Jesse Koepke

2/18/09           

            Hello! Good to be back. I downloaded a free dictionary yesterday for my PC, called  TheSage’s English Dictionary and Thesaurus. Pretty sweet. I think I’m really going to like it. The file was about 18 MB and I found it on the site www.downloads.com.windows. Just the thing I was looking for. Not that I don’t like my paperback Webster’s New World Thesaurus. I’m the type of guy that likes something tangible and physical (thus I don’t like downloads off of iTunes). But in the case of a dictionary, which I don’t have, TheSage works just fine. Quick and accessible, especially since I don’t have internet on my laptop. Oh, did I mention that? It doesn’t need web access. So it’s ideal for what I need, such as quick definitions of the word of the day. Sheesh. Like consign? I mean really. By the way, today I’m going to do something with dialogue. I’m slowly getting back in the groove of describing stuff – though not as good as I need to be – but the dialogue, and how to mix it with action without it being dry like a screenplay, needs work. So today’s writing (seriously, only 10 minutes. I want to go to bed early) has to be a conversation with movement.

            So, the word: life. (Wow, that’s almost too broad….)

 

            The tankard fell and splattered on the ground, sending its warm contents flowing over the worn floorboards. The sailor looked down and grimaced, then turned round on his stool and faced the tussle happening in the middle of the room. A brawny man, with thick ocher hair and a squat frame, threw a hard punch at the small, thin man with glasses weaving before him as the surrounding crowd shuffled to get a good view of the fight. To everyone’s surprise Smalls ducked and spun round to Brawn’s back quicker than anyone had anticipated, let alone Brawn himself. With talon-like hands Smalls took hold of the bigger man’s shirt, and with a quick twist threw the man down onto the floor with a loud crack of the boards and soft thud of flesh meeting the ground. The collective air withdrew from the room before billowing back in with a chorus of approval from the crowd. They crowded round Smalls and hefted him into the air.

            The sailor felt a touch on his elbow and turned to see a lean man, gaunt in the cheeks and neck, with dark, quick eyes and a day’s scruff and dirt scattered about his chin. His clothes were patched and smelled of earth and wood. A splinter of wood rested delicately between his thin lips, and his eyebrows, long and narrow, danced in the flicker of the nearby lamps.

            “Hello, sir.” His voice was quiet and nasally, yet just the right frequency to cut through the cheers of the crowd. “Mind if I have a word with you?”

            The sailor turned back to the bar and motioned to the tender. “I’m all ears.” The barman brought a second frothy mug and set it dripping and warm on the counter.

            “Well, not here, you see, sir, not here, if you mind,” sniveled the man, his eyebrows wriggling and the toothpick shifting back and forth between his lips; his face looked like the sea at dusk, all moving and golden. But there was an ill scent about him, and so the sailor took hold of his mug and shook his head.

            “If it can’t be said here, it can’t be said a’tall.” A swallow of the warm ale and turn to the crowd, where Smalls and Brawn were shaking hands.

            A touch on his elbow again. This time a shiver ran clear to his ear. “But you must, you see, sir. It’s a matter of life or death.”

            He looked at the man out of bored curiosity. The man grinned, revealing whitecaps in the midst of the waves and drew a square bundle wrapped in oily leather from the shadows beneath the counter. “I need this delivered, see, sir. And you’re the only one, you see, to do it.”

 

            Hmm…. Ominous. Well, that was over 10 minutes. Gotta go. Ciao!

 

2/17/09

            Yes, I took a day off. Bit of a rough one, it was. Not in the day, but more the night. Things always seem blackest at night. But back I am, and with an interesting thought foraged from the notes written about The Mailman during dinner. I was considering the introduction of a character in the screenplay. Every little thing tells the audience something about the character and thus I don’t want to waste time with things that have no meaning, such as waking up. My original idea was for Jack and Mr. Penant to wake up and get going with their day. But what does yawning and climbing out of bed tell the audience? Nothing! It gives me no new information about the character, about who this guy is. I’m meeting him for the first time: what I see needs to give information, not just be filler. True, getting out of bed can give character information, but only if you do it right. If the character (I would never do this) woke up in a messy room and bed with a girl he didn’t know, then looked at the clock and dashed off to work because he was late, you would know exactly the kind of guy he is: womanizer, handsome and dashing (he’s able to get the girl in the first place), and he has doesn’t respect authority. Thus he’s the cool rebel kind of guy who’s too cool for school. Example: Achilles in Wolfgang Peterson’s Troy.

            Make sense? Every little thing needs to give information, especially in film, due to the limited time. I can’t waste time showing stuff that doesn’t tell me anything new because every minute costs money. Things don’t cost quite as much with prose, but the principal is still the same. With this in mind, I’m going to continue the story of the Sailor.

