Stone Memorials

Stone Memorials
by Rachel Lamine

Christian’s eyes lingered on the line of bricks, rising like a half-healed scar from the pavement of the street. It was always a surprise, that thin, twisting line. I had stumbled across it once, walking from the S-Bahn at Potsdamerplatz to where the U-Bahn station dropped beneath the surface.

I had crossed over and not seen before, distracted by the red cranes that crisscrossed above my head in a canopy of steel. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had seen the footage, Potsdamerplatz a barren wasteland, so alien to the jungle of metal and lights that lived today.

I knew how he felt, the impact of the snake-like track on the mind, all that remained of the wall that once smothered half the city.

But that was Berlin.

“So,” he said finally, in a need to break the silence.

A car honked, and we both jerked. We skittered across the street, away from Pariserplatz like dry leaves in the wind, caught in the act of imagining. Neither of us spoke as we moved, the figure of the angel Goldelse watching from the top of her tower. We dodged a group of American tourists paying homage to the graven face of Reagan in the sidewalk, his command a thundering force rumbling across the years: “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”

The echoes of hammers and raw humanity hung in the air.

We halted in front of the Soviet war memorial, the somber soldier lifting his head above the tanks, one arm pushed toward the ground where his comrades had slaughtered, raped, and died.

An image of my German grandmother flashed in my mind, sitting beside me on the couch, her hair impeccably curled as always, a pearl necklace smooth against the crags of her neck.

“Mom, tell Cassie about the war. She’ll find it interesting.” It was more of a command than a suggestion. I could see in her eyes her desire to be loved, to be noticed, and so she spoke in halting tones about how they had nothing, not even a real family. The bombs exploded in the depths of her eyes, an old, old horror clawing against her guarded words.

Her silhouette wavered in the light of the window, a single tear that only I cared to see sliding down her cheek.

“I’m cold,” Christian said.

“You want to get something to eat? I know a good place for döner kebabs on Wilhelmstrasse.”

He nodded, his hands in his pockets to ward off the chill.

The winter air wrapped around us, our boots heavy on the uneven cobblestone walk, as we tread back past Reagan and the reptilian bricks, back into the pulsing mass of tourists with their cameras and their silly pictures with Mario and Luigi and the German-American and German-Russian actor soldiers in front of the Brandenburger Tor. We didn’t turn to look at it, the majestic, symmetrical arch that reached for the limit of the world, bearing Nike and her four horses—victory in all her glory.

Wilhelmstrasse was empty after the energy that consumed Pariserplatz. A few Berlin Polizisten hunkered on the blocked off area of Wilhelmstrasse in front of the British embassy. I had seen many like them on May Day, hundreds of police fat with padding and shaped by shields, their heads sheathed in bulb-like helmets in case the party in Kreuzberg erupted in a surge of primal frenzy. Trash had littered the streets for days afterward, something so un-German I would have been ashamed if my mother had seen.

“One thing before we eat,” I said. We turned the corner, off Wilhelmstrasse, toward the place where the gray stones rose and fell.

“What’s this?” Christian said when he saw it, and I knew the gentle slope of the stones played tricks on the eye, a strange checkerboard of patterns carved out of the city.

“It’s the Jewish Holocaust Memorial.”

The stones grew with proximity, dark, rectangular wedges erupting from the square, waiting in seemingly uniform rows like a dappled specter. The first of the stones reached to my knee, and as we peered down the furrows I knew Christian could see the undulations of the paths as they slipped down, down, down toward the center—a chaos wrought of order.

We descended in slow, deliberate steps, the stones rising to my waist, my neck, and stretching up and up and up over my head.

The flat monoliths beat with a primal, annihilating terror.

A stray pulse of laughter echoed through the paths, ghost-like, distant. At the crossways, I caught the glimpse of a child in red—full, solid, alive—then gone, disappeared back into the bowels of the henge. We were hemmed in—trapped, bewildered, terrified—bowed under the disintegrating horror of what had come to pass.

We emerged from the other side gasping for breath.

 “How do you do it?” Christian rasped, his voice like stone.

A man in a fat winter jacket turned his camera toward himself and stuck out his tongue. The shutter snapped and the woman in white sneakers and sweat pants beside him said loudly: “I wish we’d stayed back at the hotel.” 

