I’m Probably Lost in the Ether, But …
Today, I’ve woken up with the explicit need to blog.
So, while my mind is telling me that there isn’t a single soul out there apart from my House Members (which I’m grateful for, of course) that are reading my blog, I’m going to do it anyway. Even if it just sits there in the grand abyss of this universal limbo that we call “the Internet”.
Do you guys ever feel that way? Even if you did, you probably aren’t even looking at this post anyway. So, what’s the point in asking?
Anywho …
On with the show, shall we?
Yes, yes Rosie, we shall…! (Says the incredibly formal stranger of my imagination.)
I was asked:
“What is one facet of paranormal writing that you believe needs improvement and why?“
It’s funny how this question sort of ties into my last post.
Last time I talked about how the lack of originality has profusely impacted paranormal literature today. I spoke about how so many authors are trying so hard to taper their prose to the template of what’s in style, that they’ve lost all sense of being individual. Of course, I didn’t say it in those words, exactly. LOL :D
My answer to the question today is linked to the last.
Here is my short answer:
It lacks art.
In order to properly provide you with my long answer, I must share the meaning of the word art.
Per the Merriam-Webster Dictionary the word “Art” means:
: something that is created with imagination and skill and that is beautiful or that expresses important ideas or feelings
: works created by artists : paintings, sculptures, etc., that are created to be beautiful or to express important ideas or feelings
: the methods and skills used for painting, sculpting, drawing, etc.
As you can see, in layman’s terms, the word “Art” means to create something beautiful.
Probably it has something to do with the way that I look at literature. Perhaps, it doesn’t—I can’t say for sure.
Nevertheless, allow me a few moments of your time to share my thoughts with you, Dear Ether.
Not everyone can draw, or paint, or photograph. Not everyone is bestowed with the gift of song, or the ability to act. We all cannot do the same things. We all have different gifts and abilities.
Personally, I lack most of the aforementioned abilities. However, I do have one thing …
I have the gift of words.
And, a gift it is!
A long time ago I didn’t believe in my gift. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even know I had it. I truly believed that my skills were limited to housekeeping and cooking.
I believed that until the day I opted to put pen to paper and realized that it had been there all along.
Like flowing waters the words just came, streaming from my psyche, and before I knew it, words covered the pages like a tidal of enchantment.
The loveliest part was when I read out loud what I had written!
Goosebumps covered my skin. It was at that moment that I’d realized that I wasn’t just writing a story, I was creating art.
It’s been that way every since.
Now, this is my own humble opinion of course, however, I find that today’s writing community has forgotten all about THE ART OF STORYTELLING and have become too fixated on “fitting into the mold”.
Whereas at one time a person would pick up a paranormal story and immediately be transported to another time and place, nowadays when you pick up a story, it’s just like the last one you read.
Originality has been outlawed and art has been forgotten altogether.
Perhaps this makes me a pompous asshole, but I am utterly IN LOVE with my words, my writing! Completely, totally and irrevocably in love with my art. And, I know that it will always be that way.
Here is an excerpt from
“If Death Should Love Me”
A dull roar. That was all I could hear. Souls. That was all I could see. What was this that I was living? If you could call it living at all. I did not see people, but shadows. I did not feel life, but death. I did not feel emotions, but emptiness.
I did not feel… anything.
It was all a blur. Clustered together in an array of colors and shapes. The sound? That dull roar, it was difficult to make out. My thoughts were focused, not so much on the sound as there were on the colors.
So many people. All different. Some good, some bad. Some breathing, some barely breathing. ALL SOULS.
It was funny what you could see when you stood in the middle of the Emergency Room. Who survived, who did not. Who cried, who laughed. Who mourned, who celebrated. Yet, all of them, everyone: a soul. A soul for the taking.
I remember, almost, what it was like when I floated in the middle of this cluster myself. Before my life—or should I say, my death—changed forever. It felt like eons ago.
I did not want this. I never asked for it. Why was I not allowed to be like everyone else? ‘Fate’. This was the answer I was given. ‘Fate’. What a bleak and meaningless word to express something no one can truly explain.
I wanted- No! I needed a change. My vast emptiness had drowned me in a lagoon of unwillingness. In a river of curiosity. A fountain of deception in an ocean of questions. Questions, yet unanswered by the Higher Sources. Questions, that still lingered in the clouds of my destitution.
Why am I? Why do I exist? What is the purpose? When, if at all, would it change?
I had a plan. A strategy to subtly replace myself once again into this world of colorful souls. To persuasively introduce myself, yet again, to THIS my most intriguing temptation. I believe I am who I once was. Though time may have clouded its lucidity. This, was not me. This, was who I was forced to be. Withal I fought. I disputed this unwanted persona that had been involuntarily cast upon me. One day! One day, I would be who I once was. One day, this monster would cease to exist.
How I pray and long for the literary community to rediscover The Art of Storytelling.
Give the world the gift of your words.
