.

I was having the dreaded writer's block on my other in-progress novel, Vendave. It wasn't even so much writer's block as lack of ambition, but either way, I was getting nothing done. A friend of mine, listening to my rants, told me to write her into the book. I warned her I was in the middle of a castle siege and she would die, but I decided to give her an epic death.

It may have been a silly thing, but it got me going again, and aside from just adding meat to the novel, kept the pace going. Having a support network is important, and I think it's something a lot of new writers don't realize they need.

To be honest, I didn't realize how much I needed it until college, when there was a NaNoWriMo group near enough to the school that during November I met a whole new group of writers, and it was there I really learned that what I did was not total crap. I didn't realize I needed that validation until I was told that I did write well. I had interesting ideas, a vibrant imagination, and I could get it down on paper. More, that some people would want to read it.

Speaking of reading, I was at work last night and was told something that broke my heart. A friend of mine said to me: "I would buy your book, but to be honest I hate reading. In high school I would google what the book was about instead of reading the assignment." I know that is far more prevalent than most of us writers would like to admit, but it blows my mind. I have read plenty of books I didn't like, but for someone not to enjoy reading at all? I can remember when I was younger spending most of my summer with a stack of books to go through, to read and re-read.

At this point, this is probably preaching to the choir, but let me say one more thing about the importance of reading: The true value not be in literacy, but in feeding creativity. Reading a book allows you to immerse yourself in the universe, more so than a movie. It allows you to question yourself. "What would I do in that situation? What would have happened if X event took place instead of Y?" It encourages critical thinking, which leads to better problem solving in the future. If only we could come up with a solution to those crazy people who do not like reading. Fiction or non-fiction, I shudder at the death of the written word.

So let me, dear reader, leave you with an excerpt from Vendave, to keep you thinking:

The acrobat shook his head, but didn’t answer right away, instead he called to a child that was running towards the Sother Inn eagerly. “Hey, kid. Where is everyone tonight?”

Skidding to a halt, the boy blinked up at them with wide blue eyes. “Don’t you know? There’s a white gypsy in the tavern, and he knows the future! Isn’t he with you?”

With a frown, Jinx glanced at his companion, then shook his head. “No…come on, Kamin, let’s go see what they’re conjuring up over there.”

The Sother Inn was packed to a rare capacity, those that weren’t standing in a rough line towards a table in the center of the room all perched on tables, chairs, or the bar for the spectacle. The tavern was surprisingly dim, most of the candles sputtered out, left unattended, except for the one at the cloaked man’s left elbow. Squeezing his way through the crowd, Kamin frowned when he finally got a look at the white face of the ‘mystic,’ a nagging memory at the back of his head.

“I know him,” he murmured to his companion, tugging lightly on the strings of Jinx’s mask.

“From where?”

“A few months ago.” Kamin shook his head. “He was a freed slave, of sorts. He left with another traveler, but it looks like he’s alone, now.”

“What’s his name?”

“I have no idea.” The jester touched the arm of one of the spectators, leaning close so as not to ruin the moment with a shout. “Excuse me, sir. Who is that?”

The stranger looked down at him from where he was crouching on a table. “Don’t you know him, gypsy? He’s a fortune teller. The cobbler’s son was the first to see him, and he predicted that he would come down with a great illness. Not ten minutes later he starts convulsing on the floor.” He shook his head in amazement. “He’s a dundas, the real thing. Blind, and he’ll look right at you.”

“What do you think of that?” Kamin asked, the feather on his hat quivering like the antennae on a startled beetle, leaning over to speak to only his friend again.

“I think,” the acrobat replied, his voice low, “that he’s a top con artist. He’s not blind, though.”

“I’ve seen him before, I know he can see,” he agreed, “it’s probably what they believe, because of his eyes.”

Jinx snorted, folding his arms over his chest. “Should we be painting our faces white, instead? Now I know who’s taken all the business and the coin. Kamin? Where are you going?”

The jester didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward as the latest stunned peasant rose from the chair. Bells jingling, Kamin slid in front of the albino. If T’ke recognized him, he didn’t show it. Instead, his pale eyes stared unfocused over the gypsy’s left shoulder, the colors lost on him. He was good, Kamin noted, impressed and faintly disgusted at the same time.

“And what is it you come to seek?” By then, the albino’s voice had gone from haunting to merely bored, holding out one hand for the necessary coin. A gypsy, hmm? A pair of them, no less, by the somewhat puzzled expression of the colorful man waiting in the crowds, his eyes narrowed at T’ke. Well, he supposed he couldn’t blame them--they all needed to eat, but he had Medvetis to provide for, too, and a reputation to build. All in time.

“I’m afraid my pockets are empty, friend.” Kamin said, patting his thighs, no jingle of coins coming, only the soft tinkle of bells as he crossed his ankles beneath the table.

“A wandering gypsy? That isn’t a surprise.” T’ke watched the crowd lean in and murmur again, pressing in closer to the new spectacle. “You were to perform tonight, were you not? You and your companion, wearing green and gold?” He let his eyes track, focused on nothing, as if reading the black blindness. Really, he was growing tired, and it seemed a perfect way to end the charade, and retire for the night. His Lord should be returning shortly, anyway.

“Yes. But it seems the crowds have rather been drawn indoors, instead.”

T’ke smiled, reaching back to pull up his hood again. He pinched out the flame of the candle between his fingers, then slipped the pouches into his robe and pulled on his gloves. “They will be drawn out again.” He assured, rising to his feet, his coin purse happily refilled. He stepped through the peasantry to take a seat at the bar instead, a bronze piece laid down in return for a steaming mug.

Whispering to each other, the local merchants and farmers slowly filed out again, only a few staying to tempt goblets of mead, beer, and wine, most of them returning to the darkening streets. Kamin, too, rose to his feet again, and came once more to his companion’s side. He grinned, elbowing the acrobat lightly in the ribs.

“It would be a shame to disappoint. If we don’t perform, we won’t fulfill his last prediction.”

Jinx snorted, and shoved him back, before draping an arm around his shoulders. “The fraud.”