The Runaway - Part Two

Hello again, fellow digressors. So you may have noticed that while you've been seeing a bit more of me lately, it's mostly had to do with Jill Williamson's new eBook, 'Darkness Reigns' and how much you need to check it out. Hopefully that's settled well with you, but just in case, I'll post something that's been a long time in coming... 

......Writing music recommendations! 

No, not really. But since I mentioned it, I did purchase a couple of albums of orchestral/trailer music over the past several months, and they're both amazing. The first is 'Magnus' by Audiomachine and the second is 'Classics: Vol. 2' by Two Steps From Hell. I also have 'Classics: Vol. 1' and it is an equally worthy offering, and I would very much like to buy Audiomachine's 'Phenomena'. Here are their lovely album covers for your consideration. 

Y'all who are writers or just like awesome orchestral music to make your brains work better or make your day feel more epic should check it out. There are one or two tracks that aren't my favorites, but considering how many tracks there are in all four put together (ninety, in case you were wondering), for all of them to surpass my expectations would be quite a remarkable feat. Overall, I'm in love with the albums and have found them very useful in making my brain work and getting the inspiration going for me to write. 

Hang on -- you say you were expecting something else from the post's title? What, my music recommendations aren't good enough for you? You don't like epic orchestral scores that get your blood pumping and brain cells firing? 

Well, phooey, then. I guess I'll just get on to the point of my post: A while back (a long while, I'm afraid) some of you voted in a poll regarding which short story/novella I should keep posting on the blog. The choice was between 'Street Rats' (the protagonist being Talsyn Lethar from 'The Merchant's Son') and 'The Runaway' (the protagonist being Jorthen Lavahr from 'The Follower'). And the winner was... 

The Runaway.

Never fear, those who were gunning for 'Street Rats' -- it's entirely possible that one of these nights, I'll get tired of my main projects and, in a fit of rebellion, write another installment in that story and post it here. I can guarantee that my brain will keep plotting it and imagining how I would introduce it to you and explain it on the back cover of the paperback and conduct my author interview on television... 

Wait, I'm getting sidetracked again. You really should warn me when I start doing that. I get little enough done as it is. I haven't even addressed the lovely people who have at some point nominated me for blog awards (Annika at Writer And Proud and Adriana over at The Librarian Files, who are both more faithful bloggers than I am; you should check them both out right now, if you haven't already). I do desperately want to catch up on all that (and also on the stuff my best friend Sierra over at Words on My Page has tagged me for). I just need to track down all the places where they linked me to details about the awards/events, then follow their instructions. Maybe I'll do it all in one big post... The hard part will be in tagging other bloggers; I guess I know a few, but I tend to forget their addresses when it counts. 

Anyways, without further ado, I shall end your long wait (for a continuation of the aforementioned story, that is)... 

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The Runaway - Part Two

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It took four men to haul the stranger into the building, two to catch his horse, and yet another to fetch the base physician, but within the space of half an hour, all was accomplished, and Jorthen stood by as the physician, Geram, bent over a musty cot and examined their runaway's injuries. Jorthen flinched at the sight of some of the burns, but the greying man before him remained stoic and steady as he checked the boy's breathing, his pulse, and, for whatever reason, his teeth. The gangly stranger before him did not stir for any of it. 

Jorthen held his tongue for a few minutes, then cleared his throat. "What do you think?" 

"Eh?" Geram glanced at him, then waved a hand dismissively. "I've only just begun my examination. I have nothing to report as of yet." 

"Nothing?" Jorthen frowned and stepped forward to get a better look. "Can you at least tell how severe his wounds are? Will he live?" 

"I've seen nothing to warrant either a yea or a nay on that subject, Master Lavahr. I'll thank you to wait outside while I examine my patient." 

Jorthen worked his jaw and fought to keep his tone neutral. "He may be injured, but for all we know, he could pose a threat if he woke and didn't understand what was going on or what your intentions were. If need be, I can speak to him in his own language." 

"Don't see how you couldn't keep watch from just outside the door," Geram grumbled, shaking his head. He sighed heavily. "Fine, then. If you must be here, you can at least make yourself useful. I need his tunic removed so I can check for burns in more vital areas than his face and limbs." 

