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Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa

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  1. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    7. Run through the streets singing Yankee Doodle--all fifteen-or-so verses!--at the top of your lungs.
    6. Call everyone you see "comrade."
    5. Remind everyone how this day is a day of remembering and honoring our belligerent founding fathers' disrespect for authority.
    4. Mail letters to all your British friends--gloating!
    3. Write a short story about a professional baseball player. Then, reveal it to be nothing but a young boy's daydream, suddenly shattered when he hits a baseball through a window. Or otherwise write an Independence Day-themed short story, interpret the theme "Glass," and submit it to the Flash Fiction Marathon!
    2. Playing with explosives. Better, watch someone else play with explosives, stand in the crowd, and say to everyone near you, "These Chinese incendiary weapons sure are pretty, aren't they?"
    1. Remember the sacrifices of our forefathers, and honor their bravery, their valor, and all the many deeds throughout our history, that have made our nation great, and afforded us the blessed freedom we enjoy.
     
    0. If you're not an American--then spend the day as you would any other day! Happy Thursday!
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  2. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    15. Every vote is a word promoting and inspiring the divine arts of literature. Help bring a master of the craft one step closer to the hard-earned glory he deserves!
     
    14. The fact is, your vote counts! Even the best entries might only win by one vote--if they win at all! Do you want terrible entries to win just because they're popular? Do you want to be personally responsible for the next Twilight?
     
    13. You are advocating Unity.
     
    12. It is your Duty.
     
    11. It is your Destiny.
     
    10. You are setting a positive example for your fellow BZPers.
     
    9. If you ignore these polls, it's the same as saying you're a heartless eremite who doesn't care about his fellowbeings. With each poll that closes without YOUR vote, somewhere, a writer bursts into tears. Relieve their pain! Do not let them relive it!
     
    8. You are advocating your belief in the democratic process and freedom of speech.
     
    7. Voting grants you SADISTIC POWER OVER THE FATE OF EVERY WRITER IN EVERY POLL. WE ARE ALL AT YOUR MERCY.
     
    6. By this small act of participation on your part, your are honoring the hard work and effort that has gone into this contest. Its hosts and each and every one of its entrants have put blood, sweat and tears into the stories you see in these polls.
     
    5. BECAUSE IT'S THERE.
     
    4. Because you can! YOU HAVE THE POWER.
     
    3. It is your honor, as well as your responsibility to the community.
     
    2. These stories are well-crafted masterworks of art.
    As for those that aren't . . . It is YOUR responsibility to make sure that they do not win!
     
    1. If you do not, I will look for you . . . I will find you . . . and I will kill you.
     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  3. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    The bane of any writer is the dreaded staunching of the creative energies. The cause of this disease is hard to place. Some say it is indolence. Some say it is tied closely with diet and appetite, and the same things that affect both. Whatever the cause may be, I have developed a surefire, failsafe, foolproof, certifiably success-guaranteed cure to this onerous disease.
     
     
    You will need:
    - One bed
    - One pillow
    - One rope (a sturdy twine will do)
     
    Directions:
     
    Step 1. Lie on the bed, face up.
     
    Step 2. Put a pillow over your face.
     
    Step 3. Using the rope or twine, tie the pillow around your head tightly. Ensure that you are sufficiently smothered, allowing no oxygen in or out.
     
    Step 4. Scream into the pillow. Scream your lungs out. Scream to your heart's content. By this time you will have used up most of the oxygen remaining in your lungs.
    Note: You may sing if you prefer.
     
    Step 5. Asphyxiate.
     
     
    Ta-da! You will no longer have writer's block!
     
     
    WARNING: Noted side effects include, and may not be limited to, loss of life, and a potential of undead vengeance.
     
    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith
  4. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    You told me never to play this song again.
     
    If promises were LEGO they could seldom be broken, but most promises are composed of that cheap stuff they use to may Happy Meal toys.
     
    Besides, I kept my promise not to mention it any time soon. This isn't soon. Worry not; I will keep it brief.
     
    The Second Death
    is now available in paperback from Createspace (preferable) or Amazon for $11.99. Add in shipping and handling, and if you've got about sixteen or seventeen bucks to burn and no Kindle to buy the eBook, or just prefer the feel of a print book (amen to that), every reader is a blessing and your business will always be appreciated.
     

    "As time goes by . . ."







    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  5. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    One of my favorite quotes from the novel:

     
    Writing requires understanding, if not comprehension; to feel if not to know; and that most important faculty of the human mind, born of understanding and comprehension and feeling and knowledge and experience and intuition and much else: great judgment--but better to say, prudence.
     
    I don't know if I would say that writing requires genius; granted there are many geniuses in the history of literature, no doubt. The only requirement, however, is cleverness: he who would make people take him for a genius, needs not necessarily be one.
     
    Most importantly, writing takes time, for haste makes waste; art should not be rushed. In this modern era of celerity, we suffer a dramatic lack of proper pacing. It is not enough to stop and smell the roses, for from that we gain nothing but fleeting pleasure; but if we stop, and take the time to watch the roses grow . . . then we learn something. It is for readers to smell the roses we writers tend, but it is for us to watch them grow.

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  6. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa

    Poetry

    By Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa,

    So somebody's been gossiping behind my back, saying I should write something like this. =P Well, I'm not much of a poet, but as far as I could tell there was no rhyme nor reason to that, nor any metrical structure. I'm probably wrong, but I know precious little of poetry anyway, and so I will leave it up to you to tell me whether this is a poem or not. Fifteen minutes of trying something like the previously mentioned poem, and this was the result:
     

    Pain and sorrow let loose to kill,
    Joy and bliss left free to roam;
    Dark and night, light and day,
    Value, justice, apathy.
     
