Do the Thing

Been going through the usual downturn of an artist.

"Am I wasting my time? Am I making the right choices? Shouldn't I be focusing on "x" or "y"? Time is running out! What am I doing with my life? Why am I bothering? Failure. Failure. Failure.

Sound familiar?

Whether you actively identify as an artist of some form. Or "imaginist" as I like to call myself. Or maybe you have another term entirely. Or you are just someone who daydreams and dreams under the stars and in moonlight on porches and on the hood of a car or the edge of your desk, you've probaby had a similar sort of running commentary of doubt.

I kicked myself over to England because I felt like I wasn't doing anything with my life. Now I am doing many things. Every day, every evening, every second I am experiencing so much I barely have time to process it all, let alone devote time to creating art.

Like the glorious month I had last February, house sitting for some relations in their nearly "middle-of-nowhere" house, in the middle of winter. I got some of the best writing done that I have ever managed.

Except life can't always be hiding away in seclusion. Certain life choices mean you need to make money to live. Certain life choices mean you have things you require to be sane, even if they aren't things that you need to survive. Though some people choose to just stick to flat survival in the name of The Art. Some people manage to balance everything. Some people flounder and flutter. Scared. Worried. Focused on practicality.

Some people just grab the milk carton. Stand on it and ask.

Recently I had the pleasure of not only meeting an individual who's music and art I have long admired but I also got around to reading her memoir (read over two days, it was that engaging).

Her name is Amanda Palmer.

I won't be surprised if you wonder: Who?

She's a bit of a cult figure. And yet she is one of the most human, human being I have ever met. Wise, honest, witty, and just wanting share the joy of music with other human beings.

This is one of her songs:

And this is her TED talk. The Art of Asking:

She draws on her eyebrows to make people unconsciously look her in the eye because it is through the eyes that people connect.

It is through the eyes that people see eachother.

And in a society that is far too open about looking, we don't really see anyone.

She endeavours to empathise and get into the perspectives of all individuals, whether they are on the right or wrong side of morality or law. Because we are all human at heart.

She is often critised as being too showy and trustworthy, as breaking all boundaries of what is "right" in the music industry by allowing fans to download for free.

She does this because the only way to build a connection is by making yourself vulnerable, by being 100% honest. When that connection is built you don't have to force anyone to do anything.

Most likely they will want to do it.

First though, you need to connect.

Second though, you need to ask.

That requires vulnerability.

And through it all you need the bravery to just do the Thing. Because you want to. Not because you have to or you should.

I've long been wanting to publish a novel. And I do. Want to publish a novel, that is. Except there is much more I also want to do.

After reading Amanda's book I sat back and thought. Why haven't I published the novel yet? I came up with this:

I am afraid no one will read it because no one has yet seemed to read what I do already.

Then again, I haven't shared much of my writing yet. I did have someone read part of my novel-in-progress recently and they laughed in many parts. Just as I had hoped as I wrote it.

That made me happy.

Art isn't about being able to live off of it. Yes that would be lovely but really, art is about sharing a moment with other people. It is about sharing stories around a campfire. Like humanity has done for millenia. Albeit in different formats.

I am going to start sharing more. I am going to keep writing and photographing more. Maybe one day people will laugh, smile, cry and cheer over this art from my heart. Until then...

I have re-started my tumblr which you can find at: alyssaimaginist.tumblr.com

On that platform I intend on sharing my photostories since it is more friendly to photography and here I will continue my life musings and travel blogging. The novel is going to be a work in progress for a while and who knows what I'll come out with next. The good thing about being an imaginist is that I always have ideas for new works. I'm going to be as busy as ever. I live in London. I'm going to build experiences the size of the Great Wall of China thank you very much. And hopefully you'll stick around for the ride. If you're a twitterer do check me out on @TheMoonyDreamer where shorter bits of inspiration, and links to much more creativity are generally found. 

All that I ask is that you enjoy my work, comment when you have the time and share with others if you have a moment.

That is the point of art after all. It brings us together. It reminds us what being human is about; deep down, all we want is to be seen from the inside.