Jorthen nodded. He had assisted physicians in such tasks before, but as Geram used a knife to cut the boy's tunic free from his body, Jorthen's flight instincts threatened to carry him out of the room. Hardly an inch of the boy's body was not bruised, cut, or burned, but his back was the worst. A large portion of the flesh was branded varying shades of red, purple, and even black where something must have struck and charred him. Jorthen glanced away to compose himself, then took a deep breath. "What should I do?" 
"Just get me the burn medicine from over there." Geram nodded towards a shelf on Jorthen's far right where a myriad of bottles sat. 
Jorthen walked over to the shelf and examined the bottles, but the harder he stared at the scrawled words on the labels, the less he was able to read them. He found one that he thought said something like 'Burns' and carried it over to Geram. 
Geram took a look at the bottle and grunted. "Give me that," he said, snatching the bottle from Jorthen. He strode over to the shelf and started searching for the burn medicine himself. 
Jorthen swallowed his frustration, then forgot it entirely as he looked again at the boy, who now lay on his stomach, still unconscious, tortured back exposed. He noticed a set of strange, claw-like scars running parallel to the boy's spine, all of them darker than scars would normally be and shaped as though they were new, though he could see no other sign that they were. He frowned. "Those marks along his spine... Did those come from the fire?" 
"Scars and birthmarks don't concern me," Geram said, pushing past Jorthen with the proper medicine in hand. "Only the wounds that still stand to cause trouble." 
"But these," Jorthen began, then trailed off as he remembered that Geram likely wouldn't listen anyhow. He glanced down at the Shamindo boy again and took a deep breath. "You know, maybe I'll just step outside after all. Call me if you need anything." 
"Go, then," Geram said indifferently, and popped the cork of the medicine bottle without so much as glancing at Jorthen. 
Jorthen hesitated a moment longer, then glimpsed the boy's injuries again and found his motivation to leave renewed. A moment later, he was out in the hallway with the door shut behind him. He nearly collided with a small band of male recruits who tried to peer through the doorway before he shut the door. "Back to your duties," he said. "There's nothing to see here." 
"Is it true they caught a Shamindo spy?" A dark-haired, light-eyed boy at the edge of the group stared wide-eyed at the door as if the injured runaway might leap out at him with his teeth bared. 
Jorthen resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No, it is not true." 
"How do you know?" One of the taller boys crossed his arms defiantly. "You only just found him, didn't you? Everyone knows Shamindo strays aren't to be trusted." 
"There are no spies here," Jorthen said. "Your superior officers will conduct an interrogation as soon as possible, and then we'll decide what to do with him." 
A chorus of protests broke out at his words, and more recruits joined the group either to protest or simply to watch the spectacle. "But how do you know he's not--" 
"Is it safe?" 
"Maybe he's an assassin, here to take out our alchemy instructor." 
"No, he's a horse thief, didn't you hear? He's here to steal our animals." 
"Maybe he's here to steal our secrets." 
"Or our lives." 
Jorthen clapped his hands hard, and the sound echoed through the hall. "That's enough," he shouted. Once the chatter had died down a bit, he scanned the crowd. "The situation is being handled, and I will update any genuinely concerned parties later when I have some actual information to give them. Until then, back to your training, or patrols, or whatever you're scheduled to do at this hour. Go." 
A discontented murmur spread throughout the crowd. but one by one the recruits dispersed and resorted to whispering their suspicions between themselves. 
Any thoughts of returning to his room to retreat from the stress of dealing with people were forgotten now as Jorthen centered himself in front of the door and clasped his hands behind him to keep a lookout. Perhaps none of the recruits meant any harm, but if Geram had been frustrated by one lieutenant captain hanging about while he worked, the fallout from several curious teenagers and twenty-somethings milling about watching him would be nigh on unimaginable. 
Whoever this boy might be, whatever reason brought him here, he deserved treatment from a focused physician, not one who turned away every few seconds to order people to back away. 
Jorthen stood still at the door for a quarter of an hour with little disturbance, and he considered turning back to check on Geram's progress. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and he groaned inwardly. Why could the recruits not mind their own business for a few hours longer? 
But then he recognized the steady strides, measured, calculated, moving at a peculiar but repetitive interval, setting the bearer apart while still marking him as someone who knew exactly where he was going and why. 
