I can run fast, decades can pass–still she still haunts me, not through her volition, but through the ghosts I’ve made; my own unrelenting link to her. Vibrating ethereal platinum in a sea of bronze. None graze the euphoric daze she sparked in me. That force she birthed, frightened me, and through my self-assessed inadequacy, I lost her, but the spark she made remains. No new friend or lover has marred it. No failure or success has loosened its embedding. I don’t know, if I ever found someone capable of creating another such ethereal link that I’d want it. Perhaps I would. Alas after so many years, neither rust nor degradation has weakened my link to her.

She has moved onto new dances, and while I’ve transformed into newer versions of myself, that link, that chain persistently remains. Memories relived become more vibrant, twist the past into impossible worlds, and while the core is indeed fact, time and that constant gandering, create illusions of even grander events, the link becomes denser, cladened in precious stones, and no one else I’ve met has gifted me a new spark, a glimpse into something beyond the mundane. Instead, time’s deepening, forges new accending conceptualizations of the meaning of her iridescent starlight.

Perhaps, it is fitting that I don’t find another, perhaps, it would devolve me into stagnation. Artistic progress would crumble, my interests in story telling would become not but self-indulgence, and nothing of substantiality can ever be cultivated by staring into a mirror. Even still, the desire for her, which can never be fulfilled will subsist. Beyond just the ‘feeling’ with which she enlivened my body, I miss her. I miss every aspect of her. But, there is nothing I can do, but deepen my artistic exploration, in hope that I uncover some hidden truth that mightn’t exist. An inarticulative truth that I have sought for beyond recollection, which won’t alleviate my bridge to her, but might afford me some glimpse into consciousness beyond my singular self. Something close to what she created within me.


Revisions and Coverwork

Oh, so many revisions I’ve done! So many extra words it’s made. On Chapter 17 out of 25, and after all the two years or so my manuscript was first ‘completed’, I just now noticed a major error in Chapter 3 in a simple sentence of dialog. Oi.


I’ve been working on art non-stop since my off days, makes my head spin sometimes. This WIP still needs four more characters filled in in front of Rabbit (The guy with the potion)

Hope you enjoy. Usually not good about showing ANY of my illustrations, so far into completion of my characters ’till my book is published, but, well, I feel a bit of bendability is good.

Revisions and Coverwork


Acknowledging the awkward, intimate, and embarrassing quirks and past of characters seems to me, be one of the keys to unlocking a deeper realization of one’s characters. This, of course, I’m certain, isn’t a novel revelation.

However, none of this has anything to do with the ‘gross’, or ‘absurdly annoying shock-value’ pasts and events. (Just the same, it isn’t ideal, to describe a character by the most exaggerated physical features possible. Just because a character is tall, needn’t mean you make them 7ft, towering giant, not everyone can be Hagrid,) Things uncharacteristically carried out in order for the effect of ‘aren’t my characters so weird’ rather, a more realistic aspect. Perverted thoughts, mistakes, urinating in class as a kid, sexual confusion, cross-dressing. None of these need to be embarrassing, nor ‘bad’, they are merely things done that mightn’t be ‘approved by society’.

Many of these things aren’t expressed unless in jest, and thus, not taken as sincere, as authentic aspects of that person. This is an experiment I wish to implement, to express certain shadows that society mightn’t be pleased about but are still very much existent. Or sexual dimensions, which is almost always treated as dirty, unclean or ‘naughty’ and not a mere facet of experience that is in of itself empty, void of social dictatorship, but exists as is, like a leaf, like breathing, sexual desire, none of which exist due to society.


Continual Impasses

Rant/Thoughts/Lack of Forethought and Consideration/Connected But Less Than Premeditated 

A fret is deepening; rotting my fortitude. I’m not wealthy, and by not wealthy, I sincerely mean it. I’m not certainly impoverished enough to be homeless, but certainly not well-off enough that I can spend 2,500$ on a copy-editor to self-publish my book. I mean, maybe I could, if I forwent my bills, rent, food, health, etc. Not advisable. Considering, most who self-publish–even who traditionally publish, see usually monetarily fruitless results.hon.gif

Thus, I’m left at an impasse, whilst a choir of strangers of truly uninterested, but well-meaning persons encourage me to publish my book, that ‘it’s really good’ (From the Well-Meaning Persons, the strangers couldn’t care less), but, in either circumstance, I’ve been unable to see results. With the self-publishing being nigh-impossible due to a lack of spendable income to use on a copy-editor, and to not do so would be ‘an affront’ upon all that is literary. A true monster, uncaring about their work that has been sitting on their hard-drive for two years, routinely getting upgrades and repainted whilst progressless endeavors are carried out.

My work will probably not be ‘marketable’ in the same way as most mainstream books are. This is not boastful, neither is it vilifying nor trivializing the ‘marketable’ works, it’s merely stating the obvious, the Grand Order does not contain (as self-perceived) the supports or superstructure that would appeal to most persons. A niche audience may be viable, but for a publishing house this is typically uninteresting (so I’ve come to understand/been told). Since trade publishers are looking for a work that will sell, so they can make money, to keep themselves afloat, works that are niche do not fall under their umbrella of viable merchandise.

