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Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa

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  1. 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


  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
    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


  4. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Eleven years. Was it really that long ago? . . . And yet, was it truly so recent?
     
    Eleven years. I was a mere child. I had no idea what was going on. It didn't affect me.
     
    Now I look back, I recollect the memories of others; and I think. I wonder: What are we really remembering here?
     
    An evil deed. A horrific tragedy. A good deed. A great wonder.
     
    An evil deed. I won't delve into that. Iniquitous men sacrificed themselves for their beliefs; it's a twisted act of distorted heroism. But while there is a nobility in war, in fighting for your country, terrorism is an act of cowardice.
     
    A horrific tragedy. People died--good people, bad people; but innocent people. But all life ends, after all. It was untimely and tragic, but I've never been one to lament for the dead. They've moved on to a better place. So let's dig a little deeper at the truly great things this day stands for.
     
    A good deed. I recall the story of the plane that didn't hit its target; of the people who . They died not as villains, not as victims, but as heroes. Veritable, real-life heroes.
     
    A great wonder. What really happened that day was not a falling apart but a pulling together. People died, but an army stepped forward; a tower fell, but a nation rose to the challange. What really happened was we proved, as we have proved time and again, that we are America, and that there is only one of us.
     
    Eleven years. Eleven years of recovering, of pulling together, of falling apart; of generally doing what we always do, what we have always done. We are America; we're one great family. We have our disagreements, we may not always get along, at times we may find ourselves unable to stand one another; but when the going gets tough, we pull together, and we pull through. We are the United States. We share one heart, one destiny; one nation.
     
    Eleven years ago many people were killed. They deserve their moment of silence, and I won't deny them that. The heroes, the victims; let's honor them all.
     

    . . .


     
    That day, eleven years ago, was a shadow. But shadows serve to prove that the light is truly there, and not a mere illusion.
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  5. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Yes, I'm complacent; and yes . . .

     
    NUILE JOINED SKYPE



     
    Big, bold letters, as promised, Aderia. To Ambage letters at large, I hope to see you all soon and enjoy a few write-offs. In the near future I'll also be hosting as occasioned. I'm looking forward to it!
     
    I'll see you tonight, if I can get that infernal "loading" wheel to stop spinning eternally. . . .
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  6. 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


  7. 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


  8. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    (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


  9. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    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


  10. 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


     
  11. 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


  12. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Dear readers, I challenge you to a game of chess! Yes, that's right, all of you. At once.
     
    How does it work? Simple. I'm black. The rest of you are white. Therefore, if it's white's turn, comment here with your move. Just to be fair, I'll say a given member can not move more than twice in a row.
     
    Okay, so this eye test chart below is actually a makeshift chess board. E for empty. N for Knight, because King got K. So on and so forth, see? The bottom right square is A1; the upper right corner is H8. Gold is white. Got it? Good then. Let's play!
     
     

    R N B Q K B N R



    P P P P E P P P



    E E E E E E E E



    E E E E P E E E



    E E E E E E E E



    E E N E E E E E



    P P P P P P P P



    R E B Q K B N R


     
    White first. Your move, BZP!
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  13. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    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


  14. 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
  15. 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


  16. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    So I had the song from Disney's Mulan stuck in my head, and suddenly in place of "how could I make a man out of you?" I started singing "how could I love any one but you?" And so the irresistible urge to rewrite the whole song to suit these lyrics struck me, and so here it is.
     
    . . . I really have no excuse to give.
     

    I've got news to tell you



    So lend me your ears



    Remember all the things



    That I told you dear



    You're the prettiest girl



    I ever met



    You're so sweet



    And charming, too



    How could I love any



    one but you?



    Tranquil as a garden



    But aglow within



    From the day I met you



    Your heart was mine to win



    Mine is yours and it



    Will ever be



    I have always loved you true



    How could I love any



    one but you?



