Slippery Time and Other Things

Time can be a very slippery thing. You sit down one minute to do a bit of knitting and listen to some of a good book or to enjoy yourself online and the next thing you know, it's two hours later and you've forgotten to do something important. Like schoolwork. Or writing. Funny how that works.

At least if you lose track of time while you're knitting, you're doing something useful. In the past two weeks, I made a new pair of wristers and most of a cute headband that my mom found a pattern for. I would've finished the headband yesterday, but the book I was listening to, Howl's Moving Castle, ended much too soon. You'd think that by this time, I'd be used to it, that the ending wouldn't make me wish so hard that there was more or that the characters were real and I could visit them because I'm not ready to say goodbye. But I'm not, which is why I spent most of today reading the two sequels to Howl's Moving Castle and wishing very much that Howl and Sophie played a bigger part in the other books. I'm strongly tempted to start listening to the book all over again, unless I find something else to listen to that catches my attention more.

In other news, I wrote myself into a corner and can't seem to find my way out of it. Unless Inspiration shows up and rescues me, or at least gives me a secret passage out of the corner, I'll probably scrap the story and start over with something new. Or maybe I'll just work on my WIPs from last year's Camp NaNoWriMo and NaNoWriMo. That would work too. I just want to write something that's not this particular story and where I have a better idea what I'm doing.

Ok, this blog post is turning into a lot of moping. Time for happier stuff.

• Cress comes out in three day! Three days! I'll have to wait until it comes in at the library before I can read it, but all the same- three days!
• A Draw of Kings also comes out in three days.
• I still need to read Allegiant but I'm kind of scared to. I want to know what's going to happen, but at the same time, I have a feeling it's going to be something heartbreaking. And it's easier to just listen to Howl's Moving Castle, which isn't very sad at all. Actually, it's quite funny and I defy anyone to read or listen to it and not be in a good mood by the time they're done.
• Owl City music can be sad, like 'Lonely Lullaby' (which I'm listening to now), but I love it anyway. Though I generally prefer the happy songs, like 'Hot Air Balloon'.
• There's a short story contest on at my library. I need to pick something to enter. For once, I have plenty of options! (Thank you, TPS Summer Creative Writing class!)
• I love playing Ticket to Ride, but if you and your friends are playing it while your parents are having Bible Study, you really need to start it before snack time. Otherwise, you end up having to stop halfway through so that people can go home and go to bed.
• I love this song:

Well, that's all for today. Thanks for reading!
-Sarah (Leilani Sunblade)  

The Pen and the Sword

Suilaid, mellyn nin!* How is everyone today? Hopefully you're all doing well.

I've got a new-ish poem to post! (It's not new new, but it's new to you. Or most of you.) I wrote this for the Summer Creative Writing class I took this year. It was my final assignment and probably one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy it as well!
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The Pen and the Sword

For the life of a novel, the battle was fought
Between our good Writer and foul Writer’s Block.
It started when Writer’s Block swooped in one day,
Captured the novel, and carried it away.
When the Writer discovered what had occurred,
He knew that his story could not go unheard.
So, armed with his pen, the Writer set out
To find Writer’s Block and challenge him to a bout!
The villain was soon found and the challenge was given,
Writer’s Block laughed. “Have you a wish to stop living?
I am the slayer of stories, the terror of tales,
And the bane of all writers- surely you’ll fail.
But if you wish to attempt it, I’ll gladly comply,
And so on the same day, you and your novel will die.”
So he stepped out of his fortress and drew his dark blade-
Still bloody from all of the tales he had slain.
The Writer looked at the sword and then at his pen,
And prayed for a miracle right there and then.
The trumpet-call sounded for the fight to begin
And Writer’s Block charged, as if with one blow to win.
The Writer dodged, leaping aside,
Then again! And again! At this Writer’s Block cried,
“Stand and fight like a man, you cowardly cur!
You’re even more of a pansy than I thought you were.”
But the Writer kept dodging each stroke, stab, and strike,
In unending dread of losing his life.
But finally he found himself trapped by his foe,
With nowhere to run, nowhere to go.
Writer’s Block laughed and raised his blade.
“Now ‘tis time to add to the writers I’ve slain!”
It seemed that the Writer’s fate was now sealed
As down came Writer’s Block’s sword, the deathblow to deal.
But suddenly the villain found his stroke stopped,
Much to the surprise of both Writer and Block.
The pen of the Writer, which was still in his grasp,
Miraculously transformed until, at last,
It became not a pen but a sword, shining bright,
That blocked the deathblow and saved the Writer’s life!
For the first time that night, the Writer saw fear and surprise
Replace the anger and cruelty in Writer’s Block’s eyes.
Emboldened by the miracle that had just taken place,
The Writer swung his new sword and his foe dodged away.
And now, at last, the true battle began
And the swords clashed together again and again.
Back and forth the two fought, shadow against light,
Cliché against creative, all through the night.
At last Writer’s Block fell, his dark blade shattered-
Alive, to be sure, but much bruised and battered.
He lay there, defeated, waiting for the sword to come down.
But then he looked up- what was this now?
In his hand the Writer held not a sword but a pen.
He knelt by Writer’s Block and began to write then:
“For the life of a novel, the battle was fought
Between our good Writer and foul Writer’s Block . . .”
And so Writer’s Block died, not by the sword,
But by what’s mightier still, the pen and the word.