We are all bigger on the inside. Like the Tardis. So don't be afraid. Do the Things. Because you can. Not because anyone says you can or anyone watches. Dance like no one watches. Dance like the world is within you. Or in the words of Amanda Palmer's other brilliant half, Neil Gaiman: "Make good art."

Moony.

Inside the Library: Improving Your Writing

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

some timely inspiration.

Add caption

Thanks be to John Finnemore (and my chance persual of his blog) for this fantastic advent calendar idea. I was just doodling on over to see any news about the upcoming final episode of the great Cabin Pressure series (which is due to air on December 23rd and 24th on Radio 4) and what do you know, he's dolling out facts and behind-the-scenes bits for each and every one of his episodes which number 26 total, well, once Zurich airs, there will be.

Anyway, I have also been at a bit of an inspiration hitch thanks to my daytime job but now, what shall follow for the twelve days before Christmas (so half an advent calendar), I will be detailing random tips, facts and fancies about everything from writing, to photography, general creativity, travel, music and fandom.

Today I would like to spotlight how I have gotten to where I have got, in terms of my writing ability. Some people say it is full of rich detail and lyricism. Others say it is tripe, typical and rather purple in its prose. Most say it rambles and I have never had anyone say it is hideous. I have been told it reads like a teenager's copy of Tolkien or my character's live like cardboard cutouts. But that's about it. So far.

Anyway, reviews and opinions on my style aside, how do you improve your writing? 

1. Read. Read. Read. Yes, that annoying English teacher you had in school is utterly correct. The best way to improve your writing is to read what other people wrote. Mind you, make sure it is a wide variety, otherwise you will end up writing like the angst-filled teens who write Mary-Sue fanfics instead of a mix between Margaret Atwood and Ed Greenwood. No, you do not have to read things labelled "classics" or "literary" only. No you do not have to give up your Forgotten Realms sagas, your Spice and Wolf light novels, your Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) manga or your New Avengers comics.

Read a variety and then, read all the novels you can get your hands on which your target audience is reading now. That way you can develop an understanding of the tropes and tricks of the trade, as well as what your audience both expects, wants from their authors and what you could maybe push, just so you stand out that little bit.

2. Write every day. Like reading, this does not mean you have to be writing a chapter for your novel, your script, your epic poem or whatever it is you are developing, every. Single. Day. Nope. Don't dare. What you should do however is write something. It might just be an email, or a few scribbles that are pulled from the blood dripping off your forehead because that body part met a swinging while you tumbled out your house, late for work, in the morning.

Or, if you fancy a challenge, make a series of prompts for yourself to follow for two weeks straight. Find a site which has a collection of writing prompts, or a writing board, or a writer who will drop them in your inbox on a regular basis. These often only require you to write for 10 or 15 minutes straight on whatever prompt it might be. Sometimes they challenge you with a particular word count, but generally they go a little like this:

Write a scene that involves a Post-it note.

Write for at least 10 minutes. Write by hand, in your notebook.

This came from an author by the same of Sarah Selecky who is a brilliant Canadian writer and creativity inspirer. You can learn more about her here, get writing advice and sign up for her regular writing prompt emails as well at: 

http://www.sarahselecky.com/

3. Observe. The best way to get fodder to write about. The best way to get inspiration. The best way to learn how humans react, interact and fail to act, is to observe. At all times you must have a notebook with you. One, because writing by hand always forces more spontaneous creativity and pure, unedited thought than any technology (especially if you write in pen) and two, more often than not, right when you need that phone or tablet to copy down an observation, it runs out of battery power, takes long to start up, or is a hassle to drag out. Find yourself a notebook which can fit in your jacket pocket, along with a small pen and you are gold. 

Well, mostly. For some this is an easy task because you enjoy going on walks, sitting in cafes or doing solitary things which allow you the space and time to take in your surrounding human beings. Otherwise, set aside time every few days to consciously observe. Travel is especially valuable for this. That morning commute? Observe the passengers in the public transport of your choice. Using a car? Observe the people you are trapped in traffic with (and for those occasions have a voice recorder handy). 