“Do what?” I asked.

“How do you live here and not go mad from the weight of it all?”

I looked at him then, his lips pressed together, his face a sickening shade of gray, like the soldier, like the uneven, nauseating stones of the memorial.

“Because I have to,” I said. “Because this is Berlin, but this is not Berlin at all.”

Later, on the S-Bahn, we sat on one of the green swathed benches of the car as we slid beneath the city streets. On the bustling platform of the Potsdamerplatz stop, I could almost see the ghostly smear of an East Berlin guard waiting in the dark, a prisoner of his own prison.

An old man and his grandson pushed on to the train at Anhalter Bahnhof. Christian and I stood to let them sit, and the old man gave us a tired smile as the tri-tone sounded to signal the closing doors. The little boy bounced in his seat, a yellow scarf wound around his mouth and nose. He climbed on his knees to look out the window, vibrating with wide-eyed energy.

“Opa, why can’t I see anything?” he asked, pressing his fingers against the gloom.

“Because we’re not out of the dark yet.” The old man folded his gloves over his cane, his milky eyes seeming to sing in the damp light of the car. “But we soon will be.”

Christian and I watched the little boy press his nose against the glass as the train rumbled and lurched, and then, roaring, shot out under the gently waking stars.

Flock of Flamingos

If the title of this post didn't catch your eye, I don't know what would. If I saw a link to a blog called "Flock of Flamingos," I'd click on it without hesitation. So do it.

My friend Annamarie Mickey is a fellow English major and an amazing writer and artist. If you're looking for a good book or movie, her blog is the perfect place to go. She has an in depth review of the Hunger Games, as well as Brave, some Anime and a few others. She's been doing this longer than I have, so her blog is much more developed and well focused.

If you're not interested in reviews, she is also working on a fantasy webcomic called Everdusk, which I highly, highly recommend.

So check out both her blog and her webcomic. She's a pretty awesome person.

The Bear in the Snow (short story)

I wrote this last week as an assignment for my Fantasy Literature class. I figured I might as well post it here and see if it gets any viewers. Maybe, maybe not. Feel free to comment and leave constructive criticism below.

The Bear in the Snow

By Rachel Lamine

Mist gathered across the lake, hovering in thick sheets as if the water had turned to milk. It was said that my ancestors had first beheld the lake as I saw it now, and named it Hvítvatn, White Lake.

            A bitter wind pierced my cheeks, and I drew the seal-fur lined cloak more closely around my body. Something moved by the water below. I paused, squinting into the predawn haze. A shaggy bear, so white I had almost missed it amid the water and mist, plodded lazily along the shore. Frost crunched beneath my boots as I leaned forward. I had never seen a white bear in my life—they never wandered this far south, and certainly not at this time of year.

            I held my breath, enchanted by the majesty of the lone figure as it lumbered, unconscious of my presence, along the stony beach. Traders from the north told strange tales of the white bears that ruled the unpopulated ice sheets, and even stranger tales of the ghostly white wolves that raged in the snow encrusted trees.

            An icy wind whipped around my skirts and caught at my hood. The bear stopped its wallowing gait, lifted its black nose, and turned its head toward me.

I froze in the weight of its heady gaze. Even across the distance, I could see that there was an intelligence brimming in its eyes. I took an uneasy step backward, unable to tear my eyes from the bear’s. A strange, unearthly vibration shuddered through my body. After what felt like an eternity, the bear looked away, and trundled off into the trees.

Stunned, I stood for a few moments at the top of the hill, feeling as if I had been knocked in the chest with the flat of an axe. Then I was running, retracing my steps down the hill toward my father’s hall, the enormous wooden longhouse erupting imperiously from the hill by the lake. Hallgeir had to know what I had seen, and he had to know before Thorbrand found out.

~  *  ~

 “You saw a white bear?” Hallgeir asked skeptically. My brother’s eyebrows receded into his hairline in disbelief. “Elína, are you sure about that?”