Jorthen fixed his gaze on the wall directly across from him and instinctively tipped his chin up a fraction of an inch as a cold, familiar numbness crept into his fingers. 
Atrin Lavahr strode into his line of sight and brought his hands behind his back, icy blue eyes narrowing beneath dark hair carefully styled to fall over the faded scar on the right side of his forehead. "And just where have you been?" 
Jorthen swallowed and glanced off to the side before meeting Atrin's eyes. "Something came up. I had to help." 
"You were expected at a meeting regarding the age of recruitment and whether or not it should be lowered in the near future. It ended twenty minutes ago." 
Had it? Jorthen had no memory of such a meeting on his schedule, but then, the entire day been a blur since he'd woken up that morning with aching limbs and a fog in his head. He nodded once. "I apologize. The situation was... rather urgent." 
Atrin studied him for a long moment, mulling over his excuse. "And that situation is?" 
"A Shamindo boy showed up half-dead on a horse. I had to get him to Geram and ensure that no-one got in the way." 
"You had better concern yourself with more important matters than a thieving foreigner and his ailments, Lieutenant," Atrin said, then sighed and looked down the hall to his right. "I have another meeting to attend. We'll discuss your failure to fulfill your duties later." 
"I may be busy later," Jorthen said. "We still don't know who the boy is or what's to be done with him." 
"Fine, but get that all handled soon so you can get back to the work you're supposed to be doing. Understood?" 
Jorthen nodded. "Understood, sir." 
Without another word, Atrin turned and strode off with his usual gait in the direction he'd chosen. As usual, he did not bother looking back, and Jorthen did not bother trying to bid him farewell. With Atrin's absence, the feeling had begun to return to his fingers, and he found it easier to breathe without aggravating the old pain in his chest. He had been stupid for neglecting his duties without permission, but it might have been equally stupid to attempt to deal with a crowd of officers and dignitaries on a day like today, when neither his mind nor his body seemed willing to work the way they should. 
No sooner had he gotten used to the near silence than he heard a crashing noise behind him, followed by a thud against the door and a raspy voice screaming in Shamindo between hacking coughs. 
Geram's voice called over the chaos, "Lieutenant, you're needed in here!" 
Of course he was needed now. When else? 
Jorthen grabbed for his shakahn, then thought better of it and left the shortsword sheathed. If he was lucky, he would not have to draw it. He gripped the door's handle and ducked defensively as he pushed the door open and entered. A bottle flew past his head and smashed against the doorframe. 
As might have been extrapolated from the sounds he'd heard a moment before, the Shamindo boy had awoken and was less than calm about the situation. 
Jorthen grabbed Geram by the arm and pulled him out the door, then closed it quickly behind them and held it shut. The boy on the other side banged on the wood and tried to pull the door open, but a coughing fit stopped his efforts mere moments after he'd begun trying. 
"He tried to bite me," Geram said indignantly. 
"Come again?" Jorthen said, keeping hold of the door handle just in case. 
"I was tending the boy's wounds, and I'd nearly gotten far enough to come out and call for you, but no sooner than I'd turned around, he woke up and started hurling things at me. When I tried to sit him down again, he lunged at me and showed his teeth. Look what he did to my arm!" 
Jorthen glimpsed a row of scratch marks on Geram's arm, not very deep, but certainly recent. "Do you have any sedatives we could use to subdue him?" 
"Aye, but it'll be a miracle if he hasn't hurled it across the room by now." 
The sounds within no longer consisted of screams or pounding, nor even of bottles crashing against the wall. Instead Jorthen had to press his ear to the door to hear a series of gasps and coughs, along with a rustling sound he couldn't place. 
He glanced at Geram and straightened. "I'm going in there." 
"Suit yourself," Geram grumbled. "I'm going to call for more men to subdue him." 
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Jorthen said, then took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. 
The rustling stopped as he set foot into the room, and he halted. "It's all right," he called in. "I'm not going to hurt you. Do you understand me?" 
No answer came, but the gasping reduced volume to an uneven wheezing punctuated by the occasional light cough, and the rustling resumed. 
It was better than having a bottle thrown at him, he supposed. Jorthen stepped carefully over a pile of glass shards and turned with his arms raised in a peacemaking gesture. "We met earlier. I mean you no harm." 
He spotted the boy in the corner beside the examination cot, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, wild green eyes staring up at Jorthen as their owner continued to gasp for breath. He looked even more defenseless with his tunic gone, and from this angle Jorthen could see marks on his head where either the fire had caught him or something else kept his hair from growing normally. But however harmless he appeared, provoking him could be dangerous, as recent events proved. 