    Your splendor always caught
    my breath



    Only you who ever



    knew me



    Boy, was I a foolish mule



    to let you go



    Now that I have



    got you back



    I'll show you only



    the true me



    Just say Yes and I swear I'll



    never say No



    (I love you)



    You're beautiful as



    a glowing sunset



    (I love you)



    With all cadence



    of a songbird's tune



    (I love you)



    With all the grace



    of a prancing pony
    Mysterious as the
    dark side of the moon



    Time is racing toward us



    till you'll be my bride



    Not very long to go now



    till the knot is tied



    From this day forth



    and forevermore



    Now until my life



    is through



    How could I love any



    one but you?
     
    (I love you)



    You're beautiful as



    a glowing sunset



    (I love you)



    With all cadence



    of a songbird's tune



    (I love you)



    With all the grace



    of a prancing pony
    Mysterious as the
    dark side of the moon



    (I love you)



    You're beautiful as



    a glowing sunset



    (I love you)



    With all cadence



    of a songbird's tune



    (I love you)



    With all the grace



    of a prancing pony
    Mysterious as the
    dark side of the moon







    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  17. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Inanities aside, let's get on to things that really matter, huh?


     

    . . . Books! Reviews for three I have recently read.



     




    The Film Mystery by Arthur B. Reeve


     

    Let me just say . . . yelch. Though it was a well-plotted mystery, the revelation and the solution itself were awful. And there's certainly nothing in his writing style, in its own right a bit hard to swallow at times, to make a bad mystery worth suffering. That's the first, and last, that I'll read of his novels. So I won't waste any more time talking further about the book.


     

    I'm glad it was free on Kindle.


     
     
     




     

    Oh--my--pencil. I loved this novel! Nothing beats a good study in human nature, and this was, the good and the bad. It was a fascinating, intricately woven world, that little Maycomb, which shows that people are people in big city or small town. It reminds me of Miss Marple's St. Mary Mead.


     

    One thing I enjoyed in particular was that it had no corporeal plot, and yet, it did. For one thing, we had one passing comment on the first page that drew us from the first to the last with an invisible string. And no matter what else went on throughout the story, the titular mockingbird was the centerpiece of the book. There we find a truly, truly fascinating character. I can't say too much without giving anything away, but I will say that that character is now one of my favorite fictional characters of all time. And the whole ending itself was wonderfully executed. The whole novel was worth reading, and yet those final two or three chapters were what made it impossibly beyond worthwhile.


     

    I am the type of person who likes a tangibility in his stories, a structural integrity into which I can bite; this so wonderfully had a very powerful structure, yet none at all, which makes it an amazing magic-trick of penmanship.


     

    My one complaint was her profusion of information dumps. Especially toward the beginning, Harper Lee left us intermittent mires of detail for us to wallow in. But the engaging way in which she laid down all this information provided a steppingstone path through the bog, which again leaves me wondering at her uncanny ability to make good into great, bad into good, and great into greater.


     

    When I finished, I closed the book, sat down, stroked the cover, and murmured, "Wow. That was spectacular." Fully sated, I just relaxed there for maybe thirty minutes, savoring the flavor.


     

    Definitely one of the better books I have ever read. And you're telling me this amazing woman only ever wrote one novel?


     
     
     




     

    If there's one author who deserves to succeed To Kill a Mockingbird, it's the illustrious Agatha Christie. It's hard to say which of her works are her best, because they all are. Hence, this was one of her best. Maybe better than that.


     

    As is typical of her mysteries, and maybe most mysteries, it started out a little slow and I had trouble getting interested. But then the investigation starts and begins to pick up. Maybe that's what I like about mysteries; they start you out on ground level and then carry you to the top floor, and in Agatha Christie's case, through the roof on a lift akin to Willy Wonka's glass elevator.


     

    Of course I can't say anything about the solution without spoiling an intricately woven imbroglio, but I can say that as usual my suspicions were entirely elsewhere when Agatha moved her finger toward the real criminal, and left me saying: "Of course! Of course! I should have seen it!" That's the most important quality of any mystery. It should seem obvious, it should seem you came close to solving it yourself, without anything of the kind being remotely true.


