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The Bibliotheca


Calling Collaborative Writers Looking for Work

Posted by Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa , in Wordsmithery Aug 18 2012 · 1,206 views

A while back in a dazzling epiphany I got this idea for an epic, but alas I doubt very highly if I should have the time to write it. I'm busy with other, more important literary projects. However, if I find enough interested parties, I'm sure I could find the time to take it in shifts with them to write this.

In other words, I'm asking you, my adoring fans harsh critics gullible followers dear friends, if you would like to partake with me in telling a new tale.

Now, I admit it's not the most original idea, and stories akin to it have probably been done before. But I think it will be fun to write, and I think I have some pretty good twists up my sleeve. It's all about the peripeteia.

Hundreds of thousands of years have passed since Teridax's defeat, and the peoples of Spherus Magna have constructed a massive, sprawling city where all live in peace, harmony, and prosperity. The Council of Four leads the city wisely, and the Atero Eight with their forces guard the city from outside dangers and maintain order within.

But times have changed. Mata-Nui has not been seen since his disappearance, and the Great Beings have abandoned them. The Toa are a dying breed. The eight Toa guardians and the Turaga council are the only remnants of the species. Even then, the Council is under the thumb of the Atero Eight; the ruthless, arbitrary dictators of the city. Beneath the peace, harmony and prosperity, the people live in constant fear of their oppressors.

Spherus Magna's past has been long forgotten. The old legends are faded memories in the minds of only Atero's eldest, and even they question the validity of their remembrances. But when the time comes to stand up to the greatest challenge they have ever faced, from which not even the Atero Eight can protect them, they will need to look to old legends and rediscover ancient principles. And what one Matoran finds may just make him the greatest hero the universe has ever known. . . .

And there's your nutshell. I think there's potential. But potential "is all the same. It merely matters how you use it."

So if you might like to get in on this, if you would like to uplift your pencil alongside my own in battle, comment here or PM me. Once we have enough writers we can start discussing a few details and then getting writing pretty soon, I think.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith :smilemirunu:


Guardian Angel

Posted by Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa , in Wordsmithery Aug 17 2012 · 304 views
Short story, LSO
I'm a writer, after all, and a writer writes. This title is no misnomer. And I figure this will be safer here than in the black hole of Completely Off Topic. So I present, without further ado . . .

Guardian Angel

I see a sun-bathed field strewn with children, laughing, screaming, running. I see one tag another and backpedal. The new It takes off like a shot. As I watch, two of them give up the game. While the others continue, they sequester themselves in the embrace of a watchful oak tree. The taller one, his cheeks as round and protuberant as his belly, waits gallantly while the small raven-haired girl practically leaps into the branches, before he struggles upward himself. And there they sit, talking, for hours.

What about, I can't say. It's not my business.

The next day, there they are. Days pass and there they are again. Day after day, week after week. And when they're not in the tree, they're in the playground, with friends and siblings, entertaining themselves in all the creative ways children will. But before long, they're back up in the tree, swinging side by side, lying in the grass to admire the clouds or stars.

I lose track of how many days go by like this. I forget how many hours they spend together in blissful companionship. I can't say how many years pass before the tree becomes empty, and the swings creak only by the force of a passing breeze.

She still comes. But he doesn't. Where did he go? I suppose that's not my concern.

The tree sighs in the wind and weeps with the rain. It seems lonely without the two children nestled in its branches, as bare as it would be stripped of its leaves.

I notice her step beneath its canopy. I pause to watch. She caresses its bark. I wish I could see what thoughts pass through her mind, that I could comfort her and assure her. She wipes away the tears and turns her back on the tree.

Most of all I wish that I could find him and bring him back.

A year passes. Two. And then, at last, he returns. Yet so much has changed in those two years. He has changed. She, when they lay eyes on one another again--she, too, has changed.

It pains me to watch the pair, who had once interacted so closely, all but ignore one another. However, as I watch I can tell--yes, I can see it; he missed her. Maybe he didn't even realize until now, but he misses the old times. In his set jaw, his slackened smile, his heavy footsteps--it shows all too clearly.

Poor boy. It's too late now. It's too late. Those days are over.

But still, as I watch over the ensuing months I see them talking. I see them still playing tag and all the other little games a youthful mind can concoct with the children. Maybe they've only changed in size and shape. I see them swinging side by side again. They are walking together, their hands nearly brushing.

Oh, but she stops in her tracks. He turns and speaks earnestly.

It seems--yes, as it seems to me, he is trying to recover the propinquity they used to share. But words will never do for something like that. He's trying--oh, dear, he's trying far too soon, and far too hard. . . .

I can't hear them; it's no business of mine what they have to say to one another. But it's all too clear. She avoids his gaze. He continues to speak. She gives only short, simple responses, the curt words that females are so skilled in uttering. It hurts him. She's hurt, too. They're not angry, rather trying not to show any emotion at all. Then she walks away, leaving him standing alone, watching her go.

With a sigh I turn down another street, keep walking. It's no business of mine.

