Jesse Koepke

3/29/09           

            Indeed. Write daily, you said? Indeed. Where hath the burns of Muse gone? From mine hand they departed, as I lay long idle and stolid. Rust and dust I gathered ere I awoke and came to know that my gift I had squandered. Alas, I morn the days of wet and firelight, for now all is gray and dying, and I fear I shall never recover.

            But to the word again I turn, if any chance may be that a day may finally come and when at last the gears are greased, the wheels freed, and the mill begins to churn once more to the merry sound of falling water and the creaking of the paddle.

            So, the word: seethe (simmer, stew, burn)

 

            Tentatively the sailor walked deeper into the wood. There was a cold, wet feeling in the air, aided by the low hanging fog, and he pulled his jacket close about his chest. The forest creaked softly in a breeze that whistled in their crowns, but otherwise all was quiet. No birds sang their tunes; no insects scratched or clicked. The forest was waiting, it seemed him, and he felt a tingling expectation curdling in his fingers, that at any moment the wood might spring to life in a flurry of tree and root and swallow him wholly.

            Still, he pushed on, for deeper than the tingle was the absence of the bundle in his grasp, and still his heart longed for it. Curious it was, that such a change should have come over him. He remembered the feeling in his heart as he rowed up the shore in the dawn hours, how he had felt a black heat coming from the bundle as it sat before him in the stern. With every pull of oars he had felt the feeling grow, till it seemed to him that the shadows in the stern seethed and rolled with desire, a desire to – be free. There, that was it: the bundle wanted to be freed; it wanted to be free of him and its rope and casing. But the more it pushed him away the greater he had felt compelled to hold it close, until at length, when he had arrived at the cove of which the Rodent had spoken, he found that he desired greatly to keep the bundle and not deliver it to whom it was due. Within in him burned now a growing desire to retrieve it, to not be parted with it, for it had been his, and he would not allow it to be rent from him before he had seen what lay beneath the wrapping.

            Purposeful became his strides, then, as he moved farther from the shore and deeper into the Waiting Wood. He began to hear (or was it only a fancy) that a call floated with the breeze, hidden just within the hanging fog; a call of It, from It. For did it not want to be found? Had it not chosen him as its bearer? The Rodent had simply been It’s chosen messenger, till he the sailor had been found. And then the Gray Lady had come and taken It from him. They were parted, and he felt in his heart that it should not be.

            His walk became a run, and the Waiting Wood swallowed him in its shadows.

 

            Huh. Interesting. Better, I suppose. I think what would help is to have a story that I actually set out to write. These little things are good, and I should keep doing them. But I think I might find a writing contest somewhere that has a theme and actually set out to write a story for it. Remember what it was like to get an idea and then just go for it? That’s the freedom of writing: to get an idea, a small kernel, an image, and build upon it, to run with it and see where the path might lead. That would help a lot, I think. And if my wrist didn’t hurt. Weird. Well, anyway, that’s today’s writing. Hopefully there is a tomorrow. 

3/24/09

            Wow! Has it really been ten days? Jeepers. What happened? See, this is where I would begin the entry with, “I’m back.” But I’m not going to do that this time. I will say that today is beautiful, with a golden sun drifting into the trees across the pond. Birds flit along the wind, their songs dancing like the trees. A thin, tall bush, with spindly arms that stretch out and lean over, sways in the breeze, it’s whisker branches tinged green by numerous narrow leaves: the first buds of spring. Man I love this time of year!

            So, the word: musical.

 

            He waited in the shadow of the trees, listening. As he focused on the forest before him the sounds of the ocean and the crying gulls faded until they could barely be heard, like distant memories that were remembered more by their presence than the actual thought. He tried to listen for a footfall, the sound of someone moving farther down the path, but he heard nothing. He flexed his hands, hesitant to leave the open sea. He could feel a pull at his heart, though, something in the dimness that flittered in between the foggy trees that called to him and beckoned him on. He knew it was the bundle; his fingertips tingled with the absent sensation of leather and course twine. He swayed like the trees, fighting against himself, knowing that he should just leave and return to the boat and the sea and yet unable to do it. He was compelled to go forward.

