I’ve been bad. I see that now. Sometimes it’s just so hard to keep up with regular posts, especially with so little to say. We all know that burden, I’m sure. Even worse is the fact that it has translated into my writing. I’ve not had a good idea stick in months. I’ve passed through four or five different stories with no luck. This is the price of creativity, I think. We treat our muse to riches and splendor, and for a time, the relationship is good and strong. Then the income stymies, and suddenly you find that little escapes the blockade in your mind beyond a thin stream of stagnant water. I see mutant fish in these waters, I see upturned nuclear waste barrels and their green, candescent contents flowing like veins through ungodly, alien limbs. I see beautiful things, and horrendous things, every time I close my eyes. Yet nothing resonates in a way that makes me think ‘YES! I want to tell that story.’
I’m pondering a vampire story at the moment, and this, this is dangerous territory. With the market so richly saturated in questionable vampire fiction, turning those dreaded, horrifying creatures of our youth into morally ambiguous, misunderstood and troubled tweens, one can not help but dream of bringing the genre back to the wonders of stories such as Interview With A Vampire, and Dracula. This is my hope, this is what I would like to accomplish, only in a fantasy setting, where the Sun’s Song taunts and torments the undead, the unliving, the undying, whatever you would call them. This idea is the one that resonates with me, yet I can’t fight the suspicion that to engage a vampire novel would ultimately be a futile endeavour.
Should I not proceed anyway? Should I not simply venture forth, write what the hell I want to write, simply for the joy of writing? Yes! That’s exactly what I should do. I think, perhaps, this pallor I find myself imbued with, this caste of stress and frustration is hindering my creativity as much as anything else. We should never approach a story with the sole desire to write something that sells. It’s not a healthy approach, not in my view, at any rate.
So this is where I am at the moment. I’m debating the merits of a number of stories, set in worlds that require some building, and this takes time. I sometimes miss the tone of my earlier posts, in which I embarked upon a journey for the very first time. I had some interest from readers who enjoyed being included in that journey, and whilst I did finish that story, amassing a grand total of 800 pages and 200k words, I find myself doubting its quality to such a degree that entertaining any sign of merit within it, is simply just not possible at this point. I find myself conflicted, I find myself no longer on a journey, but paused, regarding the skeletal, birdshit-ridden remains of criminals and the innocent left to rot in gibbets showing no more sign of care than the calcified remains of their inhabitants. This is what I find myself staring at, and whilst this at least is a vision of a fantasy world, watching the dead continue to rot, the birds feasting on lingering tissue, flies buzzing through a stench of decay and wasted hope, simply does not inspire confidence.
What I need is to peer down each road, towards the horizon, towards blue skies or grey, towards a horizon bloodied with a new dawn, find something to stick my claws into, get onto my big, black Killart warhorse and venture forth into unknown territory, safe in the knowledge that cresting the hill will grant me a sight unlike anything I have seen before. This is what I hope for, and so, with one tremulous footstep, I embark upon another journey, hoping to find the company of good and stout companions along the way.