    To tell the truth or tell a lie?
    To believe or to deceive,
    To see false for false or real for real,
    Madness, waste, insanity.
     
    The strength to endure the harshest blow,
    The weakness to fall.
    The vigor to rise, the dread to turn back,
    Panache, terror, equipoise.
     
    Cry to the night, weep to the stars,
    Lament your losses and your gains.
    Feel the poignance to exist,
    To love, to lose, to fight and win.
     
    The flower's bloom, the sun's warm glow,
    The happiness of emptiness,
    Inane joys rotting in our souls;
    Comfort, peace, banality.
     
    Logic and rationality,
    Sound reason to do, to live, to die.
    Euphoria in just purpose, despair in cogent cause.
    Wherefore, why, validity.
     
    Emotions, feelings, vagaries,
    Justice, madness, equipoise,
    Love and loss, joy and ease, farce, reason, tragedy;
    Where lay the world's true alchemy?






    Somehow I feel like there should be more to poetry.
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  7. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Beautiful; and very eloquently put. This is very much how I feel about literature. It is a magic indefeasibly real. Is fiction as fictional as the word suggests? I think not. It may be intangible--yet, in some ways, it is now. It is the world that exists beneath ours, the mirror that reflects the truth of our lives.




    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  8. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Last time I'll plug this, I promise.
     
    The Second Death, Kindle eBook, is free now through January 30th. Get your hands on it now and it's yours to keep forever, yours to read any time your Kindle is handy, and yours to review if you happen to feel munificent and eloquent. ;D Just be sure to let me know so I can give you proper thanks.
     
    All right, I'll say no more on the subject. At least not any time soon. Thanks again!
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith



  9. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    To get the former out of the way first, The Second Death will be yours free forever if you download it between January 26th (two days to go!) and January 30th.
     
     
    Now then, I would like to discuss the issue of whether 'tis nobler to say something, or to utter it, or perhaps to state it. Is it better to ask or to inquire? Bring adverbs into the equation, and the field becomes open to even greater argument. The simple fact is that every writer and every reader, too, has their own opinion about it. This is mine.
     
    Examining a novel as if it were a cadaver, we'll say the plot is the core skeletal structure; the prose can be the flesh that covers it all; but dialogue becomes the muscles that hold it all together. Everything else is vital, but it's the dialogue that does the real work. It's the life and vigor of the story, the human element that most enraptures readers. It's one of my rules in writing that dialogue should always be able to stand on its own; it doesn't always need to, and there are times when it just plain can't, but if at all possible dialogue should literally speak for itself.
     
    It is my opinion, however, that sometimes say is the right choice and sometimes it is not. Sometimes another verb should be used--or sometimes, none at all!
     
    One example of a use for a verb other than say is merely to emphasize the tone of the dialogue. Even if the words sounds like a shout, s/he shouted serves as an underline. But the verb should be carefully selected. In this case, shout implies a different tone than cry, exclaim, or bellow might.
     
    I usually prefer a powerful verb to an adverb in such cases, but again, it's a matter of discretion. Sometimes the one is more prudent, sometimes the other. And here's another instance in whic they can both be very useful. Every now and then a quotation arises where the words are too few or too simple or otherwise inexpressive; where a human voice would add a meaning the words do not contain. A human inflects their speech in a way that is difficult, though not impossible, to suggest in written dialogue; sometimes a telling verb or an adverb is the best way to add that inflection.
     
    And then there's another method that is often used to avoid the s/he said entirely. But I have often seen this abused. If the movement is not significant in some way, if it serves no other purpose than to tell us who is speaking, it is rendered entirely meaningless and makes the writer look lazy. If the character strokes his mustache or twirls a finger in her hair, it indicates the speaker with the extra purpose of physical expression. But when a character removes their shoe to get at an itch during the conversation--sure, it's a natural action, but it's nothing more than a trivial, bothersome distraction. Some actions tell enough alone, some could use an adjective or some other form of additional description, and some should just be avoided. Again, it's all dictated by discretion.
     
    On the whole, when I only have two characters speaking, I prefer to drop anything outside the dialogue, unless where emphasis or definition is prudent, or when a character makes an expressive movement. When you get three or more characters talking together, of course, it takes a degree of dexterity to juggle them all clearly and effectively.
     
    The last point I would like to make becomes a part of that aforementioned rule, that dialogue should always be able to stand on its own. Not only does this mean that dialogue should speak with its own tone, but with the tone of the character. His or her "voice" should be audible when they speak. It can never be solely relied upon to identify a character, but the character should nonetheless be identifiable by the words they say.
     
    　
    And sometimes, I think, the very purpose of verbs or adverbs is artistic embellishment. Far too often modern authors concentrate too much on the functions of words, and not enough on their beauty. We forget that writing is an art. There is a science behind every art, but we must remember that the science is the supplement, not the focus. The gears in the mechanism of writing do not turn for their own sake, but for the sake of the art
     
    I can think of no better way to phrase it than in the very words of Dolores Douglas, of The Second Death.

     
     
    Perhaps you observed my verb choice. I used it for embellishment but also to lend a subtle inflection to the tone of her words.

     
    Didn't that sound a little different?
     
