Duke Ellington's smooth rendition of IN THE MOOD is so apt to the way I felt last night. I was in the mood to write, and that's exactly what I did until I took a break to create this blog entry. Now, MAGIC BUS, by The Who serenades me. A few more puffs on my cigar. As I exhale the smoke that swirled inside my lungs seconds ago, a couple of questions occurs to me. Why do I write, and how do I do this thing I call an art form? The answers to those questions intertwine. 

I write because I have a head full of ideas that will drive me insane if I don't let them out. I know. I stole that line from Bob Dylan. Well, the first part anyway. 

Music is one of my muses, probably the one that has been most influential on my work. From my earliest days of running role-playing games, namely D & D, but also Call Of Cthulhu and Paranoia, I created soundtracks for my scenarios. For a while, I ran a version of Paranoia, called Chickenoia, with a few of my friends at local gaming conventions, but that is altogether another story. 

Getting back on track, I listen to a mix of music from pretty much every genre, save for classical, which for the most part never grabbed me. The tone and themes of the songs create a rhythm that guides my word choice and gets infused into the tempo of my stories. After my immediate family and my oldest and truest friend, who befriended me in second grade, music was my first love and joy. Gaming was my second. After my precious wife and daughter, writing is my third devotion.

Now, I combine all my loves to create my masterpiece, the DANCES OF DELIVERANCE SAGA. My wife creates watercolor pictures, which I use for the covers of my stories. My daughter and oldest friend are two of my three editors. My son-in-law has even joined in by doing the digital work necessary for making my covers and is the tech wizard behind this website. Bless the hearts of those closest to me for their support of my endeavor. I couldn't do this without them and will be eternally grateful and indebted to them. 

As for the actual act of writing, I have developed a method for materializing my ideas. First, I sit alone on my porch each night. Daylight is not my thing. I come alive when twilight comes and fade as the first rays of dawn appear. Once situated on my porch, which these days takes some doing with my cane and all, I light up a cigar. After a few puffs, I connect my cellphone to a little speaker via some Jinn named BlueTooth and pick one of my many mixes of music to play. I open a soda, Pepsi, Sprite, or Canada Dry Ginger Ale. I rotate between the three sugary substances. At that point, I'm ready to begin creating my stories. 

I pull one of my black pens from my vest pocket. I don't like pencils. Even as a child, I was never partial to them, which drove my teachers to distraction. Pencils always seemed so temporary to me. I am of the firm belief, if you're going to take the time to write something down, it damned-well better last forever. In that regard, ancient scrolls and texts fascinated me, and still do. Cross-outs and arrows going all over the place on the page never bothered me. 

Yes, I take being a writer literally, and actually write out every word by hand. At the end of the night or the beginning of the next evening, I take what I wrote on my pad of paper and enter it into my computer. Alterations are made as I input my work. Computers are little more than "magical" typewriters to me. Anyway, that's my first round of edits. Editing is the most important part of the writing process.

Folks have suggested my method is too tedious and time-consuming, to which I think, as compared to what? When well-meaning folk offer unwanted advice, it seems best to just nod and smile. I don't know if I could do my craft any other way, nor do I care to try. If something works, don't fix it. I am of the opinion an artist should never, ever, mess with his or her process. Attempting to fix or mess with the process would be begging for trouble, just don't do it. 

It would seem, I've answered both questions. If the answers seem convoluted, they probably are, but so far, that's the best way I've come up with explaining this thing I do. As you've probably already noticed, my mind marches to the beat of a different drummer. My stories would have a wholly different tenor if my mind functioned in any traditional manner. Anyway, to steal a line from a famous football coach, it is what it is. 

That's all folks! There are stogies to be smoked, music to be relished, soda to be imbibed, and yarns to be spun. I hope you enjoyed last night. Indeed, it was a good one. As a famous vampyre once said, Good evening! 

I don't know what it is, but lately, the gears of my mind are clicking like clockwork. Last night, I unloaded one helluva Passing Thought to my Thought Train. I am in The Zone, and my mojo is working overtime! 

Last night I completed more formatting on the first book of my first trilogy, THE SHADE'S TALE. Here is a snippet from Chapter One, Dancing With Madness. Other than my three editors, readers of my Fantasy Blog will be the first to get a gander at the edited version. I hope you enjoy it. Here goes:

A symphony of sights, sounds, smells, and tastes shape the atmosphere, lifting my spirit and arousing my soul. I dance in celebration of those perceptions that are nestled within the haze of my subconscious. I am at peace and at once locked in mortal combat with an unbeatable foe. 

Blades clash to my right. Thunderous artillery bursts to the left. The scent of a thousand red roses remind me love once played a significant role in my life. From the corner of my mind's eye, sloshing noises release a savory aroma. Each perception is a piece of the mosaic that bears witness to the quintessential mating of dark and light. 

I am in the middle of a raging maelstrom. Bayonets bite into my flesh and bone. Death's Hounds bay to the rear of my army. My loyal band of brothers are on the brink of losing faith and retreating from this stained field of honor that has been fertilized with the lives of my fallen knights. 

The sweet smell of my paramour's perfume encircles me. My darling consort lays next to me upon a blood-soaked divan. Her frail fingers hastily attempt to unbutton her handmade blouse. I lust to feel the fleshiness of her bosom one last time before we take our final bow. 

Every sensation inflames the fires of my passion. Within my mind, I am. Not a thing or person fails to recognize and respect every primal desire I possess. Everything is in its proper place, as it should be. Time hangs in the balance and awaits my next command. My visions transport me to a far better space and time where I dominate the landscape. 

