Inspiration: an Author's Breath

Picture of the Day:

The Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina

Quote of the Day:

"Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety."

-Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra

Inspiration is the breath an author takes. From idea to finished product, it is the wings and the wind that carry you through. It is the blood and heart of a story or poem, and can be an author's worst enemy when it leaves.

Oftentimes I wonder how the great authors and poets and artists work through such dry spells, but resign myself to find my own way through them. I, being a genius, start working on other stories. This actually has proved to get me a whole lot of nowhere because I have tons of stories started, and nothing finished. But, I am working away at it and have not given up yet.

Despite the eight documents on my computer that are tucked away in my "Narratives" folder, I am focusing most of my energy on two of them in particular. 

In the one that is certainly going along best (I have officially reached 175 pages!), Rome and Greece meets Lord of the Rings in a land called Elysia. 

The other, Supernatural meets Criminal Minds as Agent Kenneth Dalton works with a mysterious girl named Jenny to catch his killer.

Two different stories, two sides of the spectrum, one deranged and slightly insane author. (Really, I pondered the idea of why it was so easy for me to think up serial killers. It frightened me. But I digress.) Needless to say, my inspiration seems to come from all over the map; if nothing else, I would consider myself diversified. Even my style of writing seems drastically different in each.

If inspiration is the breath of an author, I would say my breathing is rampant or scattered. I am probably somewhere close to hyperventilating. Here is to inspiration! 

As a side note, I am not much of a poet. Actually, if I am writing poetry, it is not a good sign of mental health. I tend to only be inspired to write in verse when my outlook is dark. Good old angst and bitterness abound! I wrote a poem entitled "The Old Man" a while ago, must be four years now, when I was having a major crisis in my faith in God. Since then, I have come a long way in my faith, or so I would like to think. If nothing else, I am not so much in despair as I was then. But I must say, the poem is certainly something worth sharing, so as a hint as to my style, I give you the poem itself.

The Old Man

With a few good friends that were as close as kin

the old man began to build upon a stone foundation.

It was to be great, and strong: built from the finest stones and metals.

A temple of epic proportions, in the city of his people.

They worked through the day, slept little at night.

Always working at the temple. 

When he had gotten a good start his friends left, leaving the old man on his own.

And still he worked.

Even when the rains came and the winds howled, the man would build.

It grew a little everyday,

slowly turning into the glorious edifice it was intended to be.

And still the man worked.

A few men of grey and black happened to see it.

They began to tear down the man's hard work.

He banished them from his holy ground,

and the man still worked.

For years the man was building alone,

and finally the form was beginning to come together.

The old man was pleased

but he did not stop.

An army of shadows began to approach.

Each hissing and snarling and eyeing his prized work.

It didn't take long before it was beaten.

With a great determination, the man still worked.

Many years later the frame was finished.

It was beautiful, and ornate and seemed to shine with the light of the divine. 

Happily the old man moved inside. 

And still the old man worked.

The inside was bare, so it was here he started.

His sweat and his blood were poured into his temple.

It was his prized possession.

And still the man worked.

A great storm came.

It broke the stones of the temple walls.

The windows shattered and were no more.

And the man wept.

All the hard work he had put into his temple was being undone.

With speed that equalled his building pace.

But he didn't give up.

Still the man worked.

The army of shadows returned.

They beat and broke the building, until it was hardly proud anymore.

But still the light shone from inside.

But the man quit working.

He gathered his things, and carried them out of the temple.

He was old, and far too weak to keep trying to fix the walls and windows.

So he left.

And the temple turned to grey.

Like I have said before, I am not sure where I am going with this whole blog thing, but I did promise a journey with me. Perhaps this was simply meant to be stop one.