"It's all right," Jorthen repeated, slowly moving his foot to push the door closed. He stepped forward and lowered his hands to his sides. "Take slow, deep breaths, all right? Cough if you need to. There's plenty of air in here." 
The boy's eyes flitted towards the floor directly in front of Jorthen's feet. Jorthen looked down and found a rather large shard of glass right where he would he stepped had he moved forward again. He swept the glass off to the side with the side of his boot. "Thank you. I almost missed that." 
The boy tensed as the glass shard collided with the leg of a nearby table, and he rocked more fervently, creating the rustling noise Jorthen had heard from outside. 
He wanted to give the boy more space, but he had no idea how long it would be before Geram returned with men who would not be so careful about dealing with him. He shuffled forward another step, swept aside another set of tiny shards, and knelt carefully, resting his hands on his knees where the boy would easily be able to see them. "...I'm Jorthen Lavahr. Can you tell me your name?" 
The boy looked at Jorthen's hands, then at his face, then at his hands again, distrust in his eyes. 
"Look," Jorthen said. "I don't know if you can understand me, but..." He hesitated. "...Sal treyn? Sri treynin Jorthen Lavahr." 
The boy's throat bobbed, and at last he spoke, his voice faint and excessively raspy. "Heard you the first time." 
Jorthen sighed, checked for glass behind him, then shifted to sit in a cross-legged position. "So you can answer me, right? Can you tell me your name?" 
The boy tucked his chin behind his knees and shook his head, dropping his gaze to stare at the ground. 
"All right, then. Can you tell me how old you are? Are you fifteen, sixteen?" 
"Seventeen," the boy rasped. 
Jorthen nodded. "Good to know. If you can't tell me your name, is there something I should call you?" 
The boy tried to speak again, but his words were lost in another hacking fit. Jorthen waited until the fit subsided, and at last heard the boy whisper, "San." 
Jorthen managed a faint smile. "Good to meet you, San. You can call me Jorthen." 
If San heard him, he didn't acknowledge it before Jorthen heard footsteps outside the door behind him. He tensed and called over his shoulder, "Don't come in." 
San flinched at Jorthen's volume and pulled his knees more tightly to his chest. 
"Sorry," Jorthen said more quietly. "Listen, San, I'm just going to get up and tell the people at the door that we're all right in here. I'll move slowly so you can see everything I'm doing. Deal?" 
San didn't look up, but his head bobbed briefly in a nod. 
Good enough. Jorthen stood carefully and made his way to the door, then opened it a crack and spoke softly to the people on the other side. "You can go back to your posts. I have the situation handled." 
The soldier directly on the other side looked baffled, then irritated. "You sent old Geram halfway across the base to summon us just to tell us to leave?" 
It was just like Geram to shift blame, Jorthen thought, but he overlooked the fib for the moment. "I apologize. If you want something to do, inform my father and co-instructors that I won't be part of the sessions this afternoon. Send them my apologies." 
"Lieutenant," one of the other soldiers said reprovingly. 
"If you'd rather come in and deal with the boy I've only just succeeded in appeasing, be my guest." 
The men on the other side of the door went silent, then one of them muttered, "Apologies, sir. We'll be leaving now." 
Jorthen rested his forehead against the open door and allowed himself a moment to relax. He heard shuffling and opened his eyes to see Geram's withered, wary face peeking into the crack. "Is he tamed?" 
"He's calm," Jorthen said. "If you want to come in, give me time to warn him first." 
Geram nodded and took a step backwards. 
Jorthen shut the door quietly and turned back to the figure huddled in the corner. "San, the physician needs to come in to clean up and finish treating your injuries. Is that all right?" 
San's eyes flickered and widened slightly, and he shook his head wildly, then sped up his rocking. 
"Hey, hey." Jorthen approached him and knelt again to match his eye level, then forced himself slightly lower. "I'll stay right here the whole time, all right? I'll make sure he doesn't hurt you." 
San gulped again, and in the same faint, raspy voice as before, he said, "Not a baby." 
Jorthen's mouth twitched to the side. "I know you're not. But I also know you're nervous and in a foreign environment. It's understandable not to trust anyone. But do you think you can trust me enough to let the physician in?" 
San's eyes rose briefly to meet Jorthen's, then dropped again, and he nodded almost invisibly. 
Finally, Jorthen thought, then turned his head to call just loudly enough to be heard by aged ears, "Geram, you can come in now." 
Now if they could just get through the rest of the day without anyone getting bitten, scratched, or hit by objects being flung through the air, the day would be at least a marginal success. 

