The Dead know the Dark

Tap, tap, tap.

The door sneaked open and Ryddik took a step into the room, his face slack and pale in the moonlight. He looked much like a midnight ghoul, and who can fault him for it? The boy had never seen much o’ death. Ragnar squeezed the last amber of ale from his bottle. least he hasn’t pissed himself.

“Ryddik, come, sit.” He tapped at the opposite chair with the bloodied tooth of his sword.

The lad sat. Eyes big and black as Raven-glass. You could see the fear in them, and the dark work he had been about that night. His father’s ruined corpse and the two bodies of his Blood sworn, guts hanging like glistening snakes bathing in a pool o’ crimson looked back at him. As if what he had done had happened in a dark world. Another world entire, made of death and shadow itself. A right coldness crept up his back and Ragnar looked at his blood stained hands. This world was dark, and he filled it with death.

“King Anghar … dead,” Ryddik whispered. a wet line running down his cheek.

“Aye. And I killed the bastard. His men too.” Ragnar bit the cork from another ale and placed it in the lads trembling hand. A good drink always settled soft nerves. He got up and made for where his father’s head had rolled, plucking the crown from his wet skull. He placed it on the table between them and set to digging out the Kraken heart diamond inlaid into the red gold.

The diamond thudded onto the table, big and hard as a man’s fist. Ryddik gasped, bubbles of ale dribbling down his chin.

“People say you’re craven,” Ragnar said.

“I am.” Ryddik wiped his chin. “The Rabbit they call me, ’cause I’m like to run rather than fight.”

“Know what I think?” Ragnar took his hand genlte like, placed the diamond in it and closed his fingers. “A brave man knows when to fight and when to flee. Only stupid men spill blood when none need spilling.” Ragnar leaned back puffing out his cheeks. “Now, little rabbit. You’re to run far from here, and take my sweet sister with you. You know where she is?”

Ryddik nodded, he placed the diamond into his pouch.

“Good. There’s a ship, wolfeater. you’ve an hour before she leaves, lad. Best run fast.”

Ryddik stood silently. Scared most like. He would do as he was told, that was sure. He loved the King, but Ragnar had caught the same look when his eyes fell on Anisse. She’d be safe.

He made for the door handle. Ragnar grabbed his hand, a touch firmer this time.

“Keep her safe.” He said

“Yes, Prince Ragnar.” Ryddik swung the door open, the wood squealed not wanting to spill the secrets that hid behind it. He took a step. Then another before turning. His mouth worked as if a sour insect had crawled on his tongue. “What’ll happen, to you?”He asked.

Ragnar settled his arse into a chair and finished off the ale he had given the boy. “Trial, first. Hangrin will want us hanged, I reckon’. But I’ll ask for single combat and Murok will bite at the chance.” He grinned. “He’s always been eager that one to stick us with his sword, tell the truth I’ve always favoured his daughter.” He took another glug before setting to cleaning the mess off his steel. The door groaned shut and darkness flooded the room. Best get used to it, eh? He looked at the bodies, thought on how the light had fled their eyes one by one. Quick as a blown candle.

The dead know the dark. Come the ‘morrow, I’ll know it too.

 

Are You Talking To Me?

Nope, I haven’t lost my marbles like De Niro in Taxi Driver. (At least, I hope not.)

But characters – the skull jangling awesome ones who chip at your brain like smurfs with pickaxes – do talk,  a lot.

So listen to them. Let them churn in your mind. Learn their darkest woes, and deepest leather covered desires. You’ll thank them for sharing. (Just maybe not at the time.)

They’re the most important ingredient in your scalding stew of creative juice jelly. For me nothing else matters more than getting to know my own and other writers characters first. I couldn’t give a cartwheeling caribou about plot, background, the big evil bad who’s a baboon spliced with a unicorn, (baboonicorn?) Character comes first.

Because if you have great characters, more often than not you’ll have a great story. They are the first ball of snow rolling  down that mountainside. Everything else will gather steam along with them, give you direction from their internal and external struggles – but most importantly they’ll make readers care about your writing.

Fuck you, fear.

Ah, bollocks.

It’s a strange one, starting a blog about writing. Then staring at a piss-taking white screen for over an hour. Thinking about what to write because Super-Villian ‘youcantwriteforshityoufaker’ shows up.

So yes, bollocks.

It’s the same fear everyone who has ever started a blog or attempted writing creatively has had, I think, and Gandalf’s gonads to that. Fear is a crippler, a demonic soul-monkey who mocks your ideas, steals the tops off your pens, and forces you to watch skateboarding Polar Bears on YouTube rather than cosy up with your muse and write that next chapter, scene, or blog post.

So, fuck you, fear. I may be an amateur writer. I may stand on my very own lonely soap-box in the stomach of the interwebs. But I’m not going to listen to your cackling any more, and no! I do not want to see an Alsatian doing pull-ups.

I’m going to be brave enough to allow the mistakes fear mocks. To take a slab of skull-jelly and chisel away at it until all the juicy purple bits are ripe and tasty.

It’s something we all should do, I think. As creatives we have so many hurdles to jump on our journey, why do we put a massive one in front of us? Its stupid. Like going to retrieve a ball off a roof and putting a Leopard on top of the ladder.

Let’s jump those hurdles. Bring down that snarling kitty with a water gun full of kick ass creativeness. And allow ourselves to fall, or get scratched every once in a while.

Last of all let’s stop fearing ourselves. If we do, we might just end up creating something truly epic.

 

 

*No Leopards where harmed in the creation of this Blog post*