            So, the word: hitch. (? –  “Any obstruction that impedes or is burdensome.”)

 

            The keel of the boat slid gravelly onto the shore and lurched to a gentle stop. He watched as the figure, still obscured by the fog, came to a stop  three fathoms away and waited, cloaked and silent.

            The waves lapped at the shore. The gulls seemed to have faded into the mist. Clouds obscured the sun, and he felt rain on the edge of the air. He waited, his hands gripping the sides of the boat, the bundle resting on the seat before him. He could feel it burning, yearning to go into the mist, but he waited and revealed it not.

            Then with slow, soft steps the figure moved forward and emerged from the fog like a ghost. Hooded, with the cloak drawn in close, it was not until the figure stood three feet off the bow that he could make out a face. Light hair floated softly in the breeze, the strands wafting across a soft, female face. She stood tall and erect, with piercing, cold eyes and tight mouth. There was rock in this woman, sharp and damaged to a point; harshly tempting, yet terrifyingly powerful. He wondered how many men had quailed before her gaze, for as she stood silent in the fog and bore down on his with those gray, luminous eyes, he too felt his heart bend within him.

            By compulsion he reached to the bench in front of him and gathered up the bundle in his hands. It felt weighty and thick, the rope coarse beneath his fingers, and he felt ashamed of how he had wrapped it. The leather seemed to reek now of tanning and animal, but it was too late; before him stood the one to whom he must deliver it, and no hitch could forestall the delivery.

            Two steely hands came forth from her cloak. The fog swirled about her thin fingers, and with nary a sound she took the bundle from him and turned back to the east. For the narrowest of moments their flesh was in contact, and he felt ice flow down his arm and seize his heart. It was thus with unmoving body that he watched her float away toward the dim forest and as in a dream he watched her ascend the mossy staircase and disappear midst a swirl of mist into the obscurity of the woods.

           

            Meh. Kind of fun. It was a big struggle to decide whether the figure would be a man or woman. It would be more fun to describe and have it be a woman, but I already did that with imprison, so I felt the urge to do something different. But, with the Sailor being so drawn to the shore and compelled to come, tempted is really the word, then it had to be a woman. I did not, however, expect her to be steely and cold. But when you write a line like piercing, cold eyes you can’t exactly make her a warm, delightful angle. But ah, so is the way of writing!

2/15/09           

            I watched the last couple episodes of Avatar: The Last Airbender, Season 3 today. What an epic story. There are for sure stuff I don’t agree with in the story and it might not be a good show to watch, but at the very least the arcs of the story and the finale are impeccably done and so, so epic. Does that make it okay to watch? I don’t know…. That’s a whole issue I haven’t figured out yet. But, here’s a thought: what are my influences? Am I getting my ideas and how I think about things and come up with action or storyline from a pagan, antichrist show, or am I getting them from God? What goes into a man comes out; the seeds you plant will bear fruit. What seeds am I planting?

            Eesh. I don’t know. What am I planting in my heart? More than good or bad (which is an easy decision when it’s clear), how do I decide when things are perhaps more in the gray? Or when I happen to really like something? The line for me might be what I struggle with. If I was very tempted by eastern thinking and magic and what-not, then Avatar would be something I would probably cut off. But if I’m not, is it still okay to watch? Or does it in the end come down to what I’m letting into my heart and mind?

            I remember reading Harry Potter back in high school. After reading for a while, I wandered upstairs and sat down to write something on the computer. What did I begin to write? A story about a kid who had powers – magic, basically. Of course I wouldn’t call him a wizard or magician or witch, but he was definitely using magic, based on the inspiration of Harry Potter. Witchcraft is directly condemned in the Bible, for the reason that I think it gives me the strength. Why have God when you have magic? You survive on your own strength instead of leaning on him. I sat down once and tried to figure out why magic was wrong (it is, I know it is, it’s in the Bible), and that’s the reason I thought of. Because it gives me the strength to overcome my problems and leaves no room for God. It makes me into a god; thus, it is antichrist.

            With this decided: is it okay to watch stories involving magic? Harry Potter I’ve decided is something I can’t watch or read, because I know the mindset it puts me in. Those days in early college when I sat in the book store and read the books have such a strange feeling, much akin to when I’ve spent time in Barnes & Noble reading comic books. There’s this strange sense of…I don’t want to come back to the real world. I like the power in those stories, even find it tempting, you might say. Both Harry Potter and superhero comic books leave me with an ‘off’ feeling that I’ve decided isn’t good, and so I just don’t think I can finish reading the Harry Potter books or watch the movies.