Days pass. He still comes, she still comes. They won't speak, they won't even look at each other unless the other's back is turned. But then, yes, then the doleful, yearning eyes look up. And then they look away.

It's none of my business. None of my business at all.

But does that mean there's nothing I can do?

Two sheets of paper. An ordinary pencil. Such are the ingredients that comprise an old wizard's magic potion.

The right words. Two doorsteps. Does it take anything more than that?

The remaining requirements will come naturally to them.

If it ever even happens that one realizes it was not the other's doing, they will never know whose it was. If they're sensible, they'll be content with the results and ignore the unknown cause.

I see them walking together. I see them talking. I can't hear what they say, but it's all too clear. The embrace they share speaks louder than any words.

They're coming along the sidewalk toward the bench where I sit. Even as they pass behind me I don't bother to listen to what they have to say. It's no business of mine.

~ * ~

In other news, my entry for the COT Short Story LSO contest is posted. The Twilight Game, my Library submission, is already up against a second- and third-placer. And no, I'm not complacent. I'm the humblest man alive!

. . . Okay, maybe I'm a little complacent.

Until next time,

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith :smilemirunu:


BZP Library Summer Olympics: Short Stories Artistic Gymnastics Reimagine

Posted by Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa , in Wordsmithery Aug 16 2012 · 401 views

(The title is longer than the entry.)

For those who aren't aware of it, Hahli Husky is currently hosting the second BZPower Library Summer Olympics. The short story competitions, with a branch each in COT and the Library, are now open for entry, lasting until the 24th of August. I strongly encourage you--yes, you, right there, and don't you think that I don't know who you are--to enter, because sadly this contest has been pretty quiet, nothing like the last. And after all, I can't win without competitors to trounce. ;) So what are you waiting for? Put on that thinking cap, pick up a pencil or a keyboard, bear in mind the rules, start thinking, maybe get a cup of coffee, stare into space as long as necessary in spite of what those around you might think, procrastinate until the last minute if that's your style, and get writing!

The topics for the individual portions of the contest are here (BIONICLE) and here (Completely Off Topic).

(I just made a slight edit after asking myself: why in all a fictitious world existing in the bowels of a massive android shouldn't I capitalize the O in COT? I've been doing that for a long time, and find myself at a loss to explain why. . . .)

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith :smilemirunu:

Dramatis Personae


A young man with his feet on the ground and his head in the sky, and an inclination to implement the occasional headstand.

Nuile, Wordsmith

Penman of a number of BIONICLE and Neopets short stories, as well as three epics, based respectively on the aforementiond and Avatar: The Last Airbender. This writer has also penned a full-length mystery novel, a work in progress pending final revisions and publication.

More than that, the BZPower League of Authors was his brainchild, which he has developed into the Ambage with the help of Velox, Cederak and 55555. This refuge and practice arena for writers is open to all with a penchant for the literary arts.

Nuile, Bibliophile

For him to select a favorite book, or a favorite writer, would be impossible. But of the latter, he most admires Dame Agatha Christie, Wilkie Collins, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Harper Lee, C.S. Lewis, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Sinclair Lewis. Favorite books he includes in this chart:

To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee)

The Moonstone (Collins)

Murder on the Orient Express, Death in the Clouds, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, The Clocks (Christie)

The Hound of the Baskervilles, The Lost World (Doyle)

Out of the Silent Planet (C.S. Lewis)

Free Air (Sinclair Lewis)

The Bat (Hopwood and Rinehart)

The Nine Tailors (Sayers)

Nuile, Cinéaste

This fellow thinks the world begins and ends with Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Before its birth, however, he confesses that Sam Raimi and David Koepp's Spider-Man, Christopher Nolan and David S. Goyer's Batman Begins, the Indiana Jones series, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Mary Poppins were films more than worthy of watching.

Nuile, Television Viewer

The Dick Van Dyke Show by far surpasses any television show produced prior or hence. Father Knows Best, Leave it to Beaver and The Andy Griffith Show are excellent series from a similar time frame. MacGyver is hard to beat. Diagnosis Murder, Monk and Murder, She Wrote are his favorite mystery series. In animation he most enjoys Avatar: The Last Airbender and its sequel; Batman: The Animated Series alongside Batman Beyond and The Batman; Phineas and Ferb, one of the most creatively funny cartoons he has ever seen.

Nuile, Cuisinier

Asian and Italian foods may be his enthusiasms, but he's not above a juicy burger or a spicy taco. As far as his own cooking, he oft gets more adventurous than his family appreciates, though when he behaves he can conjure a reason for your taste buds to celebrate. By far his favorite meal: Thanksgiving 2011, consisting of Paula Dean's Indian Succotash, Grean Bean Casserole, Orange Corn Bread, Bacon Roasted Brussel Sprouts, Coconut Biscuits, and Mashed Cauliflower and Potatoes.

Nuile, Musicologist

He pleads guilty to sheer ignorance, unworthy even of being called an amateur in this department. But dramatic scores and profound lyrics top his charts. The Impossible Dream from The Man of La Mancha and I Can Go the Distance as performed by Michael Bolton are cited as his two favorite songs, amidst much of Celtic Thunder's work.

