When people think of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), the first thing that comes to their minds is typically war, or more specifically, the traumatized soldiers who return from war, jumping at the slightest sharp noise. Rarely do people think of children when they hear the term.
Stephen King is one of my favorite authors because he writes about the characters instead of the story. The story just happens to the characters. In this video, Stephen King gives a few pointers.
If writing guides your passions, then Stephen King’s book, On Writing, will provide you with excellent tips.
|On Writing, by Stephen King|
I read On Writing, and I feel that it helped me quite a bit. I posted links if you are interested. Sometimes hearing from someone successful can provide us with a little motivation. Which author motivates you to write? Let me know in the comments below.
My wife suggested I write about my post-publishing nervousness. Between Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, LibraryThing, and this bloody blog (heh, I like the way that sounds), I’ve been working very hard to get the word out about “Assassin Marked.”
To be honest, I have no idea how to explain my nervousness. It could be the persistent itch to get more of my stories out there. Then again, it could be the fear of not doing well; the nagging question, “Will people like it?” One of my biggest fears at the moment is receiving a terrible review on Amazon.
But enough about that. I really don’t want to write about my nervousness. Rather, I would like to write about my progress. I spent a bit of time today revising some of the fiction piece I’m working on. It’s requiring that I studying the effects of post traumatic stress disorder in children, and the psychological effects of a parent losing his family. A little teaser there.
I’ve also been hard at work composing a more thorough historical time line for Damian’s world in “Assassin Marked.” Not for publication really, just notes for myself to help me remain consistent in my story. But I have many little stories springing up revolving around Damian, or the world Damian lives in.
My six-year-old daughter, on the other hand, decided that her pony needed a haircut for the weekend.
Yesterday afternoon, I sat down to write something on this blog. I admit, I’m terrible at keeping it up.
This morning, I complained as such to a coworker. He responded, “When I can’t think of anything to write, I like to think up some old memories.” He then proceeded to tell me a story from when he was a teenager, and after which, I shared my own story:
One cold November night, my family was driving through Texas, somewhere in the flat expanses on the west side of the state.
I sat in the front seat next to my father, and my brother and sister were in the back seat. We had just left New Mexico and were on our way back home to Brownwood, Texas.
My father and I were “discussing” religion. Being a staunch Catholic, my father was of the belief that only humans have souls. I, on the other hand, had a taste for something different. The tiring dogma of organized religion left a nasty film in the back of my throat.
The argument centered around the belief of what had souls and what didn’t. I argued that animals indeed had souls and he adamantly denied such a thing. At the time, I believed that in order to exist in a physical realm a spiritual counterpart must also exist, and I stubbornly insisted this was correct.
Off in the distance on this icy night, a bridge quickly loomed into sight, but we were too engrossed in our argument to notice the watch for ice sign.
“Actually,” I said, obstinately, just like any know-it-all teen might, “Even rocks must have souls.”
At this point, my father was furious. Such things were sacrilege, and could lead one straight to Hell. “Rocks . . .” he said angrily, punctuating each word, “Do . . . Not . . . Have . . . Souls!”
Immediately after “Souls!”, our vehicle passed over the bridge and directly onto a patch of ice. The car started sliding sideways. My father over corrected, and we skidded sideways in the other direction. We fishtailed several times before finally crashing gently into the side rails of the bridge.
We were all wide eyed and breathing heavy. My father asked if everyone was alright, checking on each of us individually. When the shock of the crash faded away and my father backed up and continued down the road, I turned to him and said, “See? Sacrilege. You pissed off the spirits.”
My father just ignored me after that, but the memory of that incident will stick with me for the rest of my life.
If you have any stories you would like to share, please feel free to do so in the comments below!
Many writers will share that real life experiences inspire the tales they tell. Many, myself included, scoff (or have scoffed) at such a statement; telling themselves, “My life isn’t nearly so interesting.” What I have learned, however, is that this is rarely the case. Experiences take place daily, and though they may be mundane to you, they won’t be after “enhancing” them.
Just the other day, I took a trip to the local library to find the second book to the Septimus Heap series. I, of course, found Angie Sage’s books fairly quickly, and although they had many of her books, the one I wanted was not on the shelf. Naturally, I asked the librarians to see if it was checked out. It wasn’t.
However, the librarians were interesting characters, and a version of this scene has already inserted into my next story with Damian. I have changed many of the details and spiced it up a bit, but the entire scene is inspired by this short interaction.