He cast an impatient glance to the front of the hall where our father was seating himself at the head table. The sickly man reached for his drinking horn, which my cousin Thorbrand put willingly against his palm. Hallgeir’s jaw tightened. Since the skirmish with Eyvind Raven-Beak that had left our two eldest brothers dead and our father a ghost of his former self, there had been no definite consensus as to who would become Jarl when my father passed. If it hadn’t been for Thorbrand, as the returning warriors told it, our father might never have returned alive and White Lake would have been lost. There was a great faction that doubted Hallgeir’s ability to rule, and entirely trusted Thorbrand.

“I’m sure,” I insisted, ignoring the black look one of the women cast in our direction. “It was down by the lake at dawn. It looked at me more intelligently than I thought a bear could.”

“Mmm,” Hallgeir murmured noncommittally. His eyes narrowed as Thorbrand leaned in close to hear something our father said. Hallgeir shook his head and distractedly rubbed his hand along the thick, rope-like scar that patterned his right arm. “What was that?”

“The white bear,” I repeated, annoyed. “You know the tales. If you see a white bear, the white wolves are never far behind.”

Hallgeir turned his full attention to me now, his mouth drawn in a perplexed frown. “You’re making that up,” he decided dismissively, “no one has seen a white wolf in a hundred years, let alone a white bear.”

Our eyes strayed to the ornately carved chair at the head of the hall. Its high back was draped with a magnificent, snowy fur that almost seemed to glow in the enclosed space. A massive, snarling head was mounted on the back of the chair, its glazed eyes watching over the hall as it had for the hundred years since our father’s father, Sigmund Wolf-Slayer, had returned from the north, a hero.

 “You might start looking, you know,” I pressed, “before Thorbrand gets word and tries the same thing. It would prove your right to be Jarl.”

Hallgeir opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was lost in the commotion by the door.  “They have been seen!” someone shouted. Two young retainers marched down the length of the hall, and dropped to their knees before my father’s table. A few of the children jostled forward to get a better look.

“What has been seen?” Thorbrand asked when my father only lifted a trembling hand toward the young men.

“The white wolves. The ghostly host of the north!”

I glanced at Hallgeir. Our eyes met, and his hardened with a fierce determination. Hallgeir, I knew, must go on the hunt. And I, who had seen the white bear, knew I had to go with him.

~  *  ~

“Oh, no.” Hallgeir groaned when I approached him in the breeches and tunic I had snagged from beneath his sleeping bench in the hall, “you are not coming with me.”

“Yes, I am,” I insisted, touching the knife secured in the belt at my waist.

“I can’t protect you on this quest,” Hallgeir asserted firmly. “I need to move quickly and silently, and I am leaving immediately. Thorbrand may already have left. No time for you to saddle a horse.” He slung his bow across his back and swung onto his mount.

Panic, warm and sour, rose in the back of my throat. I needed to go with him. Something had changed when the bear’s eyes met mine. In that moment by the lake I had been sure that I was being called forth to something more, to some unknown quest. Now I was sure that this was it.

A small crowd had gathered to see my brother off, their faces shining with a hope that he would not fail them. “May you remain safe on your journey, Hallgeir Thorsteinson,” an old retainer of our father’s said, his voice full of emotion, “and return to us to claim your rightful place.”

“Thank you.” Hallgeir gave a slow nod. “I am grateful to you all. Take care of Elína while I am gone.”

Ignoring my pleading cries, my brother kneed his horse into a canter and the hunting party disappeared around a bend in the road. A lump rose in my throat, and I perched on the wooden fence by the horse barn as the crowd dispersed, peering into the shadowy forest.

It could be weeks before I saw them again, maybe months. I wondered how long it would be before they had to sell their mounts and journey into the north on foot. The wolves would never come near such noisy beasts.

“That gods-forsaken boy will never do it,” a low voice sneered behind me. I clenched my teeth and slid off the fence. Thorunn, Thorbrand’s youngest sister, stood with her arms crossed over her broad chest, her mouth tipped in a scornful grin.

“Be quiet, Thorunn,” I sighed wearily.

The larger girl straightened hostilely. “Your weak-skinned brother will never be Jarl, not against Thorbrand. Not after his great display of valor against Raven-Beak. Your brother has never done anything remotely heroic in his life. He doesn’t deserve the title. He doesn’t have the strength to rule as Thorbrand does.”

