While I have all manner of exciting life updates I can’t wait to fill you in on, I’ve decided to save them for another time. Today, I want to direct your attention to a fascinating comment I received on my latest art post:
And by golly, is that a challenge? Because I’m taking it as one.
(Thank you, Sam Kowal, for providing the inspiration for this blog post. Your comment resulted in me rummaging through my extraneous notebooks and computer files for two hours as I hunted down all the strange, unconnected things I’ve ever written.)
Keep in mind, these have nothing to do with my WIP. They are entirely random trains of thought I had that sounded so good in the moment I decided to write them down. Some of them are from books I plan to write one day, and I jotted down a paragraph or two out of sheer impatience. Some of them belong to vague story ideas I can’t even remember the premise of. Some of them are simply… weird.
Without further ado, I present…
Twiller now leaped down from his lofty perch with a cry that was meant to be savage, but sounded more like a tortured chicken.
This is one of those kooky descriptive phrases that pops into your head when you’re inordinately tired and sounds like a WONDERFUL idea until you read it when you’re not tired and experience an all-encompassing feeling of… just…
“There are days when all your hopes and dreams give a tremendous, flying leap, and you think maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally reach a cloud.” She sighed, fiddling with a discarded scrap of leather. “And then…”
He made a muffled sort of snuffling sound that was supposed to be a sympathetic sigh, but doubled as a confession of how monstrously unequipped he was to handle this line of conversation. “Thud?”
She slumped face first onto the wooden counter, squashing her nose flat. “Thud.”
FYI, this is an accurate model of every conversation Anna and I have ever had. She has emotions. I don’t. She wants to share them for me. I am uncomfortable.
Lilac Bertrand swung her legs idly in the midsummer heat and watched a pearly white satellite swallow the sun.
May or may not be referring to the dream this came from. May or may not be a cross between historical fiction and dystopia.
May or may not be extremely confusing.
Tonight, he sees blood.
Yesterday Aro’s frightened eyes haunted his subconscious, and the day before that, his subjects’ — no, his victims’ — starving sobs. But tonight, blood spills over the tea-cup of his mind. Blood in his mouth and blood coating his eyes. Blood dripping into his ears and deafening him to everything but the beating of a heart that would be better off silent.
Not because of the blood. But because a beating heart means he’s still alive. And he is terrified of being alive.
Running footsteps separate the truth of his dream from the falsehood of his waking existence. The blood drains away, replaced by silk sheets and trembling hands. His heart still beats — madly, wildly — hammering against the inside of his chest as he lies tangled in his bed, gasping and shaking and acting like an utter child.
The door opens.
No, the door is ripped off its hinges by the crazed beast on the other side.
“Those are hard to replace, you know,” he chokes out, fixing his eyes on the ceiling and willing his lungs to cooperate.
Joeb — for only Joeb could tear down an entire door in one jerk — doesn’t reply. His footsteps pound across the room, taking him to the window. Then back again. He peers into the hall, looking for assassins, trying to do his job.
He thinks is master screams because of assassins.
He doesn’t know the half of it.
*blinks* Well then.
I promise there’s a story behind this. I don’t randomly write emotional trauma for the sake of writing emotional trauma.
“I’m not qualified to be a big brother. I’m not even qualified to be the wacky uncle who’s allowed to babysit despite having zero skills at childcare!”
This is like one of those sarcastic writing prompts you see on Pinterest, except it’s mine and has even less meaning than they do.
“What is she?” he asked, awestruck.
“Why, she’s a pixie, stupid. And do stop gaping — you look like a fish.”
Let’s give it up for Mary Poppins somehow working her way into my unfinished snippets.
“What would you do if you weren’t a prince?”
“Why should I waste mental energy thinking about that? I was a prince, I am a prince, I always will be a prince. Speculating on what if’s is pointless; I’d rather think about what am’s. What am I going to do? Etcetera.”
“Alright,” she prompted, “what are you going to do?”
He sighed, and in that moment, ceased to be a boy at all — or a prince, or even a human being. Instead, he looked more like a misplaced piece of household furniture; A ridiculously ornate armchair shut away in the pantry, or a china cup lost among the frying pans. Running a hand forlornly through his hair, he sighed. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
As a general rule, princes (and princesses) are overrated, but this guy isn’t so bad.
“I’d like to announce that I officially have no clue what I’m doing.”
“You’re a spy! Of course you know what you’re doing!”
“Your statement is erroneous in multiple points. Firstly, I’m an agent, not a spy. There’s a difference. And second, what makes you think we know what we’re doing? Most of us just wander around and hope we don’t get shot.”
“…you are the most incompetent government employee I’ve ever met.”
“Clearly you haven’t met very many.”
97% inspired by the Mrs. Pollifax books and 12% inspired by the sloths in Zootopia.
“You know, if it we weren’t destined to destroy each other, we might have been friends.”
“Perhaps… perhaps we already are.”
*annoyingly sappy music plays in the background* *everyone dies of feelings* *Sarah gags*
Why is this in my notebook??
“W-what are y-you?” Hucklebum stammered.
The creature gave a long sniff. “I’m a Snicket, you fool. You must be prodigiously stupid to not know it — you’ll notice that I am not asking what you are.”
Yes, I named a character “Hucklebum.”
No, I am not proud.
Please don’t ask what a Snicket is.
“Are you going to kill me?”
She sighed and let her gun clatter to the floor. “Oh, it’s no use now. I don’t blame them for firing me; how can I be an assassin when I fall in love with every person I’m supposed to get rid of?”
For the record, I despise romance.
“I think it would be grand to be extraordinary,” she said, and like most girls, she truly meant it. But also like most girls, she hadn’t thought through what being extraordinary would entail. Along with the adventures, heroes, dragons, villains, and other such magical circumstances, nothing extraordinary ever comes without first having crushed dreams and a broken heart pave the way.
If she had known this, she would not have been so eager for the fantastic. If she had known this, she might not have dreamed her dreams at all.
Probably my favorite thing I’ve ever written, and it doesn’t even belong to a story. Someone, find me a story to put this in. I rather like it.
So there you have it, folks! The weird inner workings of my writing. This craft is quite conducive to melodrama, I must say.
What are some of the random, bizarre snippets you’ve written down? How’s Camp Nano going for you? If tomatoes are really a fruit, does that mean ketchup is jelly?
Food for thought, guys.