Barring the fact that most trade publishers will probably change the title, and decide on what the cover art will be and who will be it’s creator, with the author left wayside to observe them powdering it, and guiding the surgery of the book’s contents; trade-publishing sounded appealing to me for the fact that I’m poor, and thus, despite their destruction of my artistic vision to suit marketability, they’d ensure I wouldn’t be held back by my financial deficiency.  This however, (While maybe a mirage created through rejection) seems to be an improbable end-point, not out of the notion of ‘most people are rejected’ bit, but that my book hasn’t in it an adequate girth of sellable architecture.

If this is the case, and the Grand Order is an unsellable work to a wide enough audience, and if I cannot afford a copy-editor, and am pressured enough to disband from any further venture due to ‘poor quality’, ‘dispassionate author’ assertions from critics that may render my book diced and scorched post self-publishing, then my book may continue to stale on my computer; explorative potential deadened.


Continual Impasses

The Merchant and the Swordsman

[Scene Practice | First Draft] I wrote this on a whim, for fun and to let my creative self kind of spill out onto something other than my manuscript. It’s a rough, first draft, and I’ll probably, maybe, go back over this, rewrite stuff and see where it takes me. I won’t subject anyone to the various iterations, but if it becomes something good, perhaps I will for comparative reasons.


From a wooden pipe, smoke curled and splayed out into the hanging jars of dried herbs and pickled limbs. The merchant, unbelievably fresh-faced for the age of forty-two, sat relaxed watching the wanderer pick through his wares. The merchant, with eyes squinted and mouth turned into a thin grin, inquired a second time, “You’re mission is of secrecy you said?” The wanderer nodded, her hands caressing a vial of blue liquid, she glanced at him, her orange eyes studying his own grey ones. The merchant’s grin widened, “I do love secrets, they hold power, in the right hands, magic can well from them, land can quake, plants can wither or flourish.”

The brunette warrior brought the potion to the merchant, “You’re a strange man.” She eyed up his peculiar items, “And you stock things I’ve never seen, strange… wizardry things.”

The merchant reclined and exhaled more smoke, “I’m not but a humble merchant, but, my kind hear stories and legends. Tales of the mystical, and the mundane.” He frowned, “Unfortunately, I’ll soon have to be passing through he Blackwell Marshes. Dangerous location, goblins, diretoads, and the like lurk, could use another mercenary.”

The swordsman shrugged, “Sadly, I’m not for hire, as said, I’m bound to another contract.”

The merchant finished his pipe, “Well that is a shame,” he fetched some more tobacco from a polished case, “I pay well, either in coin or in materials,” he lit his pipe, “Where did you say you were going again?” He exhaled smoke that suspiciously danced.

The swordsman shut her eyes in frustration, “I told you, it’s confidential. I will not betray my employer.”

The merchant frowned, “Well, fine, fine,” He then beamed, stretching his limbs, “To business then!” He took the potion from her, “Hm…? What would you have use of this? You’re no mage.”

She leaned forward, “Never-mind that, what is it’s cost? No price was labeled.”

He tapped the potion, “That’s because this rarity is worth more than you have.” She glared. He waved a hand, “Calm, calm, I can give this to you, if you tell me the secret.”

She turned from him, “I’ll find someone else.”

He called, “Fine! Wait!” she did. He slumped forward, “Another price then? If you join my trek, you can have this potion-you-cannot-use.” She didn’t move for a time. He contorted his face in defeat. No good then, this little Sword-Swinger must not quite like me, is it my smile?

“Fine.” She returned with one her black gloved hands outstretched. He pulled the potion back from her, “No no, not yet. When you have reasonably accommodated me you can have this potion. After all, what good is it if I give you it now? You wouldn’t show. I leave in three days.”

She folded her arms, “Three days, Strawman? That’s far too long. My mission doesn’t have three days to wait.”

His patience thinned, “Pushy woman. Fine. Two days?” she glared. “We’re on another’s scheduled as well, Tempress.”

She folded her arms, “Fine, Merchant.”

“Please, Felix, Miss. Swordsman.” He outstretched a ringed and scarred hand. She didn’t take it. He dropped it with a smile, squinting his eyes, “If all proceeds from this point on accordingly, we will leave, the day after tomorrow, at dawn. Please, await at Wheatwell’s Inn.” She made to leave. He called, “No name for you then? Shall I call you the Glaring Swordswoman?”

She looked over her shoulder at him for a spell before leaving his caravan and disappearing into fogging city depths.


[Scene Practice | First Draft]


The Merchant and the Swordsman


There’s a photograph I have. Framed and now tucked away. Memories frequented for comfort, of a relationship that dissipated; fluttering ’till absence as I watched weakening, my tongue and heart misplaced, imprisoned by another. I enjoy imagining it was apathy, but the truth is less removed, and I lost her, the only person that I felt could know me. As the years continued to accumulate, without my say, I was torn apart in various ways. Apathy was born, it helped me disassociate, to try and futilely forget her iridescent self.