Having one of those days where I rage at the fact that I still don’t have a title for my book, and that absolutely nothing I can think of seems appropriate or good enough. Beyond frustrating.
An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why.
I’ve just noticed that my werewolf Anyu is kind of a (slightly) more sociable mashup of Sherlock and Mr. Darcy. He’s often taken for someone he isn’t, but he’s too proud to correct people and acknowledge that he cares about their opinions, so he just skulks around on his own and perpetuates the stereotype. He’s quick to become irritable with people who don’t understand where he’s coming from, and in a lot of ways he is much more feral than the other wolves in the Denali pack because of the amount of time he’s spent on his own, keeping the pack safe from fur poachers when everyone else thinks he’s just being antisocial. He’s such a delightfully misanthropic character, and I love him dearly for it. Writing a character like him is an interesting challenge when the other two lycans he travels and befriends, Akitla and Inusiq, are respectively somewhat incompetent and intolerant of what she perceives as dramatic brooding.
I need an excuse to develop their individual back stories a bit outwith the context of the story. I’m thinking of writing some short background stories that I have bouncing around in my head down to make their characters a bit more tangible. Would anyone be interested in reading them if I did some sketchy character studies and posted them here?
I can almost guarantee that Google thinks I’m a psychopath. My last three searches were “Is it possible to slit your own throat?” “Does ripping skin make a sound?” and “How long would it take for someone to bleed out through their forearm?”.
But I’m not insane, I promise.
I’m a writer.
The last sentence negates the previous one.
I hatched a really interesting character idea in the shower yesterday involving an ex-Soviet soldier werewolf character. Naturally, I determined he was living as an apprentice to a Shaman in one of the Eurasian pastoral societies until Soviet control attempted to unseat indigenous religions and destroyed the people with whom he lived. He alone survived because he was actually physically able to become a wolf (something Shamanism in that region actually embraces on a non-physical level), and was thus of use to the Soviet military as a weapon.
It was a particularly long shower. Also I feel that this might be of interest to Felspar because of reasons.
Excerpt: Akitla’s Impression Of Dean
Akitla liked Dean. There was something intrinsically simple about him. No, she corrected herself, not simple. Simple was insulting. Simple was flat and monochromatic. Dean was certainly none of those things. But from her brief encounters with him, she’d gotten the distinct sense that Dean was willing to listen, and willing to accept. When Inusiq had first introduced him to her in the woods, she’d expected more of a reaction from him. Granted, he was already familiar with the way lycans looked in their anthropomorphic forms, so shock wasn’t likely to be an issue for him. But there was something in the way he’d looked at her and reached out to her that had touched her, and Akitla could see why Inusiq had been able to forge a relationship with him when they were children. He didn’t look at lycans as though they were any different from humans. In fact, that was exactly what had been so unusual about Akitla’s first meeting with Dean. He’d treated her with respect and a small measure of reserve, but no more than Akitla herself would have used with a stranger. Now, seated at a table with three, enormous, dirty, and threatening-looking lycans, Dean was making casual conversation and offering them coffee. Yes, Akitla thought to herself smiling, this was a man she could respect. A Bush Pilot with more tact and open-mindedness than a vast majority of her former colleagues back at the University in London, a half a world away.
The two most important days in your life are the day you are born, and the day you figure out why.
What profession is more trying than that of author? After you finish a piece of work it only seems good to you for a few weeks; or if it seems good at all you are convinced that it is the last you will be able to write; and if it seems bad you wonder whether everything you have done isn’t poor stuff really; and it is one kind of agony while you are writing, and another kind when you aren’t.
Surely it is an odd way to spend your life - sitting alone in a room with a pen in your hand, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, struggling to put words on pieces of paper in order to give birth to what does not exist, except in your head. Why on earth would anyone want to do such a thing? The only answer I have ever been able to come up with is: because you have to, because you have no choice.