     
     
    　
    One thing that, when it comes to dialogue, I shall never forgive is this:


    The mental image evoked compels me to smile myself. With the primary exceptions being door-to-door salespeople, used car dealers, and politicians, few people talk through a smile. Even if your character is a ventriloquist, just don't go there.




    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  10. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Is it January 12th yet?
     
    All right, well, there were formatting issues that delayed matters. Amazon recently altered their system without updating their guides, and that led to complications. But all is well now; and The Second Death is now for sale!
     
    It can be purchased here. It is for sale exclusively through Amazon right now, and for Kindle alone; which means that if you don't have a Kindle or an iDevice with a Kindle application, you won't be able to read it--yet. But it will be available in physical paper before long!
     
    Remember that the current price--.99 cents--is a temporary deal which ends on the 26th, from which date until the 30th it will be free to buy. Buy it free and it is yours to keep forever. After the 30th, the price will become $2.99, which will only apply to future purchases, of course. So tell all your mystery loving friends to get their hands on the eBook while it's free.
     
    And I hope that, after you've read it, you will share your elocution in an Amazon product review. =D But whether you do or not, just the reading part is appreciated. Enjoy!
     
    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith
  11. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    I have an announcement that's going to make Kraggh vomit a modicum in his mouth, tear out his hair, and weep uncontrollably for the lamentable prospects of the written word. And while this bit of news may strike terror into the hearts of some, I could probably name a greater number who will be pleased, perhaps a few who would even be thrilled.
     

    What am I leading up to?
     
    Nuile wrote a novel.
     
    And he's publishing it.
     
    (Coming 1/12/13)




    Pattrick Clayton is a farmer in a somnolent Lancaster town, affable, charming, loved by all. Since his father died, and since he came out of the Great War alone, he has struggled to come to terms with the death that plagues him. It only becomes worse when, to add to his grief, his aunt is found dead in her home. Not a year has passed since the armistice, and the beloved town gossip has been poisoned--and to all appearances, she poisoned herself.
     
    Pattrick can't believe it any more than the rest of the Claytons, whatever the police say. Investigations continue, but before anyone can make up their mind, another death strikes the family, this time even closer to home. And, this time--it's murder.
     
    From the nearby city of Philadelphia comes retired private inquiry agent, Leo Westmacott. At first he's only an old family friend come to pay his respects; but duty is a difficult thing to avoid, and soon he's playing the role of sleuth once again. Now he has to readjust himself to the detection game and get to the bottom of these murders. The complaisant Pattrick Clayton agrees to help, and soon they are joined by Leo's dependable secretary, the charming Miss Slaytor. The deeper they inquire into the lives and minds of the people of Mockingbird, the more they realize that life is no more innocent, no more docile, and no less dangerous in the country than on the backstreets of Philadelphia.
     
    Filled with vivid characters, flavored with heart, and steeped with wisdom, The Second Death is more than a study in murder and mystery but in loss, family, friendship, and death itself. A vivid cast of characters will light your way along an ingenious maze of secret and deception while the secretive Leo Westmacott will leave you completely in the dark until the final moment.
     
     
    And this is but the first in a series of detective novels. You can expect to see more of Leo Westmacott and his assistants in the nigh future. In the meantime, I hope that you'll all take advantage of the .99 cent trial period, read and enjoy the book, and then lend me your advocatory but critical rhetoric in some objective reviews. If you can be patient, however, I encourage you to wait for the five-day promotion during which you may "purchase" the novel absolutely free, January 26th through the 30th. And I won't lie and say that I don't hope some don't notice this until the 31st or later, when the price will stabilize at $2.99.
     
    (Sales, of course, will be through the Amazon Kindle Store.)
     
    Be sure to tell all your friends, relatives, hairdressers and sanctimonious literature teachers after the 30th in time for the promotion!
     
    And hey, have any questions? Ask away!
     
     
     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


     
  12. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    And now that my reflections are over, how better for a writer to end a year than with a story? This is, in a way, a sequel to Polychromatic Frowns; it can be called such, at any rate, because it is of the same style. And so here it is, the last words I shall pen in 2012:
     
     

    Sanguine Goodbyes


     
    I lost the only girl I ever truly cared about today.
     
    I gave her everything. I gave her all the time I could spare and all the help I could offer and all the love I could give. But it wasn't enough for her. I don't know what would have been and I don't know what more I could have done. She told me she was breaking up with me and I guess that's what she did.
     
    But just look on the bright side of it all. Sure, I'll be upset for a while, but tears don't take up nearly as much time as phone calls at all hours to talk about so many things that by the time we were done I would have no idea what I was doing before she called, or than long walks that ache my legs and make my hand stiff from holding hers so long.
     
    Sure, I'll never forget her, but memories don't cost as much as expensive dinners where the lights are so low you can hardly see your food without spilling spaghetti sauce down your front which of course doesn't matter because nobody can so you anyway; or gifts for birthdays or Christmases because even though it's superficial and mercenary commercial corruption makes it incumbent, which is so much as to say its absolutely necessary and can't be avoided, which doesn't matter because everyone does it.
     
    I'm sure the pain--which feels like the anesthesia wore off in the middle of an operation and I woke up to find a surgeon with rough, cold hands and some very sharp, but very shiny and pretty in a way, object poking around my heart--will go away. And then I'll never be hurt again. At least not as much. I might fall down a staircase as I sometimes do or cut my finger while chopping vegetables or hit my thumb with a hammer, or I might even go skydiving and find my parachute was replaced with an anvil or I might get run over by a car whose driver is too busy texting to notice or I might get shot, but none of that hurts as much as this does, nor even does a paper cut.
     