4. Never Edit until the Work is Complete. This one isn't quite as crucial as the top three, but is no less important. It is what often keeps many from completing their work. It is the reason National Novel Writing Month and its various spin-offs have been created. The hardest thing for a writer to do is to get that alphabet soup in the brain, in order, in sense, in brilliance, out on paper. Get it down first. Then go back and you can make it pretty. Otherwise you'll catch yourself spending days, months, even years on that first chapter, that single page, or even that single line. 

5.  Have fun. Writing is meant to be fun. It is creativity. It is unadultered playtime for all ages, any year, any place, any time. When you loose your creative drive. When you struggle to reach a word count goal. When you fail at doing a writing prompt every day, for a year; even though that was your one resolution at New Years. You must always have fun. 

If you are going to have any resolutions in this upcoming year, have fun with your writing. Write something entirely new and different, off the cuff, silly or serious. Murder someone. Marry someone. Write that childish adventure fanfic you always wanted to do with your favourite Middle Earth elves. 

In the spirit of Dory, from Finding Nemo, who says "just keep swimming." 

I say, "just keep writing. Just keep writing. Writing. Writing. Writing." 

That's all. It's that simple. Now, excuse me while I go do some of my own. (Unrelated to this blog).
Moony. 
 

Death in a Teacup: An Epic Road Trip to the End of the World

What follows is something I am challenging myself with in the face of lately finding it hard to pull the blood from my forehead and turn it into something more tangible. Namely, I fully intended to do National Novel Writing Month this year and it rather failed, fantastically, in the face of a lot of work and London trips getting in the way. Experience you see. It's why this blog has dropped off a bit and I am only just getting through revising my Scotland notes from a month ago. 

That all said, I apologise is this isn't your cup of tea (and yes that was a horribly intended pun). Hence why I am tagging this post and all those which will follow so that you might skip this if you would prefer. I will also endeavour to make these come in tandem with my more usual life and travel musings. Note however, the key word is, endeavour. 

What I am sharing with you all is a challenge I have been wanting to do for years, the challenge of writing an epic poem. Eventually I hope to have these recorded and dropped into youtube as well, but for now I would like to share them in the raw format of words and the picture quotes which were the original inspirations for many of the segments of this tale (among other things). 

Come now, listen, to the prologue in a grand tale of a girl who gets tangled with tricksters and tricksters who get tangled with technology. The old and new world clash in a race to find the Truth of the Universe. Who will live? Who will die? 

It is as inconsequential, as incongruous, as inconspicuous and as irreverently ridiculous as death via teacup. 

Join Stormy Kettle, a girl from the village of Luffy and seven oldball and ancient tricksters in a race organised by Time and Death themselves. 

(Possibly just out of boredom. But then again, if you were Time, or Death, wouldn't you do so too? It might keep the children's squabbles down a few decibels. At least for a couple decades).

 

Thanatos the Muse

Under crackle-paint walls.

Death sits on a lawn chair,

sipping tea.

Grass patches freckle the ground

Like the head of a balding man.

Behind the walls a guitar screams.

It scratches the sky with wounds. So

Death paints a window. Blue blanket

And bunny cloud vista.

Better to augment the red. Drip.

A bird twiddles. Casting vocal lines

To orchestrate an operatic overture

In purple.

The shade of rotted violets.

Forgotten under fantasies

Of white fences and picnic baskets.

Where reality makes faeries of us all.

Death stands at the window now.

Gazes through paint to a world

Overweight with want. 

Wondering thoughts over

How bellybutton lint, holds up

To batteries. Going, going

Bright till gone. Just desire.

Death minds the breeze slipping

In a ninety degree corner.

The wind complains at the volume

Of triplet two year olds in time out.

Death has many names. Killer, collector.

He would rather collect children less.

Do remember that.

A chipmunk scampers. Run, little

rodent. Faster than a hamster on the circle

Of life. Who has lived

through grocery store

check-out lines. Produce

and dairy product colours.

Where, live the faeries now?

Just remember, even if you.

Go hide under hill.

Death will still come, fortune

Disregarded.

