S. McPherson's Blog: On my way to being a writer - Posts Tagged "magic"

There is something inexplicably romantic about a perfect imperfection; something that is so wrong it is somehow equally so fitting. ‘The Faults in our Stars’ had a tumour take the life of a seemingly perfect romance. ‘Romeo and Juliet’ let a name tarnish the blade of their swords. ‘Titanic’ had its iceberg, ‘Pride and Prejudice’ had incompatible personalities that could surely never make it and 'Twilight' had its fangs. So what is it about these imperfections that we, the audience, devour? Is it perhaps because just for a moment it allows us to hope that love can conquer all; and that even in death, love is lasting?

Either way, many of our greatest love stories include one very large imperfection; one impossibly giant hurdle that the audience so desperately want the lovers to overcome.

In my story, I chose distance. I introduce Dezaray, the heroine, living an unwanted life in a little English city called Islon, so desperately in need of an escape. And then we meet Milo, the hero, a further escape than Dezaray can possibly imagine. He introduces her to freedom, to love, to another life in another world…Perfect. However, Dezaray doesn’t belong in his world and it is only a matter of time before she has to go back…thus tangles the web of perfect imperfection. They say love can cross oceans but can it cross worlds?

After defining my perfect imperfection I open up to that blank page and my fingers stretch across the keyboard. The words pour out of me like water from a faucet; tumbling down and drenching the page in sentences I never knew I wanted to say. I let the characters take me to where they want; their personalities steering the story to its apparent end.

The beating of their wayward hearts becomes the tempo my story follows. The continuous shift in their ever-changing moods brings to life the melody. And every interaction between the lovers; hushed whispers and gentle grazes, becomes a lyric. After I’m done with the first draft, I move on to the next and the next and the next.

My aim: To write a story that feels like a love song; just as powerful, just as memorable; just longer.

Innocence lost

My innocence betrothed another, many years ago,

I tried to be its mistress but it left me in the snow.

'Let me in, old friend.' I pounded on the door,

Innocence replied, 'You can't stay here anymore,

Your body may be young but your eyes have made you old,

You no longer believe that life is butterflies and gold.

Take what you have learnt my dear,

Take the truths you know.

No longer remain buried in the wreck beneath the snow.

You have outgrown my wonder, but one day you will see,

that other wonder waits for you,

as long as you believe.'

This was another blog untold. A poetry blog I toyed with in the hopes of gaining a following. 'Innocence' was an unfinished poem I had written shortly after my sister died and now; with a more positive eye, seemed like a good time to finish it. But then I realised the followers I want, don't have to like poetry; they have to like romance and lots and lots of fantasy; just like what's in my book; At Water's Edge

The January lull has come to an end. The resolutions and the vows of a healthier lifestyle, starting to feel like the remnants of a distant dream. Did you say: Never drinking again?? Only whole-wheat toast from now on?? You want to lose how many pounds by the end of the month?? All very admirable tasks but the chore of sticking to news year’s resolutions usually results in them dissolving close to the time new year begins.

That’s why this year, I threw in a few things, I knew I would stick to. Things that I already wanted and was working towards; I just reminded myself of them when the clock struck twelve.

As you may have guessed, many of these re-resolutions revolve around my book. Resolution 1: PUBLICISE! A feat I am a stranger to and no fan of. Publicising the book is like parading your new-born on the red carpet whilst the umbilical cord is still attached. You’re haggard, sleep deprived and both covered in substances you pray will wash off and yet the worst is not over. You have to smile and bellow over the baby’s cry, hoping to be heard over the arrival of Jennifer Lawrence and Kim Kardashian.

Publicity almost seems unkind. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to clean yourself up first; put on a nice dress? Surely your little one can enjoy a few hours’ sleep, have some food before the showcase begins??

Absolutely not! The publicity train is a fast paced and unforgiving one. You miss your stop and you may never get another ride. So pull out your sad little Kleenex, wipe the blood off your face, hook your babe on your bosom and let’s do this! ALL ABOARD!

Image by © Mintyeggnog

The promotion wagon pulled out of the station and I leapt on; breathless with anticipation and angst.

Here goes nothing. I told myself as I watched the redbrick buildings zip out of view. The wheels made a rhythmic clanking sound as they whirled along the track and for a moment I lost myself in the beat. Chuga, chuga, chuga, chuga, chuga, chuga… but then the whistle howled and looking up, I realised it was time to jump off.

Parade one starts now…

This stop was fun. Guest posts, appearances and whimsical people asking all sorts of whimsical questions. One of my favourites was when Lina Rochelle of Cover to Cover said: ‘Describe a day in the life of an accidental sorceress’

This is what I wrote:

A day in the life of an accidental sorceress consists of you discovering your powers and subsequently trying to figure out how on earth you ended up with them. Let me tell you about my day to further explain my point:

My eyes flicker open, squinting in the sunlight streaking, uninvited, through my living room window. There’s a stabbing pain in the back of my head and I feel like I’ve guzzled a mouthful of sand. Where am I or more importantly who am I? One-minute I was yelling at the TV remote to work and the next thing I know, rays of colour are shooting out of my eyes and setting the television ablaze.

I rub my aching temples as I pull myself into a sitting position. It’s carnage; bits of shattered plasma screen, sparking wires and a collection of black shards surround me. As I look down, I realise the wires aren’t the only thing sparking. Little ripples of blue shoot from my fingertips. I hold them up to my eye, getting a better look.

What is going on?

Steadily, I get to my feet, trying to remain poised on my tiptoes to avoid slicing myself on the glass.

Ugh! I think. Time to clean up this blasted mess. No sooner do I think the words do the sparks from my fingers appear to leap out. Diving into the chaos on the floor. They dart and swivel around me as I watch them in awe, scooping up the debris and shoving it somewhere unknown.

I think back to last night in the bowling alley where a peculiar man at the counter had handed me an orange juice even though I had asked for a lemonade. He apologised for the mix up but said they were out of lemonade and thinking nothing of it I drank the juice. Not long after, a voluptuous lady with tumbling red curls and a tongue ring had swanned in asking for her orange juice. The man went as pale as snow and the lady and he got into a heated argument eyeing me as though I might explode.

At the time I assumed some loony lady really wanted her orange juice but as I look down at the inexplicable madness around me, I start to wonder. There has to be something more to this. Somehow between yesterday and today I have become an accidental sorceress. This could be really good, or really bad. Time to make a plan of action:

Step one: Clean myself up and make sure my eyes aren’t actually glowing like I feel they are.

Step two: Return to the bowling alley and find the man behind the bar.

Decided, I march towards the bathroom forgetting of course about the translucent shards set to stab me and sure enough one goes right through the sole of my foot. I yelp, hopping animatedly as I collapse on the couch.

‘Ow, ow, ow.’ I moan, blowing on my heel. I peer at the gushing wound, trying to see where the blood is coming from. I blow again, gasping when droplets of blood start to blow away like bubbles on the wind. Mesmerised, I watch them sail into the air before bursting into oblivion. At last I return to my foot, noticing that the sting has stopped. Frowning I peer closer; the sole is unblemished; no cut, no speck of blood, it’s as though the injury never happened.

Woah!