     

    I can comment, of course, on characters. Agatha Christie always fills her mansions or, as in this case, villages with a colorful panoply of characters, from the hated, to the loved, to the hilarious. The Vicar was a pleasant character and he had a very sweet wife. Agatha's elderly women are always hilariously vexing, and Miss Marple's saving grace is that she's drop-dead ingenious.


     

    While I highly recommend it, I caution you to find an edition from a different publisher. At least in this case, the errata were a few too many for my tastes.


     
     

    Now I've started 100%: The Story of a Patriot, by Upton Sinclair. Not enthralling me thus far. I'll probably be putting it aside, now that I've gotten word back from most of my alpha readers, to read over my novel and begin revision. But when I get back to 100% and finish it, I'll let you know.


     

    Until next time,


     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  18. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    Here I've compiled my list of achievements:
     
    Into the Sky(pe)! - Participate in a Skype Write Off (5 Points)
    Passion
     
    Manuscript Kiddie Pool - Post a short story. (10 Points)
    In the Jungle
     
    I Bet You Think You're Funny - Post a comedy. (10 Points)
    A Game of Ponies
     
    The Typewriter is Dead - Post a compiled total of 10 works across all forums. (25 Points)
    In the Jungle, Karzahni's Locker, Stellar Quest: The Black Gate Opens, Gold and Silver Remembrances, Jungle Beauty, Jungle Rhythm, Lhii and the Hunters of the Dark, The Necrofinch, Mirror, Heritable Honor.
     
    Lyrical Genius - Write a substantial songfic. (10 Points)
    Gold and Silver Remembrances
     
    Heartbreaker - Write a substantial romance. (10 Points)
    Lighthearted
     
    Vague Subject Matter - Post a story in Completely Off Topic. (10 Points)
    Broad Focus Lens - Post 5 stories in Completely Off Topic (30 Points)
    Forget-Me-Not Hill, The Right Path, Doctor Who?, The Chimera, Feel Good
     
    Critical Thinking - Substantially review a short story. (10 Points)
    The Golden Age
     
    Generalized Words - Review a story in Completely Off Topic. (10 Points)
    Inside
     
    Bring in the Specialists - Make a request from the SSCC. (5 Points)
    Repeat Customer - Make more than one request from the ECC or SSCC. (15 Points)
    Gold and Silver Remembrances, I am the Jungle
     
    A Lovely Contestant - Participate in an official BZP Writing contest. (10 Points)
    The Twilight Game
     
    Point Total: 160 points (Novice Novelist)
    One Review Token
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  19. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    It started out slowly and gained speed as it went along, becoming an exciting tale of espionage. It follows the adventures of one Peter Gudge, whom I can describe as nothing more than a bum, as he by happenstance becomes a spy for big business in "American City" in an attempt to root out Communism.


     

    I don't particularly care for the style of Mr. Sinclair, and though it is an interesting story, I personally cannot stand that knavish poltroon the writer calls his protagonist. If my words have not served enough already to sufficiently describe him, I will add to his squalor and pusillanimity that he is caddish, cavalier, greedy, and insufferably stupid.


     

    I personally enjoyed the book for the reason that I was interested in reading of the Red Scare of 1917-1920. If that is your curiosity, this is a great read. If you have no regard for the subject, I suggest you withhold your regard from this novel.


     
     
     













    What do you get when you cross a yellow teddy bear with a bullet in the head? . . . You get A. A. Milne.


     

    In the days before Winnie-the-Pooh, the creator of the iconic character of children's literature wrote a detective story of the most classical caliber. Written 1922, it followed all the rules and traditions of the genre--the rules, at least, of that particular period--in a most tasteful murder mystery.


     

    He created a very pleasant character in his sleuth, Tony Gillingham, a sort of knight-errant in his own right. The mystery was clever but a little simple; but my greatest complaint is not toward the author, rather toward the time. This was written just before the dawn of the Golden Era, during a period when it was not altogether uncommon for a mystery to supply only one suspect who, lo and behold! turns out to be guilty. In spite of this, Milne successfully supplied us with a good twist at the end and a most entertaining and amusing read that makes the novel well worth reading.