Death spends life on a lawn chair

sipping tea under walls

of cracked paint.

The ground, a patchwork, bald-head

Grassland. Lacks the verge

Or a saw-edged knife, fresh off the wrist.

Some might call this home.

Death calls it Earth. 

Stay tuned for Part 1, Morpheus, the god of Dreams is rather malcontent.

Don't ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, encourage a Rambler

Today marks a New Day. A Lemon-Squeezed Candy Crown Day. The sort of day that makes one think of the following street-side attraction located somewhere in San Francisco (I think)...bit of a blurry trip that one.

Be Aware. Silly Hats Don't Care.

Lack of caution in this instance might initiate an explosion of silly hats. On the other foot however, too much caution might initiate an explosion of the following; a mosaic which is really just an artist's way of saying "organized insanity." (This is especially evident in those which take the trouble to point out different directions you might feel like trying as seen in the image of a Greek side-street below):

Which path will you take? A Conveniently Labelled Spot of Five Choices for your Patronage.

Perhaps if you can just take caution somewhere between the flavour of a potato and a peppercorn we can move on and I can explain to you just what the monumental moment of Awesome was which occured today.

As an Introvert (who also suffers from an acute fear of meeting new people). I don't get out very often. When I do, I do with people I know. Sort of like my own personal army of minions who do all the heavy lifting of introductions and mindless "how-do-you do's." (A social construct I still cannot bother to figure out the reasons behind).

Today I went out. I went out times a double chocolate cake. I went out to a writing workshop wherein I was one of two who sat with our local library's writer-in-residence and spent two hours working through the nebulous bits I had brought which I had no clue as to what I should constructively do with them. (That's the problem with spontaneous inspiration, you end up with writing which has no pre-concieved audience or forum).

At first I was flat terrified. I got better. Especially once I very carefully relinquished the pieces I had brought; a short story of which I had just completed an hour earlier and three poems that had been scribbled off on my tablet over a few days of bath tub soaks. (I have a case. It is quite safe. Well, as safe as I want it to be. Therefore, it is safe).

A nebulus vista? Maybe? The resident writer kept using the term after I dropped it.

The girl who was there with me read the poem while our resident writer read the story. She sounded enormously intelligent and had obviously been dropping in for every workshop the resident writer has been offering, plus emailing him for extra help. Yet, she loved the descriptions I used and had next to nothing to say, except a title suggestion. I asked her if it made sense because I have a tendancy to ramble. She said it did. (Later when we went over a memoir outline she was working on, I realized I know a lake's load more about writing techniques/methods/styles than she which made my usual lack of self-confidence have a moment of "oh. I do actually know things"). I felt like I had found kindred spirits at this point. Which I had. Writers. We are right together. Naturally.

The writer in residence asked to see the poem as well. After reading it he proceeded to antidote lecture me about how rambling was actually in vogue and if I had heard of a poetic style called ghazal. I had not. Nor had I heard of the journalist he recommended I read as reference toward my story's topic, a man by the name of Ryzard Kapuscinski and the book, "Another Day of Life" which apparently deals with the same concept I wrote my story on, except in Africa while mine was loosely sci-fi by being set on a nearly dead Mars. Also, he adored the ending. I just want to take a moment here to remark on the irony of spending so much brain juice and time on certain things which then usually end up okay or excellent, and then, those times you rush something off and they always get declared as superb. Irony.

I had mostly let him talk through the whole period, first when he went off on anecdotes to assure me that so long as I was respectful (how can anyone not be?!), my stories that mash Raven and Coyote next to Anansi, Eris or Monkey was perfectly alright. Then, when he went on about rambling, he definitely did so himself.

Sometimes I wonder if Maui painted that (on some Athenians house).

The case, in the point of all this exposition, is that I have finally had someone tell me it is okay to ramble so long as you know when to stop. (This realization equates to a moment of Awesome by the way). I grew up on Lemony Snicket and devoured Terry Pratchett. I still do. Douglas Adam's is one hero of many and I strive to follow Lewis Carroll's fictionally placed maxim "imagine six things before breakfast."