            What of Eragon, then? Or even Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia? Or, returning to the initial subject, Avatar? Just because the magic (power, ability, what have you) isn’t called witchcraft like it is in Harry Potter, it’s still called magic and wizardry. How do I justify those? I think…I avoid the issue. I just go ahead and watch them or read them. In the case of Tolkien and Lewis I feel safe reading them because I know they were both Christian, and even when magic is used it’s not a means of empowering the individual. Reliance is still dependent on an outside source: in Narnia that source is Aslan; in Middle-Earth it is…unexplained? There is power, and it’s attributed to an old, ancient source, fate, if you will. But knowing the heart behind the stories I feel safe reading them. And of Eragon? Or Avatar? Again, I think I push the issue aside because I enjoy the story so much.

            But does that make it okay? I’ve come up with excuses in my mind, but that’s just skirting the issue. And of course it comes down to how I as a writer will deal with power. Will my characters have magic? I don’t know if I could call it that in my own stories, but if they wielded a supernatural power at will – wouldn’t that be magic, by definition? Obviously the genre doesn’t require it, but how can I justify writing fantasy? And I will not make God into a dispenser of power whenever we need it. How can I write of supernatural power that doesn’t act…tamely? The stories that blow my mind are stories where people move decidedly in the supernatural, where they with purpose move with power from God. Can you do that? Isn’t the power of God like a wind that flitters around, something that can’t be “relied” upon but is up to His will to demonstrate? Did Elijah strike the water with his cloak because it was a power he could always do, or because he knew God would act somehow; he walked in confidence, not necessarily control?

            I don’t know. I haven’t found an answer. But I have to find it if I’m going to write the supernatural-dependent stories that I have in my mind. A story about a prophet? How are you going to decide when God moves and doesn’t? He acts with perfect wisdom, searching mind and heart, but me – I’m just a man trying to write a story. Am I the god of the universe I’ve created? And how I depict God acting in my stories directly influences how people view God. I cannot show Him as operating every time a character prays and asks because He doesn’t operate every time we ask. (Granted, not always in the way we ask. He moves, just not necessarily how I specifically ask.)

            As a Christian this is the biggest question I have to answer, especially as someone who wants to write fantasy. Not…ah! what a stereotyped word! I want to imagine! It is so much fun to sit and imagine a whole entire world from scratch, coming up with people and places and events; history is so much fun to write and think up. It’s great! I want to write fantasy in the sense that I make everything up! I don’t have to follow the rules of this world, but can have that supernatural element closer, or at least more evident. But can that supernatural power be directed? If I need a fire and I’m out in the woods, can I utter some phrase and fire appears? It seems my loophole is praying and having God do it, but how do I judge when and why He does it? People not having power: I can do that. Deciding when God acts and displays his power: that is a hard thing to figure out, and I don’t want to come up with bad doctrine that leads people astray and gives an idea that He always acts when we ask. He of course does act – heaven moves when we pray – but to say that he will always answer by fire is…can I say that? I don’t know.

            If I am going to write fantasy I have to figure out this issue.

 

            I don’t know if I’m going to write about a word today. This is taking up a lot of space. But these are the things I have to deal with. I want to be a scribe trained for the kingdom of heaven; I want to tell stories that move the hearts of men toward God. I want to display God through writing and through film, and I want to do it accurately. Oh! How my heart longs and yearns to reach and create! Which is what He did! It’s no surprise, since I’m made in His image. But I want display Him correctly, accurately. Not wholly, since I obviously don’t know all of Him, but the parts that I do understand and grasp I want to show correctly. “God, help me. Lead me to be a writer that honors you and leads people to Jesus.”

 

2/14/09

            Hullo! Today was brisk and cold. A bit of sun throughout the day – it felt quite nice as I drove down the highway, trying to find an instrument warehouse (no such luck) – but I think it dimmed by evening. Spring may be conquering the sun, but Winter still holds tight to the air.

            I’ll be continuing the Sailor story, and I think today he’ll hear someone upon the staircase. Perhaps we’ll even enter the forest…. And I’ll do my best to use the word I find : )

            So, the word: photography. (Hmm…)

 

            The shore receded into fog. The crashing of the waves washed over the air and hid the noise of the gulls with its steady lapping. White foam sprayed against the sides of his boat, and he felt the strain of pulling against the current. The sailor gritted his teeth and propped his feet against the seat in the bow, on which the bundle sat quietly. He dug in deep with the oars and fought against the sea. There was a vengeance in its power, a will within its deep that pushed against his small boat with every pounding wave and sought to drive him back upon the shore. T\he more he pulled at the oars the greater the sea’s push became, and soon his heart cried out to free of the sight of that beach. The bundle began to cry out before him, a retched cry that burned in his eyes and bid him to give in to the waves and return once more to the waiting sand.