     
     
     








     

    I don't want to tell you what it's about, because that would spoil part of the fun of reading it. The plot is intentionally left a mystery for some chapters and therefore I will tell you only that it centers around four children who, in passing a series of strange tests, are chosen for a special task.


     

    In style, tone, and even some ways in story does the author much resemble Lemony Snicket. The difference, however, lies in that while Snicket was a cynical, melancholy drudge who wrote meaningless stories that ultimately left the reader wishing he hadn't read them, yet (in my case) mysteriously tempted to read them again; Stewart writes to the same level of plot complexity and characterization without the unexplained enigmas, profuse ambiguities, and pointless woes. There is, indeed, a happy, conclusive ending that left me very much sated and content and eager to read more.


     

    I will observe, if it was not already rendered clear, that this is a children's book; yet if you feel that matters, I refer you to that literary genius, C.S Lewis: "No reader worth his or her salt trots along in obedience to a time-table."


     

    For what audience a book was written cannot encumber my enjoyment of a very well-written tale.


     
     
     













    This is a classic story of love, music, mystery, adventure and a little madness. Not an uncommon thing in older works it starts out slowly with too great an emphasis on information, but soon picks up and brings us an exciting and heart-twisting tale about the Viscount Raoul de Chagny and the singer for whom his own heart croons dulcet ballads. I expected a mystery; but I got, and not to my disappointment, a very sweet romance.


     
     
     













    Have I not said before that this estimable woman is the only and only true Queen of Crime? Maybe I have not; but I affirm it now.


     

    The goings-on at the Meadowbank girls' school were enough to keep me constantly turning pages, but when you integrate with surprising incongruity a revolution in a Middle Eastern country and the activities of British espionage, you get the type of imbroglio that makes Agatha Christie famous.


     

    This, however, does not earn a rank, in my opinion, among her best novels. The ending--I will say nothing more!--disappointed me in some ways, though in others I was shocked and thoroughly satisfied by the brilliance of the authoress.


     

    I shall merely say that any Agatha Christie is worth reading, and that you must judge the denouement in your own opinion.


     
     
     

    Last but not least, the current quest upon which I have embarked:


     













    Most people--especially these days!--would look at a book of this length and this antiquity and suspect it of being dry and vapid. Especially after reading Phantom of the Opera, this is rather what I was inclined to expect.


     

    But I have been proved very tidily wrong. Cervantes's language (as translated into ours) is brilliantly colorful, and though there are touches of blandness and prolix digression to his storytelling, he has a style so engaging, a mind so clever, and a story so well worth telling that it does not matter.


     

    Ormbsy I have heard criticized on count of adhering too closely to the words of Cervantes. That is precisely what I wanted, and that is why I chose his translation over others, never mind its status of being the classic and most renowned.


     

    As I write I have only worked my way up to the tenth or eleventh chapter. I am enjoying it eminently thus far, and I will give you my overall thoughts when the time comes that I have done with the novel.


     
     

    Now let me tell you a little of the long-time desire I have had to read this book. I was first struck most starkly by this urge very near to a year ago, very probably in the early weeks of the month of September, if not the late ones of August. It has been a mere matter of procrastination that has kept me from its pages this long, and there would be no interest in the telling of that portion of the story. But for years, before I had ever even heard of the illustrious Don Quixote, I have had a high admiration for him. This esteem comes from those beautiful words immortalized for ever in the lyrics of To Dream the Impossible Dream. Since I first heard it the song has held a special place in my heart, and especially in the past year has it become a source of great inspiration to me. I have, in fact, used these words and this song as the base for two novellas: Stellar Quest and a piece of Neopets fan fiction, The Gestes of Donovan Kachote. No song has ever meant quite as much to me as this one; no words more than these--and I hope that, have you not heard the song before, that you will look it up now, and that the lyrics may touch you as they have touched me:


     

    To dream the impossible dream



    To fight the unbeatable foe



    To bear with unbearable sorrow



    To run where the brave dare not go


     

    To right the unrightable wrong



    To love pure and chaste from afar



    To try when your arms are too weary



    To reach the unreachable star . . .


     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  20. 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


  21. 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


  22. 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


  23. 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


  24. 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


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