I have always made it my purpose to befuddle. A pasttime which derives partly from pure amusement (because I do love a good confounded face) and partly to determine whether an individual is intelligent enough to be worthy of association. Or, at the very least, whether or not they can put up with me waxing on ridiculous rambles and reconstructions of facts to fit my experimental purposes. I sawed a rubber duck in half with a butter knife once, just for the sake of a poem I was writing. I had a lot of plastic residue. It was the modern day version of sawing a human in half with barbed wire.

Oops. Apologies for anyone reading who has one of those tender stomachs. Moving on...

As much as I like to befuddle people, the world is honestly asking for it. Like the silly day-to-day interactions I mentioned earlier when meeting new people. Then again, many people have admitted to the ridiculousness of asking how a person is without actually stopping to listen, let alone here the truth. One most people don't think of (well I have yet to hear it), are fractions.

Fractions are xonstructs of the human brain which allow said brains to create what should be, according to humanity, the exact same product. A bit like a car engine assembly line. The problem however is that fractions involved, in the instance where they are most often used, substances and the word substances harkens more to chemistry than mechanical acuity. Thing is, because cooking is chemistry (yes that is what I was implying, in case I was being too obtuse), nothing comes out exactly the same. Everyone, even if they follow the recipe down to the same strength/speed/length of mixing, the same number of seeds, grains, fruits...whatever, the results might be similar but they will never ever be as exact as the mass produced constructs of factories.

Hence why I dislike fractions. Why follow something exactly that will not turn out precisely as some other person made it. Especially when you can take the general idea, mesh it with someone else's idea and perhaps a pinch of your own knowledge/preferences/experiences and make something that fits you. Not to mention the second way is more fun and certainly more freeing when you live like a student. Same goes for buying retail clothing. I do. Yes. But I have a goal to one day be able to sew my own clothes. (Though that day needs to somehow fit around my stuffing of reading, writing, reading, exercise, writing, piano, reading and writing into the hours, out of 24, not spent sleeping). 

Only a museum can make octopus's look mathmatically straight.

Anyway, so I like experimenting with things that are nonsensical. Like hanging upside down on red monkey bars at the tender age of ten and telling every kid that passes that "mayonnaise is 5% milk." I hate mayonnaise. Always have. But at the time it sounded like a true fact because I included milk, which every kid knows makes you grow big and strong. What followed was a lot of kids seriously thinking about the health benefits of mayonnaise. I still think it sounds rather pithy but who's going to take me literally nowadays?

That was grade five. Now, ten and some years later I am still a rambler of things most normal individuals consider nonsense. Today howevever, today, my rambling was recognized, not as silly humour, or utter rubbish, but a valid writing style that can be used to great effect, so long as the writer knows when to stop. So in honour of the individual who opened my eyes to the fact there are plenty more opinions than those of my peers in Writing Departments, English professors, or any one who has been inflicted with my work at some point. I'll actually name the indidual who has made me realize, in more than just my head, that as a writer, so long as I can create a compelling conflict, torture some characters and begin and end in a manner satisfying to tale tongues, then however I do so is up to me.

The great inspirer and imparter of the moment of Awesome goes by the name of Harold Rhenisch. You may find his contemplative, insightful and rather humourous blog, full of lovely photos, on the following address: http://haroldrhenisch.wordpress.com/

I must ramble my way off to the millions of writing projects that might amount to more than taking up harddrive space upon this realization they might actually be acceptable to esteemed venues like the CBC along with my favour Analog.

Always rambling. Nebulously.
Moony.

Death by Bookshelf Part 2 of 3

Why do I read?

Pleasure, education...just because I can???

I'll throw that question back. Why do you read?

In which occurs an Illuminated Ramble with a Reading Lamp

It's the sort of question that will be around for as long as books (and has been). One that has started numerous debates and devolved into a lot of childish shouting. Especially when people start bringing up the type of stories one *should* read. 