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I do feel the need to say one thing before I end this post. This poem wouldn't have happened without Jake of Teenage Writer (and also of the Underground, which is where I met him). His Personification Challenge back in 2011 inspired me to write stories and poems in which Writer's Block is personified. I highly doubt he'll see this, but if he does, thank you, Jake.

Thanks, everyone, for stopping by! 

Garo arad vaer!**

 -Sarah (Leilani Sunblade)

*Greetings, my friends!

**Have a good day!

Worth It

Once upon a time, there was a writer named Sarah. One day, Sarah was trying to write a short story for the summer writing class she was taking, but she had such terrible writer's block that she couldn't think of a single story to write. In desperation, she started writing about her writer's block, and behold, a story was born after all.
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Worth It

            It’s 9:57 P.M. on July fifteenth. I’m sitting at my desk, staring at a blank page in my notebook with a pencil in my hand and no ideas left in my head. Normally, I’d be thinking about going to bed right about now. Unfortunately, Camp NaNoWriMo is halfway over, I’m three days behind on my word count, and I’ve barely written three pages today.

            I have to admit that writer’s block has me feeling as trapped as my characters. That’s saying something, since one of those characters is in a heavily guarded dungeon, has lost his last ally, and is in so much pain that he’s wondering why he isn’t dead right now. I’d like to blame his situation on my characters, but no, this time it’s completely my fault. I can’t deny that. I also can’t deny that his situation is about half the reason for my writer’s block.

            I sigh and drop my pencil. I flip back through the last ten pages in my notebook, looking for inspiration and instead finding several spelling and grammar mistakes and nearly falling down a plot hole. I linger for a moment over the plot hole, hoping that fixing it will make my character’s situation slightly less impossible. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes it worse. So, I leave the hole as it is and flip back to my blank page.

            I start to pick up my pencil, but stop. The page glares up at me, and I glance at the clock. 10:12. I’ve just spent fifteen minutes getting nowhere. Then again, I’ve spent all day getting nowhere, so what’s another fifteen minutes?

            Returning my attention to the notebook, I pick up my pencil and start to jot down a sentence. I stop halfway through and grab my eraser. My character feeling sorry for himself won’t do the situation any good, though I suppose it might boost my word count by a few hundred words or so. More importantly, I’m dismayed enough as it is without my character having a pity party.

            Despite my best efforts with my eraser, I can’t get all the pencil marks off the page. The faint lines of the deleted words seem to taunt me. I can’t even come up with a single sentence I like. In the page margin, I calculate exactly how many words behind I am. I should be at twenty-five thousand, five hundred words. I have just over nineteen thousand, nine hundred, which means I’m behind by a solid five thousand. With a mostly stifled moan, I drop my pencil again. Maybe this isn’t worth it.

            I flip through the last ten pages again and find more mistakes, more places I should’ve worded something differently, more places a character should’ve said this and not that, and another plot hole. I consider the synopsis of my book. When I first came up with the idea for the plot, I’d been so excited. Now, however, I can’t help but consider how similar it is to other books I’ve read. I slump in my seat. Let’s face it. My story is lousy. I should just give up now. The idea seems rather attractive, in an “I-just-don’t-care-anymore” way. So what if I won’t complete this Camp NaNoWriMo? You can’t win everything. Maybe it’s time to admit defeat for once.

            I close my notebook, not bothering to put a bookmark in it like I usually do. I start to stand and walk over to my bed, but stop before I can climb in. I think again about my character. He wants to give up. He has a lot more reason to want to give up than I do. But I wouldn’t let him give up. I never let any of my characters give up, at least not for long. So what right do I have to give up on them? 

            Slowly, I turn around and walk back to my desk. Instead of sitting down in my chair and opening my notebook again, I kneel on the floor and pull open one of my drawers containing my finished notebooks. One by one, I lift them out: seven black composition notebooks and two spiral-bound notebook. I consider what it took to fill these notebooks. Hours of brainstorming. Hours of trying to find just the right words. Hours of trying to figure out how in the world to get my characters out of the messes I’ve put them in. Hours of not giving up, even when I’m stumped and my characters refuse to cooperate with anything I want them to do.

            I look up at the bookshelf across the room. Rows of novels greet my eyes: paperbacks and hardbacks, classics and contemporary novels, fantasies and nonfiction. All so different, but all with one thing in common: the authors didn’t give up. Come to think of it, neither did the characters in those novels. They kept struggling through, even when things got tough, and because of that, they succeeded. I glance at the notebook sitting on my desk. Even without writer’s block, it’ll be difficult to succeed, to achieve my goal of fifty thousand words by the end of the month. But it won’t be impossible. The only thing that could make it impossible to succeed is if I give up. 

            Is giving up really worth it?

            I smile and place the notebooks back in their drawer. I know the answer to this question: it isn’t. And so I won’t give up. I’ll keep working, keep trying to write, and keep trying to figure out how in the world I can get my character out of the predicament he’s in. At least now I think I know how to give him a little hope to keep trying. 

            I stand. Pull out my desk chair and sit down. And then I reopen my notebook, pick up my pencil, and start writing. 

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Note: the introduction is true. The story is not, though it is based on my life. I hope you enjoyed it!