            And so he walked on.

            The trail was thin, as if made by the animals that lived in the forest. Barely wide enough for him to walk broadly, it was still bare of any plant. The only living thing that encroached upon it as it trickled away from the staircase was the occasional root, the finger of a tree that needed to stretch beyond it’s boundary. And yet, as the sailor walked swiftly down it, he had a feeling that the trail was alien and not meant to be here. The forest did not like the bareness of the dark earth, and wanted it back.

            The trees rose like columns on either side, silent sentries that stood unmoving at their trunks but swayed with a quiet rustle toward their crowns. They stood several feet apart, the average size being two feet in diameter, and were bare of branches until ten feet or so above the ground. Their bark was speckled gray, though a curl of moss clung greenly where it could. The forest bed however was a solid expanse of low growing plants, ferns and vines that spread out about a foot from the ground, mixed together with thin clusters of grass that seemed to like the base of the trees best. Everything before was gray and green, aided by the fog hanging just above the branches that filtered the sunlight; all, save the thin line of brown that cut through the undergrowth like a knife, and it bore, more or less in a straight course, to the east and deeper into the forest.

 

            Sure! That’ll work. Could be writing again. It definitely feels better than it did a couple of months ago. Though still for some reason my right hand doesn’t like typing. I think it’s this keyboard; I don’t have problems typing anywhere else. Something about when my right pinky reaches for a key…. Anyway, today was fun, and I’ll try to stay more regular. And besides, the sailor is heading a rendezvous with…well, we’ll just have to wait and see. Farewell!

            (Dang it! I keep forgetting to use the word. Well, again, the point is just to get writing, so I suppose it served its purpose. But still. I should really use the word.)

3/13/09

            I listened to a podcast today on screenwriting, called On the Page (it’s great), and they were talking about loglines. It seemed like a few of them were “must” statements, meaning that the protagonist must do something, and that’s the story of the film. In Star Wars, Luke must save the princess. In Finding Nemo, Marlin must…find Nemo! In Fellowship of the Ring, they must destroy the Ring and save the world. In King Kong they must save the girl. It might not necessarily work for all films, but it can really help to sit down and write out what your main character has to do.

            That’s where this is all going. It’s figuring out character motivation. When you boil it all down to one sentence, what’s the story? With Gunslinger it works pretty well, and helps really clarify the point of the movie: a rejected son must track down his brother’s killer in order to redeem himself. In Shadows, the story is probably: a brother must find his sister before time runs out. Okay, well that one needs some work. But do you get the point? For every character – especially the protagonist – ask yourself, “What must he do?” Stating what he must do automatically brings up the questions, “Why?” and “How is he going to do it and what’s going to happen along the way?” The why is your first act, the must is the choice leading into the second act, and the how/what happens is the second act. The third act is implicitly mentioned because at some point the protagonist will reach the point of accomplishing his goal, and the question there is, “What happens?” What happens when Luke finds the princess? What happens when Marlin finally gets to where Nemo is? What happens when they get the Ring to Mordor? What happens when Traicen finds his brother’s killer? What happens when Jonathan confronts whatever took his sister? That right there is your third act. So asking yourself what a character must do will boil your story down to a clear focus and help ask questions that will lead you toward the right execution of the idea.

            To use a current example, what must our friend the sailor do? Deliver the bundle. But does that must change? Hmm? Oh, I have a hunch it might….

            So, the word: excitedly. (With excitement, in an excited manner)

 

            The sea lay flat and gray under the low clouds. Flat that is, according to sailor’s terms. One gets used to the rocking of the waves, that swaying back and forth that becomes the motions of the cradle. To the sailor the waves were flat, no higher than the sides of the boat, and for that he was glad. Last night a thick storm had poured hard on the village and he had feared what the sea might be like that morning. But when he awoke in the pre-dawn darkness he could tell by the sound of the waves that they were at bay this day, lulled by the covering clouds and a quiet morn. And so, after a quick mug and bowl, he had walked to the end of the deserted docks and slipped like a shadow from the bay. The hulls and masts had risen like trees about him, a forest that swayed and creaked with rope and tar amid the idle fog. With a swirl and pull he had passed out into the open sea and turned north, staying a short distance from the shore.