    And I guess I'll be spared of the jealousy I might someday have felt toward her because of her general perfection in every way from kindness to wisdom to shrewdness to effervescence to temerity to veracity to liberality to patience to optimism to humility and back to kindness and all over again two or three times.
     
    And I'll never feel that sensation like there are a thousand monarch butterflies migrating south from my heart into my stomach again. At least not for her face, which was altogether too pretty, anyway. After all, she beauty was so peerless in all respects that staring at her would eventually have caused me to go blind, anyway, and I'm much better off seeing, I think.
     
    And besides that, being with her made me so happy that eventually I would probably just burst with the joy, and that would be very messy and very unpleasant for us both and would have left her very sad and lonely in the end.
     
    When you think about it, love is really a very impractical and very inconvenient thing and it should be far preferable to be all alone with nobody else to interfere between me myself and I. I'll be able to talk to myself all I want, because I do rather enjoy hearing myself talk. She always used to, too, but obviously she got tired of it, which I can't understand at all. But that's just another reason I'm better off now.
     
    So you see, it really doesn't matter than she stabbed me in the heart--metaphorically speaking, of course, because if she had really stabbed me in the heart I would be dead and she would be in prison, or else lying to police detectives who she could probably outwit anyway. It really doesn't matter, as I was saying, that she turned what I expected to be a lovely evening into the most unpleasant and anguishing time I have ever spent, even the night I spent in the hospital because I had mistaken a bear trap for a hula-hoop or the time I had gotten into an elevator so hurriedly I had only one sleeve on and forgot to pull the other through the doors before they closed.
     
    So you see, it really doesn't matter that she told me she thought we should see other people. She was probably right, because like I said before if we had stayed together I probably would have lost my vision with which to see anyone else or anything at all, which are mostly things I do like to see. It doesn't matter that she turned and walked away from me for what will probably turn out to be the last time. It's all for the better that I smiled and waved as she left, and called after her,
     
    "At least I won't ever have to look at your beautiful face again, which was far too distracting, or listen to your dulcet voice, which in its inimitability took all the fun out of hearing ocean waves or singing birds. And at least I won't go blind or burst with happiness!"


    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  13. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    And now, my friends, the time has come to ponder what this past year has been to my life.
     
    It has been one of the longest years of my life, and one of the most difficult, but I cannot call it the worst. Nor can I call it the best. It was not bad, and it was not great, but it was good. There are many things upon which I can look back with joy, and those which I can look back upon with remorse, as well. That's life, though.
     
    I've changed so much in the past year. I guess that's what happens in twelve months. But these twelve months especially. Probably I've learned more in the past year than I ever have in the space of a year. Likely I have undergone more alteration than I ever have in such a period. Possibly all this is true. But of one thing I am sure: in this past year more than ever, I have ameliorated.
     
    I look back at last January and I just feel like slamming my face into my desk. In fact, I think I will. Ouch. Okay, that's done.
     
    Reading over my journal (something all writers should keep) I wonder who that fool could have been who wrote some of the thoughts there placed, in all their obtuseness, where they will forever have posterity in my memory. Hard as I may try to forget that time, I will always keep my idiocy there to remember. Oh, not that I was an cool dude, at any rate not much more than I am now. I am, in many ways, the same person I was then. When I look back at writing style, for instance, little has changed there, bar maybe a few improvements and perhaps even a few degradations--and little, I positively believe, tells more about a person than what they write and how they write it. But in one way I was very much a fool; in one way I made a mistake I have not yet been able to live down.
     
    Now the subject is decidedly personal and I am sorry that I must be vague. I can but say that, some fifteen months ago, I wronged some one quite close to me. Be assured it's not nearly as serious as it sounds; only to me. Not even to they whom I have wronged, I think, does it matter as much as it does to me. I know this sounds illogical and probably does not make much sense; even if I elucidated the situation in minute detail you would still see it that way. Possibly you're right, but that can't change how I feel about what I've done, can it? Maybe I'm being irrational--no, I confess it, I am. But maybe this isn't the place for rationality.
     
    Dispensing with these recondite adumbrations, I think I will pursue the more tangible thread of thought I have extricated from the tangle. Rationality: Is it really so important?
     
    No, I don't think it is. What it comes down to, I think, is prudence. That seems to be the only ubiquitously foolproof answer to any question: prudence. Not reason exactly, not logic nor rationality, but the prudence to decide when and which of these to apply, or when to resort rather to one's faith, another's wisdom, or one's own heart.
     
    To put it succinctly I will quote myself, or rather my intelligent friend Reise: "Though knowledge and logic may not always steer you right, faith and wisdom will never fail."
     
    The greatest difficulty is in finding a complex solution to a simple problem. Maybe my difficulty is in looking for one. Maybe it is a simple solution I should be seeking!
     
    But, well, that's neither here nor there, is it? That's all in the past. And what I am to do now--that's probably been boring you, has it not? It is my philosophy not to allow myself to be absorbed in what is done and unchangeable. For to do so is to forsake the opportunity to actively carve the future. When I make a mistake, I learn from it and move on. When I fall, I pick myself and keep walking.
     
    I'll trip again, there's no doubt about that. It can't be helped! One of the most foolish things a person can do is to fear the future because it holds unpredictable hazards. These same people are usually the nostalgic types, too. To yearn what is lost and fear what is to come--this is absolute folly. Natural, perhaps, but folly. We must learn from the past; we must look to the future; but we must live in the moment!
     
