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Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa

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  1. 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


  2. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    For the past few weeks, cradled gently in the center of a modest web, an arachnid has hung in my writing window. I have watched him, day after day, week after week, setting upon the prey that flies unwittingly into his net, or rocking in the breeze. I have seen the dew drops hang from each glistening strand in the growing sunlight. I have watched the great care with which he tends his home, strengthening and expanding it diurnally with fresh threads of silk, or carefully cutting loose fallen leaves that drifted to his front door.


     

    But I have also witnessed the hardships which he endures for his precious homestead. I have seen it torn apart by wind, only to be reconstructed and reinforced. I have seen him repairing the damages made by globules of rain. Perhaps most impressive was the rainstorm that hit us last night. The rain was torrential, and when I went to bed there was neither sign of silk nor spider, and I was afraid the poor fellow had finally given up the ghost. I did not expect to see him again.


     

    But when I looked late night morn, there he was, nestled with great pride at the center of his largest, strongest and most ornate web yet, each strand glimmering majestically in the sunlight. I think there's a lot to be said for this little crawly who might not, after all, be quite so creepy. And I think he says it all himself through his valor and perseverence.


     

    Though difficult his task be; yet he does it anyway. Though it will all have to be done again; yet he does it anyway. Though delicate his dwelling be, though perilous his life be; yet he never desponds and he never gives up. He just keeps on working with great personal esteem for what he does. And after each job well done, he revels in the simple glories of the sunrise and sunset, the simple joys of each meal when the wait for it is over. To him his web is not a bane, but a pleasure; a source of great happiness. It may be the life allotted to him, it may be the only life he knows; but does that not mean, consequentially, that it is the only life he loves and enjoys?


     

    I think from the conduct of this small creature there is a great lesson to be learned in many ways. And I think that, when next we roll up that newspaper or brandish that fly swatter, we might all do well to pause and reconsider the action we are about to take. How much more magnanimous it would be to fetch a glass and slip of paper, and to carefully relocate the creature to the outdoors, where he will be out of our hair, and we out of its. After all: if we cannot be kind in the small things . . . how can we be in the big?


     

    Postscript. The most ironic twist of fate has just been played on me to further ingrain in me this lesson. After writing this whole entry, with a few mistaken clicks I deleted in its entirety, along with quite a bit more work that I had done. At first I was very frustrated, but as soon as I realized the hypocrite I was being, I could not help but laugh at myself. And you know what? It was my pleasure to write it all the first time, and it was to do so again. That--that is the wisdom of the humble spider.


     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  3. 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


  4. 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


  5. 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


  6. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    As the cover lifts off the precious pages, among the first things you see in any book are the various credits. It is only fair, therefore, as a first order of business to give credit where it is due. For my Premier Membership I owe my thanks entirely to GSR and his giveaway. The drawing ended, as GSR explained to me, with my name in the fourth slot, and there were only three prizes. However, after over two weeks of inactivity and failure to claim his prize, one of the winners was disqualified, and I found it my deferred fortune to be the recipient of one single-year Premier Membership.


     
     

    We can all, I think, bring our hands together to applaud GSR's munificence. Thank you, sir!


     
     
     

    Without, then, any further ado, allow me to introduce to you myself: Nuile, the Lunatic Wordsmith. First and foremost, I write. That's my passion, my life. The opportunity to breathe the worlds of my imagination onto paper, to venture to faraway places both real and fantastic, and to fraternize with the studies that inhabit them; that's what I live for. Though most people think of reading as an escape, I think of it as a window: a looking-glass that, by taking you through worlds non-existent, reveals the true world beneath the superficial one. For so many reasons, in so many ways, I love to write.


     
     

    That being of greatest import, I imagine you have read one or the other or both of my profiles, which leaves but little to be said. I can only hope that over the ensuing twelve months that you will stay with me, as it is my humble belief that you may just find yourself entertained by the ravings of this wordsmith.


     
     

    Until next time,


     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  7. 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


  8. 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


  9. 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
  10. 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


  11. 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


  12. 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


  13. 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


  14. 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


  15. 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


  16. 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


  17. 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


  18. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    This is the result of my first Ambage Write-off. Just managed to finish in the fifteen minutes allotted.
     
    Theme: Passion
     
     

    Twinkle, Twinkle


     
    The fading sunlight shimmered on her dancing hair, turning her raven-black head to an aureole to frame her cordate, angelic face.
     
    I swung my short legs off the edge of the bench as we leaned back, laughing at the joke I had just told.
     
