Refreshing Rain

Rain has so many different connotations on society today. In movies, the most sorrowful scenes are guaranteed to have, if not a drizzle of rain, a downpour. Scary movies will have a thunderstorm, as will the biggest battles of action movie. But when did rain become so negative?

Rain is a wonderful thing. It cleanses the earth of ill humors and nourishes life. The cacophony of thunderstorms and the flash of lightening can be the perfect accompaniment to a bad mood as well as a beautiful showcase of nature’s fury. It’s soft patter lulls you into the deepest sleep so you wake up feeling as refreshed as the world around you.

Rain reminds me of younger days, when I would run out into the downpour and feel the droplets course down my face. After twirling in the rain and getting so wet that I couldn’t remember what it was like to be dry, I would come inside and read a book. After all, what better occupation is there for a rainy day than a good book?

The Difficulties Of An Author

I’ve always wanted to write a book. Ever since I was small, I was taking my surroundings and twisting them with my imagination into an interesting storyline. In school, when asked to write a short story, I inevitably found myself coming up with ideas that could not be contained into a short ten page piece, but was worthy of becoming a book.

But when it actually came down to choosing a topic to write, I found myself at a loss. What story could I cover that hadn’t already be told by another? Could it be up to par with those written by the authors that I so greatly admired? And, once I did settle on a topic, would I be able to keep my audience in suspense until the very end?

These are the questions that still plague me. I have finally settled on a topic for a book to write, but I have found myself unable to really step forward and write it. I have done all of the background work. The plot is planned, the races of the land has been decided upon, the map is drawn… but now I find myself facing a new conundrum. How do I make my characters real? I know what they should do, where they should go, but what are their vices? No person is perfect, and so they need some imperfections.

The biggest problem I face, though, is conversation. I have managed to write up to the first major conversation and I don’t know how to begin. What will they say? I need to reveal what kind of people they are, but whenever I start to write the conversation sounds… forced.

I feel like these problems are not insurmountable and, upon reflection, I think it can be said that I am actually afraid to start writing. Even though this is something I have always wanted to do, I am not sure if I am ready to actually take action. So my book stays on a back burner of my life right now, something to return to and analyze until I am ready to bring forth my tale and show the world what my mind is capable of.

The Tale Of The Sword

The sword lies upon a pedestal

Gleaming brightly as if to prove

That even with its edge long gone

And having become no more than decoration

It has tales to tell of times long past.

Of times when famine, pestilence, and war were common

And to survive one had to grip onto life

By the edges of the fingertips.

When what was most important to Man

Was survival and kinship.

When nothing was certain

And the peaceful life that many wished to live

Could be ripped away on the caprices of others.

When a farmer’s boy,

Barely out of childhood,

Was sent out to protect a kingdom

Whose dimensions were far larger

Than his simple homestead.

And how he grew into a man

Defending his beliefs in an epic tale

That would soon be forgotten.

The sword will tell you this tale

If you will listen.

Just close your eyes

And give your imagination free reign.

For this story lives on only in you

And the weapon whose sole purpose

Is to convey that which has been forgotten.

The Soul Hidden In The Writing

You ask me for a story

And I find myself at a loss.

How can I clearly portray to you what I envision?

These pictures in my mind are not so easy to share.

I cannot draw them for you in any way besides with words,

Though my descriptions seem inadequate.

And I know that you shall imagine them differently that I describe.

But I know of no other way.

You may mock me

Or you may read it with wonder

But I still feel as if something is lost between what I picture

And what is written.

For how can I accurately convey

That which cannot be described?

How can I show you the true depth of emotion

Or the grandeur of the mountains painted in the light of the setting sun?

For I never imagine something on a small scale.

Why should I?

In my mind I am my own master

And there are no limits to what I can create.

Shall I bare my soul for you?

Shall I reveal all that I imagine

And everything that I keep hidden in the deepest crevices of my mind?

For that is what you ask of me.

I know not how to write without imbuing my soul into what I create.

So read on, gaze at what I have created

See with not only your eyes, but also your mind,

The tale that is laid before you

And remember that it is permeated with all that I am.