    This is New Year's Eve; a time to look back. So I allow myself the time to do so. Tonight will be a time to enjoy the moment. And tomorrow will be a day to look to the future!
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  14. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    The Year in Review: Writing
     
    In brief calculation I have written upwards of fourty short stories during 2012, most of which were flash fiction, some of which climbed above five thousand words.
     
    In the Jungle, which I assure you is not a songfic based off "Wim-o-weh," is my top choice for the best short story I wrote this year. As far as story, it has been compared to Beauty and the Beast and Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and I myself compare it to Tarzan of the Apes in an inverted way. As far as style, it's been complimented as containing some of my most beautiful prose, and I am much inclined to agree. But I'll stop patting myself on the back; you're welcome to judge for yourself, if you'd like. If not, I'll give you the brief synopsis: Hahli gets lost in the Le-Wahi jungle. But, oh, there's so much more to this BIONICLE romance, and it's sequel, I Am the Jungle. And I'm still patting myself on the back, aren't I? Heh, yeah, sorry.
     
    Polychromatic Frowns was not only metaphorical, philosophical, and encouraging--at least to me--but I had a darn good time writing it, too. It's little over 500 words, so if you're feeling down, I think you would enjoy it. You don't have to review it or even comment on it.
     
    What else did I write this year? Well, not much, I guess. Only a thirty thousand word novella--The Last Avatar--and two novels, one of eighty-five thousand words, the other of seventy thousand. These last are not available to read . . . yet. And lastly, I wrote twenty thousand wirds of a third novel this month.
     
    Any regrets? . . . Nah, I think I'm pretty happy. I'm a writer, and I feel like one; I'm not only content with that, not only happy with it, not only satisfied, but I should say I'm pretty ecstatic about my passion.
     
    "No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money." - Samuel Johnson
     
    I think the entire Ambage will join me in agreeing that this is probably true. Although I might paraphrase . . .
     
    "No creature but a lunatic ever wrote, except for lucrative remuneration."
     
    Indeed. That about sums it up.
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  15. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    In checking my notes I found, rather to my disappointment, that I have read little over twenty novels in the past year. Not a very significant number at all, and not a very satisfying one, but there you go. Nothing can be done about it now! The past cannot be changed. But that is the point of this reflection, is it not? Evaluating the past to better plan for the future.
     
    To Kill a Mockingbird is easily the best novel I've read this year. I believe I already reviewed it some months ago in early October. The vitality, realism and warmth of her characters and story are such as to be irrefragibly lauded, and to leave the reader wishing Harper Lee had not started and ended her career in the same novel, though it is certainly a more than respectable accomplishment for one writer.
     
    Free Air was one of the first books I read this year and I loved it. I saw some of myself and my life in the characters and the story, which is always one of the reasons any reader likes a book. Moreover, this is one of the sweetest, most charming romances I have ever read. Sinclair Lewis's style is engaging, his portrayals of the characters and emotions vivid and even poignant. I am not unemotional but I am stoic, and am not easily moved to laughter, nor to tears, and it is one of the greatest comments I can pay an author that he moved me to both.
     
    Now, this may sound strange to you, but Tarzan of the Apes was highly redolent of Free Air for me. The latter was was written in 1919 while Tarzan itself was written in 1914, and thus they share a not dissimilar era. But their real resemblance is in the romantic story. It was very touching, even heartbreaking. Otherwise this story has some of the most thrilling action that can be found in literature of more than a hundred years in antiquity, in the midst of beautiful descriptions of the jungle, its denizens, and its enchantments. The depths of the psyche it explores are fascinating, as well. The worst I can say is that Burroughs was no stedfast believer in the writing precept "show don't tell," which at times would have done him much good, while at others he embraced it, while at others still he defied it.
     
    I will more briefly recapsulate some of the other highlights of my literary sallies this year. The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux, was another romance that touched me; Warriors: Omen of the Stars: The Last Hope by Erin Hunter was the epic conclusion to a series I have been following for five, six, possibly seven years; The Bat by Mary Roberts Rinehart and Avery Hopwood is a brilliant mystery; The Nine Tailors by Dorothy L. Sayers, . Lastly, The Secret of Chimneys, written by the inestimable Agatha Christie, an authoress nonpareil in the mystery genre, was another brilliant work that stepped, not without keeping its roots firmly planted, out of the traditional detective fiction genre into adventure thriller territory.
     
     
    Regrets! Do I have regrets? Further, I should say; apart from the paltry number of works of fiction I have read in the past year. Are there books I wish I had not read? Yes. The Film Mystery by Arthur B. Reeve, and both A Taste for Death and The Black Tower by P.D. James are stains in my memory that will always remind me how not to write detective fiction. It is a genre of the highest standards and the most honorable traditions; and though in modern days it has been deeply tainted, the heart that lies in the Golden Age shall always continue to beat in my own chest and in those of mystery readers and writers like myself. The Golden Age glows with such a resplendent luminosity as will never be dulled or extinguished!
     
     
    And before I conclude this entry, here's a list of some of the best short stories I've read on BZP this year:
     

    Special


    The Son Becomes the Father


    Depression


    Clockwork


    Black Diamonds

     
    Thanks to these authors, and to all the authors of BZP who make it such a great writing community! Moreover, thanks to the BZPower staff, for your recent gift of Off Topic Culture. All of you make the BZP libraries a great place to write.
     
    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith
     
  16. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    I don't watch much television, and this year has held little broadcast significance for me. However, those ways in which television was meaningful to me were especially meaningful, so I will make note of them.
     