Another Announcement -- Musical Mondays!

Hey there, fellow digressors. So, you're probably wondering (1) what on earth I'm announcing this time, and (2) what exactly 'Musical Mondays' are. Well, since starting the whole series of character interviews, I've been reminded of something I actually discovered a long time ago: I need deadlines. I can try to work without them, but I'll be much more productive if I have some idea of exactly what I'm supposed to do and when it needs to be finished. This has proven true with the character interviews, in that I consistently post those, even when I don't get anything else done. 

So, I am instigating a new tradition: Musical Mondays. Henceforth, Mondays -- while previously dedicated to a celebration of doom, dread, and, um... um... of failed alliterations -- shall bring with them a post containing or related to a piece of music. This could be a hymn, a classical piece, movie score, or one of my own compositions. Anything goes. This flexibility is halfway there to provide variety, and halfway contrived to give my scattered brain freedom to choose whatever its evil little heart desires. (Do brains have hearts? That would be disturbing. Or if a brain literally had a mind of its own, and so you actually had two brains inside your head... That would almost be cool. ANYWAYS.) 

For the first Musical Monday, I am going to share with you a ballad that I wrote just yesterday. A friend from Go Teen Writers shared a song she'd written about one of her characters, and it inspired me to write a ballad of my own. It's called 'Heart of the Innocent', and gives a general outline of one character's developmental arc throughout the books so far. (I could tell you which one, if you like, but I'll withhold that information for the moment, in case anyone out there hates spoilers. And anyways, I think at least four or five characters are mentioned at least vaguely throughout the song.) 

I only have one halfway decent recording, and it's a cappella, because playing the piano might have involved inadvertently waking a couple of adorable kids who were napping nearby. It is by no means a perfect recording, but it should at least give you an idea of how the song is supposed to go. I'll also include the lyrics below, in case you either can't understand them in the video or don't feel inclined to play it at all (shame on you, sir or madam; shame, indeed). Oh -- and this is the first time I've written a ballad, as far as I can remember, so please be gentle. I've only written hymns/spiritual songs previously. Well, I mean, I wrote a lot of poetry when I was younger, and I've read and listened to 'The Highwayman' probably way too many times, but... Anyways, here it is: 

Heart of the Innocent

"Come and hear now the tale

Of the child of a beggar-man,

How his world changed overnight.

All he held dear

Was ripped from his fingertips,

And he tried to make it all right

For the one in his care,

All that remained for him; his life he’d gladly spend

For one little boy

With the heart of an innocent.

The price of his soul

Seemed a small one to pay,

But the deal, it was only the start,

And the child of a beggar-man

Found that his means of escape

Had fallen apart.

But a desperate man, he holds tight to his plans;

He does things that he never meant.

And with one blow,

He shattered the heart of the innocent.

Well, the beggar-man’s child,

His song came to an end

But the shattered heart he left behind

Went searching for love,

Searching for light,

But darkness was all he could find.

