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"You worry too much, peck," says Madmartigan in Willow.

I do worry too much. But this comes up by way of.. I've been world-building, developing plot and character and elaborate intricacies of a world for a story and now I find myself at the precipice and... not particularly writing much. Slogging through, as it were.

It's just sort of striking me at the moment that I think a portion of my difficulty rests in the intersection of interest and importance. Anton Checkov's character Trigoran is himself a writer and opines that as a writer he feels it is his duty to write about "life and science and the rights of man" even if it doesn't interest him and whines about this in depth through a monologue.


I think I may have a tendency to find the interest and energy to write when I can be flippant and silly with the narrative, but then feel as if the work is just a self-indulgant romp whereas I want to write something "real" so must be set aside for more "grown-up" projects, but that "real" writing doesn't tend to capture my muse so thoroughly and peters out. Of course, I specifically worked to design this story to be precisely the thing to capture my muse. I decided that characters I want to write about were the key and began with the characters, developing setting and plot from there outward. And yet... stumbling out of the gate.

The solution, of course, is to stop worrying so much and just follow my muse.

Meanwhile, though, I toss now into the ether the beginning I managed to cobble together yesterday:
---
The shadow of Mount Nomett crept along the ground, enveloping greater and greater swaths of land like water under the inexorable force of a rising tide. As more and more of the sun slipped behind the lone geographical giant along the skyline. The shadow flowed forward, eerie yet commonplace, as it found its’ way to the doorstep of The Tipsy Priest and began to make its’ way slowly across the building.

The building had been in the Priest family since the founding of Ellegeia, but it had most assuredly not spent much of its’ life as a tavern, tipsy or otherwise. As was not uncommon in frontier lands colonized after Elven armies had fallen back, Ellegeia played host to strong representatives of both the Verrue and Aquan churches. Hezekiah Priest had stood very much at the forefront of the Verrues, investing his family fortune in building the church’s presence in Ellegeia, investing his life in keeping it vibrant.

Victor Priest had always kept his grandfather’s faith, but never with near the same passion and fervor. Once the church had moved to a larger building it only made sense to utilize it for his own profession even as his grandfather had. Thus was born The Tipsy Priest and thus was this particular place of business in this particular location and right there for the newcomer to stumble across.

She was not so remarkable visually, not in any readily quantifiable way. Nevertheless, Victor noticed her immediately as she entered. The shadow bisected her, shrouding her right side even as the light of the setting sun glistened off of her short, raven-black hair, almost forming a halo around the left side of her head. She walked with a regal precision, Victor thought, as she made her way straight toward the bar.
---
and we'll have to see whether I end up pushing that narrative forward or just abandoning it to explore Alexandria Everly's madcap adventures sideways through time or inconsistent machinations of the vampires of Tropesylvania.

And actually, looking at that again--way too much heavy-handed exposition, way to little things actually happening. grr.

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oswulf

January 2016

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