    This year I was introduced by my best friend to The Legend of Korra, with which I immediately fell in love. I began watching Avatar: The Last Airbender posthaste, and well before Korra had run its whole season I had beheld the grand spectacle that was the Last Airbender finale. This is a great television series that will always hold for me a meaning deeper in comparison to most shows for its connection with the aforementioned friend--the same friend, by the way, for whose birthday I wrote The Last Avatar. I advertise shamelessly.
     
    Sherlock was recommended to me by the same friend, as it happens, though everyone else I know advocates the same opinion in its favor, and I don't find it difficult to see why. When it comes to mystery television I doubt if I've ever seen better. These are not "whodunits," which are my preference, but which are not in the vein of Doyle, anyway. I don't believe I've ever seen a very good television "whodunit" anyway, and I feel that maybe if they are not literary they are best avoided. But I digress. Sherlock, while being quite unique in its own right, while breathing a fresh and modern breath into the classic characters, also adheres surprisingly well to Doyle's original vision of his characters and stories, and the writers are well to be commended.
     
    The Dick Van Dyke Show remains to be the best and greatest television show I have ever seen, not only for its transcendence in comedy, but for a simple love of the characters and the romantic relationship between Robert Petrie and his wife, Laura. This year has introduced me to a number of episodes I have never before seen, including "To Tell or Not to Tell," "Teacher's Petrie," and "Never Bathe on a Saturday," some of the best of the series.
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  17. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    I'll go into greater, more specific details re the purposes of this, which should be essentially self-explanatory, but for the moment I'd like to ask you guys a favor. I merely ask you to look at these two synopses I've drafted and elect your preference. Mix and match if you wish, share your thoughts, let me know if it's the type of synopsis that would entice you to read a book. Thanks!

     
    A

    Mockingbird was a drowsy town in rural Lancaster Pennsylvania, a place where nothing ever happened and nothing ever changed. It was a place where the farmers tilled their fields and milked their cows, and their troubles began with bad weather or ill livestock and ended at the local bar. That's what it was.
     
    Now it's a town left ravaged by death. In the wake of the Great War, young veteran Pattrick Clayton has only begun to readjust to the tranquility of farm life when death intrudes once again. Madge Emig, beloved town gossip and Pattrick's own aunt, has died. As reluctant as the Claytons are to believe it, all signs point to suicide. Even while the already broken Clayton family grapples with this new grief, death strikes again, even closer to home. And this time there is no question: it's murder.
     
    When Private Inquiry Agent Leo Westmacott arrives in town, duty calls him to dig strife up by the roots and restore peace to Mockingbird. Joined by his secretary and the eager Pattrick Clayton, he delves deeper into the lives and minds of the people, unearthing secrets and deceptions that prove even the lives of countryfolk may not be as simple as they appear.
     
    A mystery novel that follows all the conventions of the detective fiction genre yet stands in a category all its own, The Second Death takes you on a tour in an era where times may have been different but people were not. Memorable characters will guide you along the way as you explore the roots of faith and fathom the shadowy regions of death to discover the secrets at the depths of the human psyche on a journey fraught with wit, wisdom, and mystery.


    B
     
    When Pattrick Clayton's father died, he didn't know how life could go on. With the coming of the Great War he thought surely the world would stop spinning. When he came out of the army without the brother who had led him in, he wondered if there could ever be escape for him from the plague of death that pursued him at every turn.
     
    Home again in tranquil Mockingbird, Pennsylvania, Pattrick has only begun to readjust to the tranquility of farm life. Slowly peace and happiness returns to his life. Normality begins to recover from the destruction left in the wake of death.
     
    Then it strikes again. Pattrick hasn't been home a whole year when his aunt, beloved town gossip, is found dead. All signs point to suicide. The Claytons deny it, but nothing will stop people from talking and believing what they want. Before the Claytons can even begin to recover from this new grief, death strikes again, even closer to home. And this time there is no question: it's murder.
     
    Retired Private Inquiry Agent Leo Westmacott arrives on the scene, an old family friend come to pay his respects. But duty is a hard thing to avoid. With the aid of his secretary and the eager Pattrick Clayton, now it's up to good old Uncle Leo to seek out the truth. The deeper in the lives and minds of the people he gets and the more secrets and deceptions he unearths, the more convinced he becomes that even the lives of countryfolk are not as innocent as they appear.
    A mystery novel in the classic vein that stands in a category all its own, The Second Death will guide you through a tangle of death and lies on a tour fraught with unforgettable characters, incisive wit, piercing wisdom, and secrets that might just prove that there's more to your own heart than you even realize.
     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  18. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Another year of my life nearly written! And as this chapter draws to a close, it is time to review my own work, as any good writer should do.
     
     
    I'll begin in superficial ways. First, filmographically.
     
    I'd say it was a pretty good year. I've seen plenty of great films, new whether to the world or to me, or old by various definitions. Let's take a look at some of the highlights.
     
    Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace 3D. This remains my favorite of the Star Wars saga, and the three-dimensional enhancements were highly impressive. 3D has come a long way since those blue and red paper glasses. Add "Duel of the Fates" and Liam Neeson as some of the qualities, improve the experience with the company of my best friend, and mark it as all the more special for being my own visit to the cinema in the past year, and it is very well worthy of note.
     
    Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Best movie of all time. I knew that the instant I saw it, and until another movie steps up to replace it--possibly Sherlock Holmes 3--it will keep the title. And even then it will always live in my memory as one of the greatest films of cinematic history. Moreover, the sequence that begins from the words, "A five minute game?" will always preserve a place in my heart under the honorable title of the scene.
     