Long he lived in the night;

It was all that he knew,

But something inside was still bent

On finding someone

To rebuild the heart of the innocent.

Though the darkness said

There was no light to be found,

The innocent searched, and then

He thought one he met

Would the damage repair,

But they shattered him over again.

Oh hear how he cries,

How his hope, now it dies,

How in fear, to the flames he went.

Now so black,

Black is the heart of the innocent.

Now the light burns his eyes,

And when love comes, he flies.

When he falls, no-one sees his descent

But one girl,

One with the heart of an innocent.

Now the darkness abates

And the innocent waits,

Longs so, but fears to relent.

Is there still hope,

Hope for the heart of the innocent?"

Copyright (c) 2014 by C. F. Barrows

Yes, yes, rest assured the "innocent" hates me with every fiber of his being. But I'm not all that afraid of him, so meh. Even if he did work up the nerve to attack me, he'd probably be horrified at himself afterwards. Here's hoping he never finds any sort of portal into the real world. Do you think the Doctor would help him? Man, that's a scary thought... What if they see me as this big, cruel monster who's bent on gobbling up all the poor little people under my jurisdiction? 

Iiiii'm not sure I really want to think about that. 

OH. Also, a reminder: I'll be taking questions for Sheth Terrem over here until Wednesday. Make sure to get yours in by then! I promise he doesn't bite. He's one of the nice charries. Usually. 

So, heard any good ballads lately? Loreena McKennitt did a gorgeous cover of 'The Highwayman' once. It's somewhat abridged, but it's still ten minutes long, and utterly haunting. I can't speak for or against the rest of her work, but I love that song. It's so much fun to sing, too. The beauty... The flow... The creepiness... 

.........Buuuuut, as always... I digress. 

You Might Be A Writer If...

Hello again, fellow digressors! Well, today was another singularly unproductive day for me, at least until the evening. I pounded out another 961 words (and counting) in my synopsis that I'm writing for this book proposal of mine. Yes, I'm still working on it. Yes, I'm slow. But I'll get there eventually.

I did, however, find out that the 'How To Train Your Dragon 2' soundtrack is excellent writing music. It has the same fun, but epic feel as the first, yet it is unique, and very inspiring. I should probably avoid listening to it at night, though, because it makes me want to do productive things. Sleep? Pah. Sleep is for the weak.

Anyways, as I said, the only really productive thing I did today was write in my synopsis for 'The Merchant's Son' (well, I also responded to some messages, but those didn't really count). Thanks to a creepy ad that played twice last night when I was listening to music (thanks, Spotify), I didn't get a whole lot of sleep. Instead, I spent much of the night either bolstering things against my door (because no-one can get in if I block the door with a big, heavy pillow, right?), or doing a "character chat" with a friend.

Wait, wait -- what's a character chat? Well, it's sort of like a game that writers play with one another, wherein we push our characters into a room (or forest, or wherever) together and force them to interact. A brief excerpt might go something like this:


(Joanna: *walks into the room, looks around and grimaces* Yikes. Who did the decorating in here?)

(Titus: *is sitting on the couch; rolls his eyes* Elvis. Who else?)

(Joanna: *crosses her arms* Elvis, huh? You know him?)

(Titus: I know he's a terrible decorator. *stands, offers his hand* I'm Titus.)

(Joanna: *eyes him, then takes his hand and shakes it stiffly* Joanna. I don't like you.)

(Titus: *chuckles* I can live with that.)


See how it works? It's like a collaborative, improvisational short story. It is so muchly much fun, and actually helps a lot with character development. Think about it -- you're throwing your character into an entirely new situation, and they'll have to explain themselves (or maybe, in Joanna's case, refuse to explain verbally) to these new people, so you'll have to really think about their personality, backstory, motivation, etc. and navigate this uncharted world in a way that is internally consistent with who you've made them to be. In some cases, you might even decide that you don't like how they interact with others and change that. It's just a really great tool. Or at least that's what I tell myself to excuse the inordinate amount of time I spend CCing with friends.

And it's also what I tell myself when characters from different stories end up falling in love, the other author and I "ship" them, and our conversations for the next few months are filled with shrieks and exclamations at how adorable these characters are together.