            But he would not. The louder the cry became the stronger was his resolve to be done with the bundle and this shore. Thus he rowed hard and vigorous, and in time came to be a dozen or more fathoms from the east.

            Then it seemed to him that he heard a call that was different from that of the birds. It passed across his hearing but so intent was he upon the rowing that he didn’t think twice of it. But it came again, a sharp cry that was not animal nor ocean, but in fact human. He looked up from the floor of the boat and looked back to the shore, and there, upon the second mezzanine of the wooden staircase, was a figure, small and black in the gray air.

            His heart clutched within him. He cast a fast glance at the bundle to make sure it did not leap overboard, and then he looked back to the shore. The figure was moving now, descending step by step down to the beach. The strength in his arms lessened, and though he continued to row the sea gained mastery of the boat and began to push him back toward the shore. A thicker cloud passed over the sun, dimming the already faded light. The gulls swooped close and low, the waves thundered and crashed, the rain pattered on his shoulders, and he at last gave up rowing and let himself be pulled back to the shore and toward the strolling, dark figure.

 

            Well, there it is. My mom called near the end so the last sentence was finished an hour or two later. But it’s finished. And once again, I didn’t really use the word. I had an idea toward which I was heading, but I didn’t get there, nor do I think I would have if my mom hadn’t called. But what do you do. The point is to write, and I did.

            Till next time.

 

2/13/09

            Hello! Check it out: it’s 9 o’clock. It’s pretty early for me to be writing! Nice. Today was interesting. The morning started out with an eastern window blowing strong and straight across the weather vane. I almost said there wasn’t an edge to it, but it was indeed there, just under the surface. But not too harsh. However, when I left almost eight hours later, the ground was wet and the air sharp with that winter bite, and now the wind has shifted to direct from the north. Huh, I thought as I walked to my car. Quite the change. By the way, I came up with a saying to figure the points of the compass: with west on your left, north is forward. Yep. Neat. This paragraph is terrible grammar; each new subject is supposed to get it’s own. But I don’t like how blogs automatically double space when you hit enter, so I’m going to keep typing till the word. To that end, I think I’m going to continue the story of the sailor. Something about him and that setting seems fresh and fertile to me, with lots of potential. So we’ll keep going with that story line and see what happens.

            So, the word: lately.

 

            With his back to the shore the sailor dug the oars in hard, driving them through the water with continuous, strong pulls. The western sky hung dark overhead, hidden by the dense blanket of clouds that floated like a ceiling above him. He knew the sun must be rising beyond the shore in the east, but its light had not reached the west toward which he faced. An ocean wind blew from the north, and he smelled rain on its currents.

            Before him, sitting quietly at the rear of the small boat, was a square bundle wrapped in leather. A stout rope was wound round it, thus causing it to lean to one side and rock back and forth gently as the boat rose and fell with the waves. Though the sailor’s eyes roved left and right, they always returned, if for but a fleeting moment, to the bundle, as if it might slip from the boat when his eyes were away. A strange, discomforted look would come to his face when he looked at it, and he would mumble in a gravelly voice beneath his breath before looking away to the north, or the west as if he couldn’t stand the sight of it; but it would not be long before his eyes returned, drawn to it as to treasure.

            So the sailor watched and rowed, until at last the keel of the boat slid upon sand and he turned to look at the eastern shore. It lay in night shadow, and he could see no farther than a few paces away, past the tide’s row of driftwood and seaweed. He flipped the dripping oars into the boat, then leapt in a spinning circle around the bow of the boat and into the ankle deep water. His boots were high riding, though, and he was no more wet than any sailor as he pulled the boat up onto the shore and away from the waves. As he heaved to the rain began to fall, a slight drizzle that pecked at his drab oil-skin slicker with a quiet popping sound, and by the time he had secured the boat out of the sea’s reach the rain was falling steady, though lightly.

Taking hold of the bundle’s rope, he turned and faced the dark east. The bundle he set at his feet, his hands he shoved deep in the pockets of the slicker, which he pulled in close against the rain, and he settled himself to wait.

 

Meh. Not exceptional, but not bad. It was actually kind of hard to focus with people talking and what-not out in the living room. Environment is not vital (nor should it be – one’s muse is as much intentional as it is spontaneous) but it does not hurt to have a good one. But still. The point is to write, and I like this fellow. He has a mission. Oh, and the fun part was pulling out The Sailor’s Lexicon, a book I picked up from Barnes & Noble last fall. Quite splendid. So. Until next time, dark sailor! We might yet see what is that bundle of yours! Or at least discover who might come down yonder foggy stair!

 (I just realized I didn’t use the word ‘lately’! Whoops…. But I guess, since the point is to write, that I accomplished my goal : )