    The Dark Knight Rises. I actually saw this for the first time today. If you've seen it, there should be no question in your mind why I call it one of the better movies I've seen this year. Though I'm not particularly savvy nor interested in the area of politics, I admire this film series not only for its depth in that area but also in that of character. The morality and the realms of the human psyche explored in these movies, as exemplified by the pit sequence, fascinate me. Though I still prefer Batman Begins, Dark Knight Rises is an excellent film in its own right.
     
    Avengers. Not a lot of depth to this one, but boy, there was some good fighting. What I especially loved about the action was that we had a bit of everything; Iron Man's science fiction, Thor's midieval magic, Captain America's hand-to-hand, Hulk's smash. There was a little philosophy worth contemplating in Loki's monologues and there was an enjoyable depth to the dispute on the helicarrier, but on the whole the point of this movie was all the great fighting.
     
    It's Christmas, Carol! If you didn't label me as a heretic for visiting the cinema only once this year, you probably will for listing a Hallmark movie among the highlights of my year. It's a typical play on Charles Dickens's classic, in this case portraying Scrooge as a woman, the C.E.O. of a publishing house. The ghosts were all one, the revenant partner of the Scrooge, played by Carrie Fisher. Scrooge's estranged love was a writer. If you hadn't gathered, there was a strong literary theme throughout the film. It was very sweet, and the story held a personal meaning for me, not just in the many books that adorned its scenes.
     
    We Bought a Zoo. I include this because it was a cute story with realism, drama, and profound romance.
    　
     
     
    And now to take a look back at my regrets, what I hope to improve in future years. For one, I have sworn off modern animated comic films after wasting time with Batman/Superman: Apocalypse and Under the Red Hood.
     
    Moreover, I hope to more firmly uphold my past resolution never to waste as much as another hour of my life with the worthlessness that is the Pokemon film franchise, and to fight more fervently my siblings's supplications to join them in this gratuitous activity. From now on I listen to the full version of the theme song and then I'm gone.
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  19. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Those crazy Ambagers are at their writing-off again. This theme was "Rainbow."
     

    Polychromatic Frowns


     
    Rainbows make me want to cry.
     
    Surely you’ve seen one. Surely you’ve seen how dreary they are. They’re big frowns plastered across the sky. And their bright colors are incongruently cheerful. It doesn’t make sense. It’s illogical. Irrationality in nature makes me want to weep.
     
    The frown itself is bad enough. It makes me want to frown. But the colors mock my woes and make me want to cry. It’s like the rainbow is frowning at me, and then pretends to be cheerful just to make me feel my own grief more keenly.
     
    A rainbow is like a sad clown. Full of color, but woeful in disposition. It only makes it all the sadder, and even a bit scary, now, because we’re talking about clowns. Clowns are terrifying. Be honest, you’re afraid of them, too. But that’s another topic entirely.
     
    Just the other day, for instance, I was walking along a path through a meadow. Well, that goes without saying, I suppose; I wasn’t skipping along the path. Nobody really skips. Except Dorothy. And if I drove along the path I would have given a lot of people heart attacks. If you’re the sadistic sort, you might do that; but I’m not, and I didn’t. I might have been riding along the path, of course, but I don’t know how to ride a bicycle, and I never ride anything with a mind of its own.
     
    So I was walking along this path. The ground was wet and muddy after the rain and it was dirtying my shoes and splashing all over my nice clean clothes. I hate mud, too, but that’s another story.
     
    I was walking along this path because I didn’t like walking through the tall grasses which always make me itch, and I can’t stand the smell of flowers, and all the bugs disturb me, and of course there could always be snakes. And you never know what could be lurking in those verdant trees, like cats or angry birds or ballerinas. Ballerinas are possibly even more frightening than clowns or bugs. In fact, they probably are.
     
    As I say, I was walking along this path. I wasn’t feeling very happy, which I might have been, if I hadn’t been feeling so sad. It’s hard to be happy when you’re very sad. You can be cheerful when you’re just a little sad, but when you’re grievous it’s hard to be even cheerful, and you can never be happy when you’re sad, of course.
     
    Where was I? That’s right, I was walking along the path, because I don’t like walking through the meadow; and I wasn’t feeling happy, because I was feeling sad; and I looked up. I was looking down most of the way, but it’s hard to see where you’re going when you look down, so I looked up. And I saw a rainbow. It was vividly colorful and wearing an obdurately melancholy moue.
     
    And it made me sad.
     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  20. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    The Book of the Dead


     
    The fading sunlight imbued the upper reaches of the bland gray stone with a gold tincture. The shadows stretched away from my window, as if running away from me.
     
    I felt like shooting the sun. But I knew even I couldn’t make that shot.
     
    Besides, it was behind me. I was peering across the crowded street to the rooftop garden where a young man lounged in his undergarments, reading a book. I hoped, for his sake, it was a good one, worthy of his final moments.
     
    As I took out my gear and began setting up, I asked myself the question. If I was about to die, what book would I want to read? To Kill a Mockingbird? I laughed at the thought. There was irony in that.
     
    Maybe a murder mystery. An Appointment with Death. One thing was certain, if I died, it would be with the grin of my last joke forever immortalized across my inert face.
     
    Until it rotted. But that was life. And this was death.
     