...Ahem. Yes, I know that's really weird. But it happens, and it's fun. If a bit confusing when trying to talk to non-CCers about the growing list of differences between the book-versions and CC-versions of your characters.

In any case, it's become another one of my weird writerly activities that normal people don't always understand. Or maybe they understand how it works, and just don't find it appealing. That's up to them, of course, but it's one of my favorite things to do in my spare time (of which I have entirely too much). If it sounds interesting to you, there is a group on Facebook that's dedicated to it. Check it out here, if you like.

But besides CCing, there are so many odd things that we writers do sometimes, and those things tend to set us apart from most other people. I can't tell you whether that's good or bad. I guess it's just proof that God made everyone different, so I'm going to assume that our common (or uncommon) quirks are not entirely bad.

So, without further ado, I shall present to you my own version of You Might Be A Writer If...



You might be a writer if...

...Everything with blank space on it is fair game for a note on your latest story. Everything. Notebook, church bulletin, napkin at a restaurant (although please, don't use a cloth napkin)... If it's available and you won't get in trouble for marring it, it's perfect.

...Unusual/unpleasant experiences are not just new stories to tell to your kids someday -- they're writing research. I know not every writer does this, but I've known many who could break a bone, pass out, get their wisdom teeth removed, etc., and among the many thoughts rushing through their head would be, "I have to write down how this feels so I can use it later." (I've done this, too; there is no shame in it.)

...You can't read a book anymore without thinking such things as, "I wish I had written that line." "Wait, was this thing edited?" "Ooo, awesome plot twist. That was very evil. I love it." "I could write better than this." "Oh, no, wait -- I couldn't." "ONE DAY I WILL WRITE BOOKS LIKE THIS. ONLY BETTER."

...You may or may not be an artist, but you have at some point either tried or wanted to try drawing your characters, because seriously -- Pinterest has all these great pictures, but they can't come up with ONE perfect picture of your protagonist? Sheesh. Come on, internet elves -- do your job. 

...The idea of going anywhere without either your laptop or your pencils and trusty notebook terrifies you. 

...You do pay attention in church, and you get a lot out of the sermons. It's just that half of what you "get out of it" is stuff that applies to your story and the issues your characters are dealing with. You might even find yourself pulling out your notebook to jot down a quick note mid-sermon. (It's okay; I do this, too. And hey, C. S. Lewis got the idea for 'The Screwtape Letters' in the middle of a sermon. Not that you should be writing the whole time without paying attention, of course. But I don't see anything wrong with applying what you've learned to your writing. Writing is a means of expression, right? Of teaching? So it makes perfect sense.)

...You're afraid that if the government gets a good look at your internet history, they'll arrest you under suspicion of being a terrorist. Or a serial killer. Or maybe you're just afraid that your parents will think you're hiding something because you've visited, like, a dozen baby name sites in the past hour. ("No, Mom, I'm not pregnant -- I just can't figure out what I want to name this new character!")

...You have a deep appreciation for movie soundtracks, The Piano Guys, classical music, or really any other music that inspires you to write. Billboard Top 100? Meh. Has James Newton Howard released any new soundtracks recently?

...You have checked out the soundtracks from movies, TV shows, or games that you haven't even seen or played. You just heard from a friend that the soundtrack was amazing (or the name 'Hans Zimmer' appeared on the cover), and you just had to try it out.

...If you have a Pinterest account, it is probably filled with storyboards, character profiles, pictures of celebrities who look like your characters, and random boards about books and writing. (Incidentally, if anyone wants to follow me on Pinterest, my profile is here.)

...A trip to the library is a perfectly acceptable excuse for having forgotten to text your best friend back for an hour. (I have done this, and I have had it done to me in return. It is completely understandable.)

...You have your library card number memorized.

...Your stack of books to check out at the library is so tall that the security guard walks over to you to tell you about the upcoming library book sale. (This has actually happened to me.)

...Whenever you get some extra money to throw around, you run to the nearest bookstore and spend it all on those books you've been drooling over for months. (Though I hope you weren't literally drooling on them. Respect the books, please.)