Outside my dreams, an energy exudes a presence I do not fully comprehend and cannot describe with any particularity. Cascading thoughts hammer at the sinews that hold my mind in place. Mercurial sensations threaten my tenuous grasp upon reality. Nothing is melodious to the pounding sounds constantly reminding me of my confined condition. 

As I daydream, I pace back and forth within this cage I call home. The miles I tread are countless. I stumble from one wall to another. Each step upon my calloused feet lays the foundation for another layer of hardened skin. Callus numbs me to the deprivations of my sty. 

I have no idea of where I hope to go, for nowhere is where I'm going. My labor will bear no fruit. Escape from this den of mine is not within the cards The Fates have dealt me. For you see, my friends, that is the undeniable truth of the reality into which I have been thrust. 

Movement gives me a sense of purpose to face my dire circumstance with some shred of dignity. An alternative I prefer to stoically eroding away into nothingness under the pressures this crucible places upon my cadaver. I persist, not because I am some mythological hero destined for greatness, but on account that I know of no other way by which to conduct myself. 

A slurry of disorganized perceptions and ruminations batter my mind. Those distractions attempt to litter my imaginary kingdom so intrinsic to my survival. Lines distinguishing reality from imagination are no longer crisp delineations. Every experience and perception melds into a psychedelic kaleidoscope of inputs too numerous and lightning-quick to comprehend with any clarity. This cloud of confusion continuously causes me to question my sanity. 

I am a man alone. From somewhere I hear voices that refer to themselves as Fellow Traveler, Dear Companion, and Darkness. They speak as if they know me. None of them are recognizable. 

Unfamiliar utterances wrench me from the refuge of my imagination. No context exists for me to determine the nature, origination, and validity of the speech that disturbs the sublime drama occurring within the theater of my mind. Mental coercion is a dignitary harm I would remedy in a heartbeat, if I were able. 

Can these noises be echoes of my past, haunting me for misdeeds too numerous to count? Maybe the sounds are the whispers of unseen guards, whose prattles wind their way through the cracks in the walls of this lonely place. Most likely the resonances are nothing more than my mind filling in stray inputs with something recognizable. For all I know, the vibrations I sense are machines whirling on the other side of the space I occupy. For some reason feeding comes to mind, but I do not know why. 

"Dear Companion, why does he persist with such nonsensical exertion and mental masturbation? Why doesn't he do everyone a favor, curl up in a corner, and be done with it all?" 

"I suppose out of sheer stubbornness, Fellow Traveler. He refuses to accept the rediculousness and pointlessness of his existence. The man is having an existential moment." 

"I'll never understand this foolish man. When the mighty plunge from up on high, the wounds are often too great from which to recover." 

"True enough! There can be no redemption for this knave The Divine have cast out of reality." 

"A very astute observation, Dear Companion." 

"Thank you for the attribution, Fellow Traveler." 

"You are most welcome. I always give credit where it is due." 

Who is that? What manner of speech springs from nowhere? It is nigh impossible to believe oneself to be of sound mind in the midst of such inexplicable phenomena. 

Shush. Be still. Fret not my wistful countess and valiant retainers. I need tranquility to make out the words. No use. Your whimsical activity may resume. Those strangers to our homeland ceased their communication. Follow me into the breach!

*****

Well, time to move onto other things. Think dark thoughts and don't let the sun get you down! 

Last night was all about dancing in the moonlight to celebrate all I accomplished last week. Everything came together in a dark crescendo. A victory dance was just what the doctor ordered!

Listening to loud, raucous music has a way of soothing my soul, centering me, and recharging my batteries. Running on empty is not conducive to the flow of creative juices. Music is medicinal for me in that regard. Songs with hard-driving beats that grab me by the balls and don't let go are what energize my soul and keep my Thought Trains thundering across my mind. Who could ask for anything more?

Who did I jam out to? My old favs; The Rolling Stones, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Iced Earth, Bob Dylan, The Moody Blues, Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, James Brown, Guns & Roses, Charlie Daniels, Frank Zappa, The Who, The Kinks, Van Halen(not Van Hagar), Kiss, Rush, The Doors, ZZ Top, Tom Petty, Rob Zombie, Jimi Hendrix(Yes, I hear Jimi), Metallica, The Dropkick Murphys, Lynyrd Skynryrd, AC/DC, Etta James, Muddy Waters, and a few other goodies, I'm sure. It was a good variety. I do enjoy a good mix, after all, variety is the spice of life! 

Here is a snippet from one of my works in progress. It is part of a story about a female assassin: 

Forty or fifty yards from the dune, the air felt crisp like back in my tent. Our breaths hung on the coolness like clothes drying on a line. The sand crunched as if it were packed snow with each step. Starlight glistened off the sand, and shimmered along the air. At least that was what I took the particles floating about to be. For all I knew, I mistook swirling grains of sand to be that. In any event, it was a sight to behold. Normally, I wasn't given to being impressed by such visual stimuli. As a woman, emotions moved me much more than any sights.  

The three men each knelt down on one knee, holding the hilts of their blades. They sunk the tips of their swords into the ground and wept. I thought, "What pussies!"

I empathized with their outburst of emotion. There was something awe-inspiring going on, but I would never let these men see my emotional side. I had been trained not to show that sort of thing because it would be taken as weakness and could place me in a disadvantageous position. 

***** 

Alas, time to call it a night. See you all in the light of the moon at some later point in time. May the shadows prevent The Light from conspiring against you!