    I peered through the sight and lined up the cross-hairs. I had a perfect shot from here. Maybe I didn’t know my employer, but he sure knew what he was about. And all I needed to know was my job, the fact that my boss had money, and a few good jokes.
     
    I waited. Through my binoculars I could tell he was nearly through with the novel. I wasn’t busy that night; I would give him time. I’d let him finish reading, then I’d kill him.
     
    The sun disappeared and the shadows deepened. He moved only once, to turn on a light. Then he returned to his reading.
     
    I wondered what book it was. I couldn’t make out the title. But I guess that didn’t matter. I was less curious why I was hired to kill him, but that didn’t matter either. Even if I was just a toy, the instrument in a stronger arm, I didn’t care.
     
    I enjoyed what I did. That was all that mattered to me.
     
    Oh, and the money. Yeah, the money. That, too.
     
    Finally he turned the last page. His eyes roved down the page, though I couldn’t see them. Then he closed the book, closed his eyes, and leaned back, sated and smiling.
     
    One of those books that left you feeling there was nothing more to life than that brief escape to fiction, I hoped. Because, for this fellow, there was nothing more to life.
     
    I aimed. I pulled the trigger. And I packed up.
     
    Time to pick up a check and then head to the bookstore.
     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  21. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Every now and then, we all feel a little despondence. We lose hope or confidence and we feel down. Especially when we're about to tackle a daunting task, we all have our misgivings.
     
    The specific thought that brings this all to mind is National Novel Writing Month. A lot of writers are dedicating themselves to the task of writing a hefty 50,000 words during the course of the ensuing month, and that is no simple task.
     
    So for them, for anyone who needs a little inspiration, I offer this poem. It is actually a rewrite of a poem by Edgar Best, "It Couldn't Be Done." This version is by Edward Carp.
     
     

    Perseverance


     

    Somebody said it couldn't be done,
    But he with a chuckle replied,
    Maybe it couldn't, but I will be one,
    Who'll never say 'No!' 'til I've tried."
     
    So he buckled right in,
    With a trace of a grin
    On his face, if he worried he hid it.
    And he tackled that thing that couldn't be done,
     
    And he couldn't do it.


     
     
    Yeah, you might want to look up that original. But I hope I helped. ;D
     
    National Novel Writing Month writers, or anyone in general: Keep trying, keep persevering, and never lose hope!
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  23. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Simple question. When you're reading a book, how do you feel about accent? What do you like to see, and what do you dislike? Do you prefer to be free from the occasional phonetic spellings? I'd like to hear your thoughts. Or perhaps, "I'd like to heah yore though's."
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  24. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    The detritus of an Ambage write-off isn't always pretty. The theme was "pathfinding," a forecast of the contest. I this day wrote my two entries and submitted them. Though by the rules of the contest I am permitted a third, I rejected this story due to a lack of love for it that, if you read it, will be understandable.
     
    That said, I did in a small way enjoy writing it; though it was a bittersweet feeling as would accompany any writing taking place in the constraints of fifteen minutes is wont to be.
     
    That all said, here is the refuse, the poorly executed forerunner of my The Extra Mile:
     
     

    The Hardest Path


     
    The stars were bright that night. I don’t think they’ve ever been brighter. It’s funny. The whole evening had been that way.
     
    The twilight had been more golden than I had ever seen it. It gilded everything it touched, glimmering on the drops from the afternoon’s rain. The humidity in the air was warm and caressing, nothing less.
     
    And the rays of the sun as they touched the skies, lending its tinctures to the clouds in varying shades, can only be described by one word: magical.
     
    Even her eyes that night glowed with a sheen that transcended her consuetudinary effervescence.
     
    Ironic. When I felt at my worst, the world is at its best.
     
    When I felt in the depths of despair, the world around me was in the heights of glory.
     
    Even when the tears hung on her lashes like the last raindrops hung from the leaves of the trees; even when her face was as moist as the sodden earth; even when she could hardly keep her voice level, she was smiling at me.
     
    That smile. She always smiled. Always. I’ll never forget it. That memory will be all that remains to keep me company.
     
    She told me it was over. She told me that friendship was no longer possible, the way she felt . . . and the way she knew I felt.
     
    But she told me she wasn’t ready for anything more. And in my heart I knew that I wasn’t, either.
     
    And now I’m lost. And alone. And waiting, and searching. Perusing the profundity of my broken heart and my wounded soul.
     
    Time. It can be an impasse as substantial as any other. Incorporeal or not, it’s more insuperable than most, for there is only one way to overcome it.
     
    Let it pass. Let it go by.
     
    It’s a mire. It’s daunting. But I have to trudge me way through. I have to wait.
     
    How could I do anything else? It’s all I can do for her, now. I always swore I would do everything; how could I turn back now?
     
    When I made the pledge with but God as my witness, I had no idea the task she would require of me would be as hard as this. But I’ll find my way through. I have to.
     
    I love her. How can I do anything else?
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  25. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Is it your purpose to express yourself? Do you want to bring form to thought? Or are you just bored?
     
    Then why not pit your pencil against your fellow writers (or become a fellow writer if you are not!) and join the second Ambage Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest? Come create with us, and discover meaning in experience!
     
     
    To dispense with the infomercial talk, the theme is "Pathfinding." Personally I have several ideas, and one of them may just involve a young boy wandering in the woods with a stuffed tiger. But don't worry, the other is deeper. Given that the entry limit is three stories, I might just write both.
     
    And if you ask me, it's almost too easy to connect Pathfinding to Nighthawks. But personally I prefer my other story concepts.
     
    What are yours?
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


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