...You half dread, half hope that someone will bring up writing in normal conversation, because you know you'll be talking non-stop about books, writing, plotting, editing, etc., for the next half hour. (Or until someone whacks you in the face with a chair. Whichever comes first.)

...It doesn't matter how socially awkward you are. If you find out the person you just met is another writer, you will automatically have things to talk about all day long. And you just might talk all day long, if people let you. Because hey, this person gets you! They're like you! This means you're not crazy! Or, er... at least you're not the only crazy one.

...You have at least considered writing someone you don't like into your story and torturing their fictional selves.

...You have based a character off of yourself, with some "improvements" (e.g., less clumsy, has a superpower, has great hair, always knows what to say).

...You played make-believe as a kid, but there had to be an actual storyline, and things had to make sense and be interesting. (I got into fights with my little brother because I wanted some secondary characters to die at this particularly foreboding place in our fantasy world. "But if nobody dies, there won't be any reason to be afraid of coming here! That wouldn't be any fun!")

...You want a typewriter. Or at least to use one. You might even own one. (If you do, may I borrow it? Pretty please?)

...You like grey, rainy days, because they mean you get to hole up in your room and either read or pound away at the keyboard. Thunder makes surprisingly good background noise sometimes.

...You possess a vocabulary noticeably more extensive than that of your peers, or if not, you at the very least tend to use antiquated or unnecessarily lengthy words in normal conversation. (Because "if you have big ideas, you have to use big words to express them, haven't you?")

...You know what it's like to adore your antagonist, to hop up and down with glee over the horrible things you're doing to your protagonist, and to smile when family and friends threaten your life because of that dreadful plot twist you showed them.

...You could swear sometimes that your characters are actually alive and that they're really writing this story, not you.

...You are tempted to take pictures of random strangers because OH MY GOODNESS THEY LOOK EXACTLY LIKE YOUR CHARACTER. And it makes you feel like such a creeper, but what's a writer to do? (And anyways, maybe that really is your character, come into the real world to seek his revenge. If so, you'll need documentation so that the police know who's responsible for your untimely demise.)

...You own enough notebooks to build a life-sized replica of the Empire State Building. And at least half of them are full.

...You can't remember a time when you weren't making up stories.

...The idea of anyone hating to read baffles and horrifies you.

...You have a strong opinion on which is better -- paperback, hardback, or eBook. Also an opinion on serif versus sans serif fonts. And possibly of the usage/relevance of the Oxford Comma.

...Discovering a typo in your newest status update triggers a small panic attack and a frantic rush to either delete the post or edit it before anyone finds it.

...You have playlists made up of songs relevant to your characters and/or stories.

...You know what NaNoWriMo is. You know that it is starting in about two and a half weeks, and you are in a frenzy trying to get everything ready before it starts. You are probably equal parts excited and terrified, and wondering how you're going to make time to write all those words in one month. (If you don't know what it is, go and check it out here. And if you decide to join, add tellingHISstory94 to your buddy list; that's me.)

...You go to Google, Bing, or your other preferred search engine, and search for things like 'You Might Be A Writer If'. Or even make your own list. Now, there's an idea.


I hope you have enjoyed reading this post as much as I enjoyed writing it. And now I must be off. I have a synopsis and two novels to write, lines to rehearse, supplements to take, and a bed to occupy. Goodnight, fellow digressors, and God bless. And please comment below with your own writerly moments; I'd love to hear them. Maybe even share your favorite soundtrack or composer with me. I'm always on the lookout for more awesome writing music. Incidentally, some of my favorite artists are Hans Zimmer, James Newton Howard, Harry Gregson-Williams, John Powell, Audiomachine, and Two Steps From Hell (I promise, that last one is not nearly is bad as it sounds; it's more soundtrack-type music, though I'm not in love with every single track). Audiomachine and TSFH have a few tracks that are a little too loud/pounding/screechy for my tastes, but most of their tracks are orchestral and make for excellent, inspiring writing music. And I'm not entirely sure you can go wrong with the others composers I mentioned. They're amazingly talented composers. Their work makes every writing session just that much more productive and awesome.

But, of course... I digress.