 

            Yep, there you go. Sorry, didn’t get to what I wanted. My little brother was texting me. See! Environment is important! But anyway…. Something changes in the sailor as he rows north. Something beguiles him, turning him to its will…but perhaps next time that story shall be told. Until then – farewell!

            (oops – just realized I forgot to use excitedly. Oh well. Maybe next time)

3/11/09

            All right, two days in a row. I’m on a roll. Not much to say today. It was cold, with a gray sky and a brisk wind from the northwest. Come on, Wind! That’s my home place! Don’t be hatin’! Anyway, the wind here in Kansas City is rough. No mountains, I guess. Speaking of mountains, I believe our sailor friend was just entering some. I guess I should get back to him and see what’s happening.

            So, the word: bony. (Hmm…bony….)

 

            The sea and gulls lay dull behind him, muffled by years of thick wood and foliage. The path was damp beneath his feet, almost springy, and well worn. It was strangely hidden, for in entering the wood he had been forced to stoop low and push his way through thick, crawling brush at the forest’s border. Instantly upon stepping through he had found the sound of waves dampened, and the gulls became nothing more than distant cries of protest.

            Before ran the trail, straight and true save for a quick zig here or zag there round some bony knee of a tree’s root. Vines and leaves clung to every tree, with moss between. The floor lay under a sprawling carpet of small green leaves and occasional berry shrub, whose furiously red fruit gleamed in the soft light that filtered down through the branches. The breath of fog hung at the tops of the trees, forming a low ceiling that closed in the forest from above, and the ground life crawled up to meet it like walls. Never had the sailor felt so enclosed within a forest. He was no longer outdoors, but inside the forest.

 

            Well, short and sweet. I’m on a time crunch to get to bed before midnight, and as I said before, I want to save the arm. But this is cool. I can imagine using (or building) off of these descriptions for Shadows. Speaking of which, I need to write a bit of that before bed. Till next time!

3/10/09

            Well hello! Sorry I’ve been away for so long; I went to California a couple of weeks ago and it threw off my whole groove, from writing to God. I’ve been trying to get back on track, and hopefully this week is the week. Plus, it’s only nine, and I extra time, especially since I’m not watching any movies or anything until Friday. And I’m reading Return of the King right now, and it’s flat out incredible. “Master Tolkien, you rightfully bear that name. So I’m more or less in the words mood. Let’s grease up the gears with a little writing exercise, and then get to it.

            So, the word: discarded.

 

            Long stood the sailor there, on that lonely shore in the west. The fog swirled about, with clinging cold in the wind, and the gull’s cry echoed in his empty mind. All was gray, dim under veiled sun, and with blank eyes did he look upon that weathered stair upon the eastern cliff. Still he could see the faint shadow of the lady as she passed into the wooded hills, and still the feel of the bundle’s rope pricked the skin of his fingers as if it yet rested in his grasp.

            But alas, it had passed away, and he, merely the bearer, stood discarded, forlorn and damp, nothing more than a rock outthrust from the shifting sands.

            Then wind changed, and he with it. The gulls felt it also, and renewed their sharp cries, as if to silence the thoughts within his mind. For he found himself, as the sea wind flowed against his back and blew toward that gray-green stair, hardening in resolve and desire, so that at any moment he would burst from the sand clasps at his feet and race to find the lady.

            And so he did. With quick, long strides he strode to the bottom rung of the stair, amidst the swirling gulls that sought to dissuade and turn him away, and with resolute step did he ascend and pass from sight into the depths of that swaying wood.

 

            Ha! Neat. I’m ending early (only 7 minutes) because my right arm is feeling funny. It doesn’t like typing on this keyboard, or something. But I don’t want to use up what strength I have writing the exercise. You see, I’m moving Shadows to the computer – though if the arm keeps this up that might change – in order to move more freely, and it would be a pity to run out steam before getting to that. Yes. Farewell. Good to see you again! I promise it won’t be another two weeks before the next entry.