Nuile, Gamer

Disney's Epic Mickey, the Kingdom Hearts series, and the Pokémon series are the only video games he considers worthy of notation.

Nuile, Sportsman

As fast on his feet as he is between the ears, he enjoys games of muscle and of strategy. Physically, he likes most to play football; but nothing beats a game of chess in his book.

The Art of Writing

It is my belief that a writer should be above human emotions, desires, vices, flaws; a writer should be almost superhuman, something like a monk. However, like monks, this is not an attribute that comes naturally, rather an ability that must be worked at.

More tangibly, one of the most important characteristics a writer can possess is tenacity. An artist's life is never an easy one. An artist presents themself to the world, and ineluctably there will be critics alongside the fans. But anyone who knows real love won't let it be quelled by what others think. Never give up, never despond. So maybe nobody's perfect; I'm not, and I never will be. But an artist, like a monk, is one who always strives to improve her- or himself, who never ceases to reach for the unreachable. Every amelioration is an achievement. And every day a writer achieves something merely by writing, for every word written is a word toward amelioration. If you are good, you can always be better; if you are great, you can always be greater.

What matters most for writers is that they take pride in their own own work. Ultimately your biggest fan and your biggest critic is yourself, and that's who you have to please the most. No artist truly passionate about their art does what they do for someone's approval or just to get paid. At the heart of every artist is a person who does what they do because they love to do it. I'm an artist; I'm a writer. I don't stop trying to get better, I don't stop striving for perfection--but I enjoy every step of the amelioration process, I appreciate every improvement, and I am always happy with where I am, yet always be eager about where I'm going. Writing is a journey with no destination. Writing is a quest without end. Writing is spiritual nomadism.

And it's not easy. It's frought with difficulty, trouble, disappointment, and grief--but a journey without end gives its reward not in the destination but in every step of the path.

Yet I have not even touched upon just what a writer is; which is because a writer, simply put, is everything. A writer is an artist, but also a psychologist, and a logician, a philosopher, a scientist, an adventurer, an inventor, a politician, a magician, and multitudinous others. A writer is everything because they write about everything. "Write what you know"; that's not the rule I live by. "Know what you write," that's my creed. Writers know a little about everything, and everything about a little. And when they don't know . . . they read!

That's a writer's life. It's the kind of life I love. It's a wonderful gift. A writer's life is the kind of life I live and always will live. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

June 2018

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"The problem with putting two and two together, is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get twenty-two." - Sam Spade, The Maltese Falcon (Dashiell Hammett)



"Virtue is the truest nobility." - Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote



"Our greatest foes, and whom we must chiefly combat, are within." - Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote



"We derive our vitality from our store of madness." - E. M. Ciran



"Cultivate a superiority to reason and see how you pare the claws of all the sensible people when they try to scratch you for your own good!" - Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone



"Though knowledge and logic may not always steer you right, faith and wisdom will never fail." - Me, Stellar Quest


"I'm like an old golf ball--I've had all the white paint knocked off me long ago. Life can whack me about now and it can't leave a mark. But a sportin' risk, young fellah, that's the salt of existence. Then it's worth livin' again. We're all gettin' a deal too soft and dull and comfy. Give me the great wastelands and the wide spaces, with a gun in my fist and somethin' to look for that's worth findin'." - Lord John Roxton, The Lost World, (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)




"Why does man create? Is it man's purpose on earth to express himself, to bring form to thought, and to discover meaning in experience? . . . Or is it just something to do when he's bored?" - Calvin, Calvin and Hobbes



"Sometimes I think books are the only friends worth having." - Susie Derkins, Calvin and Hobbes



"Mother Nature never shocks me." - Melvin Coolie
"It sure must've shocked your father and mother!" - Buddy Sorrell, The Dick Van Dyke Show



"Hey, I know what that is! That's one of those old creamation urns, they put the ashes inside." - Rob Petrie
"Ugh! I wouldn't be caught dead in one of those." - Buddy Sorrell, The Dick Van Dyke Show



"I wish I was one of those Danish doctors." - Rob Petrie
"How would that help?" - Laura Petrie
"Well, it wouldn't, except I'd be in Denmark instead of here." Rob Petrie, The Dick Van Dyke Show



"What's the big deal? Lots of people have insomnia, and you don't see them losing any sleep over it!" - Grandpa, The Munsters



"Anyone who sees a psychiatrist ought to have their head examined!" - Darrin Stevens, Bewitched



[9:26:46 PM] Aimee: it is so adorable how authors have favorite authors
[9:27:25 PM] Andrew P: You're an author. You have favorite authors. =P
[9:27:39 PM] Aimee: yes and i get to talk to them on skype all day

- A Geste of the Ambage Chat


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Some random air-head decided to be pompous and condescending and "honor" me with his approbation. I guess there's a pride of some sort in being recognized by the mentally unsound. It makes me feel special--or weird, one of those two. Thanks, Tekulo!