    “Patt,” she giggled, “you’re such a dork.”
     
    I grinned. “But I’m an amusing dork.”
     
    She tossed her head, and the hair danced even more. “So you say.”
     
    “You’re the one who laughed.”
     
    “I only giggled.”
     
    “You were amused.”
     
    “Oh, shut up.”
     
    We swung our legs in synchronization as the sun continued to sink. The gently blowing breeze was growing in strength and lessening in temperature, carrying night in on black wings.
     
    She raised a hand to point at the first star that appeared. “Look! I love it when the first star appears, don’t you?”
     
    I nodded. “It’s like—like a promise. Of the coming night.”
     
    Her head bobbed eagerly. “Most people wish on it, but my mom says that’s stupid. She says it doesn’t grant wishes; it keeps promises.”
     
    “How so?”
     
    “Like you were saying. It’s a promise of things to come.”
     
    I looked up. “So . . . it keeps promises?”
     
    “Yup! You make it a promise and it keeps it for you. So then you have to come through on it. So you can only make promises you truly believe in.”
     
    My head was on its side, regarding the star with a sudden interest. I had never heard it put that way before.
     
    “It’s magical,” she went on. “Stars have always been seen as magical.”
     
    “I’ve never heard it put like this, though,” I said. “But it’s a beautiful way.”
     
    “Do you want to make a promise on it?” she asked.
     
    “Yeah. Like—like—oh, I don’t know. I’ll promise that I’ll never give up on my dreams! I’ll always write! Someday, someday I’ll write a novel.”
     
    “Well, that’s a boring promise.”
     
    “I believe in it.”
     
    “But it needs to be something that you need it to believe in. It can’t be something easy.”
     
    “Well—like what?”
     
    “Something dramatic. Like you’ll—you’ll never tell a lie.”
     
    “But that’s impossible.”
     
    “Well . . .” She bit her lip, considering. “Okay. I’ve got it! Let’s make a promise together!”
     
    “Together?”
     
    “Yeah! We’ll promise each other that we’ll never be apart, and that we’ll always be friends!”
     
    “But what if--”
     
    “Promise!” she snapped.
     
    “Okay, I promise!” I conceded. Then I added, more slowly, “And let’s promise—that when we are apart—because we will be, someday—that we’ll always be thinking of each other.”
     
    “Yeah!”
     
    “I swear it.”
     
    “Me too. I promise.”
     
    And she smiled at me. And I smiled back. And we went back to our stargazing, as more heavenly luminaries began to show their faces. As enough began to appear, we started pointing out constellations.
     
    I watched her eyes light up at the sight of each one. I watched her lips curve at their shapes in that way that always made me happier than I could ever understand. And I promised, silently, I’ll always be with you; we’ll always be friends; and someday . . . when the time is right . . . we’ll be more.
     
    Opinions--positive, negative or optimistic--are welcome, and appreciated, as always.
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  19. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    You make lemonade.
     
    Opportunities are funny things; they call them chances because, indeed, opportunity relies a little upon chance. At times they'll come when you least want them, at others they won't come when you do. And they always say when an opportunity presents itself, seize it; I say, present yourself to an opportunity and let it seize you.
     
    As an example, the other night I was toying with a dismembered Phantoka Makuta body and observed non-sequitur to my brother, "Has it ever happened to you that someone opened their chest to eat you?"
     
    "No, to be honest, I don't think it's an occurrence I have ever encountered."
     
    "Do you think you ever will?"
     
    "No, I don't."
     
    So then and there I seized each breast of my shirt, tore it open, and with the open chest consumed his head.
     
    Take this illustration under advisement, and glean what lessons you can. Opportunity is not to be overlooked, but one should never just wait around for chance to strike, either.
     
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


  20. Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa
    That's Buddy, Sally and Mel from The Dick Van Dyke Show, not to mention a bit appearance by Alan Brady. Danny Thomas also appears, and later Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies.
     
    Okay, but how was the movie? Without giving anything away, it's about Charlie (Morey Amsterdam) and two female co-workers going into the book business, and getting mixed up in an espionage intrigue and a bank robbery.
     
    Basically, this is what they did before animated talking-animal movies came into vogue, only better than that makes it sound. It's replete with the brilliant humor of the time--in fact, I noticed three jokes from The Dick Van Dyke Show, probably all the Human Joke Machine's own--along with a not-so-brilliant humor that I think we can all agree should have stayed in the time. It's not going to change your life, but it's work a watch, by all means, and a must-see for any Dick Van Dyke fan.
     

    Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith


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