I am not going to wander down those paths however because there are plenty of opinions and people out there already. Plus, returning to my title "Death by Bookshelf" well, I wanted to focus on what reading has allowed me to do in a potentially detrimental sense to my self-confidence (or rather what it has not done). To clarify. I read because I love to. It is home. It is comforting. It is safe. It is just me and the characters for however long I desire. That's certainly all well and good but what if you get to a point where all you do every day is read? What if what you are reading is not "high quality" on the scale of published, classic, cult, pop-culture or teen obsession? What then? Is reading bad for you then?

That question has been circling me for the past few months since I finished my schooling and I am living in a limbo of "what do I do next?" even as I heal my wrist so I can get back to completing my ARCT for piano and the last theory exam. Internet has been a cursed blessing. One which allowed me as an Introvert to get involved with people (if only after lurking for a while first). Two, it is a black hole of endless searching and generally of finding all sorts of things to read. I've discovered old alchemic algorithms and gone through various ancient Greek and Roman texts plus some Old English ones too. 

I've spent hours amusing myself on a never-ending trail of literary tropes on the excellent tvtropes.org. Lord of the Rings fan sites was where it really began however and that led me to fanfiction and a particular LOTR fanfic series by two authors that was so large (and well written in the eyes of angst-ridden 13-18 year olds) that it had spawned a forum of fans. It was there, after lurking for a bit that my online persona or the wacky person I am beneath my tendency to hide behind my hair, that I started feeling connected to like-minded individuals. I started seeing how I let certain people step all over me in real-life. Thi shower came after secretly being obsessed with Lord of the Rings since the final movie installment in 2003. It took five years after that point, before I asked for the extended editions for Christmas and I told my mom rather shyly that I loved Lord of the Rings. She wasn't disapproving, or snide, as I had imagined in my head, in fact she loved it; having a small by deep love for the power of those books and then the movies. 

Thus, reading fanfiction led to me finding a lot of people I still keep in touch with and becoming more sure and open about my likes and dislikes. I admit I still hate choosing things or stating opinions to a degree but now I recognize much of it was, and still is, out of a fear of rejection. Learning to embrace fear is an on-going project for me lately and this is where I say I wonder sometimes if my love of reading is only acerbating it. 

Not to mention, in recent years, perhaps because I have spent the last five being required to read heavy literature for my degrees that I leaned more on the comforts of stories in my favourite fandoms like Lord of the Rings (and the extended arenas provided by The Silmarillion and The Hobbit). Others were the hundreds of anime I have watched, BBC's Sherlock is second to LOTR, the Marvel universe and the few bits that exist of some of my favourite fantasy series like Dragonlance, Forgotten Realms, or the Discworld. I lean toward quality fiction, often the novella or novel length sort and though I will admit to reading well-written fiction that goes AU (Alternate Universe) or pairs up non-canon characters, I prefer the stories to be as close to canon as possible. 

All that said, I am left with the unanswered questions of whether all this reading of published literature and lurking in fandom fanfic sites and forums is doing me any benefit? I have had people say if I enjoy it, then it is not a waste. But what if I have the niggling feeling I should be accomplishing something more "useful"? What constitutes as something "useful"? 

High school report card? I don't care now. Gandalf and Bilbo though...

This whole blog was a hard thing to start as past blogs I have played around with and eventually deleted were role-plays (RP's) of my original characters or my original universe. I always considered blabbing on blogs about my personal thoughts to be a waste and it probably is. However, I am done making excuses like that which ultimately return to the root known as Fear. I'll blab on here probably more than one should for a blog. I am also probably breaking all the rules of what constitutes the instant-success blog. Nonetheless, the one thing I have learned by all my reading is that, at skeleton, at heart, all stories are the same. They are all about individuals making mistakes and facing the consequences of those mistakes. The mistakes vary their impact, they vary in bad and good consequences, they vary in how the characters react and interact according to those mistakes but ultimately, the farm boy doesn't get the sword without leaving his village, the mystery doesn't get solved until the detective starts asking questions; nothing of note happens until the protagonist starts to move.

So with all that I will leave you with some simple but important words from my favourite anime/manga of all time:

Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood Episode 3 Quote

Lover of Long Walks,

Moony