I’ve been thinking a lot about whether or not a writer should write in such a way that risks offending some of their readers. I know I’ve watched movies or read books where it seemed like the political or moral points were painfully transparent. People often say they are too preachy, trying to shove their ideals down their throats. But the secret is, almost every movie and book out there has an opinion; fiction, non-fiction, whatever – Some writers are just more skillful at disguising it with metaphor and plot than others.

Hearing opinions challenges people; forces people to think – to face things they have never faced before – to look in the mirror and finally admit “That’s me”. It’s my contention that people need to hear opinions. It is both healthy and necessary for humans to explore their opinions, state them, and try to understand why somebody else’s might differ, without losing their temper. It takes practice. Read the rest of this entry »

This is one of the four chapters I mentioned in my previous post. I had written this before I started to iron out a decent timeline with proper motives and villains. I just thought I would post this, since it might give you a better feel for my writing style. I’ve also shared this with a few friends. Since the general situation will be largely unchanged in the final product, critiques are definitely most welcome. (For that matter, critiques are always welcome here.)

Matar had flown long enough. He just … somehow … knew he had. He changed his wing pattern to ‘Up, Down, and Close‘. When he broke free of the clouds, he could clearly see every detail of the dense city buildings, even in the dying light. He didn’t think of it as ‘Shiira’. In his head, it was more like, ‘Lonely Circled Group with Even Layers‘.

~ ~ ~

Whenever Shanung was doing someone else’s job, he usually paced. Back and forth he went; the wood beneath his feet creaking with each step. High above the city, the wind would occasionally gust. So, to break up the monotony, he would lean against any of several support beams, stemmed from the surrounding parapets, and rap his aki pipe against the iron rail guard, making a distinct ‘dinging’ sound until the embers stirred up inside. If he timed it just right, he would get to watch the wind catch a few of the embers so they could ‘dance’, glowing and twirling over the cityscape. Peering over the edge of the tower, he noticed the Shiirati were finally flocking south in droves. Turning to Marrow, he spoke loudly in his rough, leathery voice. “I know this is boring, but you’ll need to wake up, boy.”

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When I was little, I used to read and write. Not in the sense of “I could read and I could write”, but more along the lines of “I did read books on a regular basis and wrote original stories, too”. I remember reading serial detective novels all the time, and trying to tackle The Collected Works of Sherlock Holmes when I was eight (but found it was too complicated). I remember getting lots of free pizza through the Book-It! program. I remember actually thumbing though the dictionary and thesaurus during breaks in second grade. I remember being able to type quickly without looking at the keyboard by the middle of third grade, and typing rather complicated multi-page stories by the time I was ten years old on Word Perfect in DOS 3.1. I remember the first time I got a return of zero mistakes on a spell check. I remember researching Greek and Roman mythology in dusty old encyclopedias with tannish-brown stains all over them. I even managed to get a poem into a minor publication for young authors by fourth grade, and the town newspaper also printed it.

But, somewhere along the line, I decided video games, anime, music, comic books, and movies were better ways to spend my time. I became convinced that books were plagued with long-winded explanations that never seemed to get to the point.
Maybe it was hormonal.

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