“He might not have the strength of Thorbrand,” I snapped, “but he is ten times the man your brother will ever be. I’ve heard stories of what Thorbrand did in Raven-Beak’s land.”

“War demands cruelty,” Thorunn hissed. “He did nothing the others did not.”

“Disemboweling babies and hanging them by their entrails for their mothers to watch is not what war demands!” I exploded. “I have seen him cut open a living dog just for the fun of seeing it in pain. Is that the kind of man you want ruling in my brother’s stead?”

“I don’t want to hear another word!” Thorunn shrieked. “Get out of here right now or I will wring your neck, you filthy witch!”

I didn’t wait to see what she would do. I took off for the trees.

The dark blues of the evergreens blended with the white-gray of winter-stripped trees as I ran, vaulting over fallen branches, my boots padding on the soft needles that carpeted the earth. I slowed to a walk, panting as the cold air seared down my throat. The trees I had known my entire life whirled around me in a strange, ethereal dance, their crackling fingers reaching as if to grab me. I grunted in frustration, pushing a stray hair out of my eyes.

Something moved in the bracken, and I froze as a massive white bulk materialized among the tree trunks. The bear from the lake plodded into my path and paused, its black nose twitching as it bowed its ancient eyes toward me. My tongue turned to stone.

“Your brother rides north, young one, and you do not.” I didn’t even blink when it spoke, a voice of infinite wisdom that made its way inside my head and echoed through my whole being. It was the most natural thing in the world that this bear claimed intelligence.

I nodded numbly. My leaden tongue stumbled over the words, “He rides north in search of the white wolves. To slay one and wear its skin would win him his rightful title to our father’s lands. No one would dispute his claim.”

“So I know,” it said, and I noticed its massive paws, equipped with claws the length of my forearm. The whiteness of its coat turned all other colors in the wood to ash. “I have come because you must be with him. I am Ásbjörn, a king of the north, and a herder of the wolves. You must come with me and play your part in what is to happen between your brother and your cousin.”

“But what is to happen?” I asked, excitement fluttering in my stomach.

The bear’s shoulders slumped in what I thought must be a sigh. “I do not know the answer to that question. I simply know that you must be there. You must help your brother. Will you come?”

Would I come? I stared at the magnificent animal before me, from its long, black claws to the razor-like teeth, and wondered that I did not feel afraid. Slowly, reverently, I nodded.

“Then climb on my back,” it said.

I moved gingerly toward the great animal, and lay a hand against its side. My hand sunk deep into its thick coat, coarse, but warm and comforting. I gripped its fur firmly between my fingers, and then I was on its back, burying into the warmth of its broad, powerful body. A breathless exhilaration swept across my frame as the bear climbed to its feet and said, “hold on.”

The trees rushed past in a dark shadow as the bear loped faster and faster, and the sky became larger and brighter until all I could see were the stars, millions and millions of pinpricks of light twinkling into infinity. For a moment, all was still, and it was as if I had ceased moving and become part of the song of the stars. Another moment, and the earth returned, and the wind rushed past my ears again. I could see entire lands stretching beneath me; armies moving, clashing, and returning, cities falling, people laughing, singing, eating, a child praying. The eerie greens and blues of the lights that sometimes dappled the night burst with brilliance, more vibrant and beautiful than I had imagined possible. The world became smaller still, and I could see the trees again, and the sun was no longer whirling in a blur of light, but a single, solid object stretching overhead. We were in a land of white, and the trees were white with snow, dipping crazily as if they would snap in half.

I raised myself from where I had been clinging to the bear’s neck, my limbs oddly heavy. White extended as far as the eye could see as I slid quietly off the bear’s back, my mind still subdued by the incredible journey. It had lasted only moments, but also a lifetime. I took my hands from the bear’s coat and shivered, the deep cold scraping through my body.

“I’m sorry,” the bear murmured. “I forgot how cold you would be.” He leaned forward and breathed his warm breath across my face. A delightful heat spread through my body, and I knew that if I began to run I would never have to stop.

“Thank you,” I whispered, laying my hand gratefully against the bear’s splendid coat.

“Look there,” the bear nudged my shoulder with its nose, “my wolves come.”

I heard them before I saw them, long, winsome wails tearing across the sky in a joyous cacophony. The snow on the trees trembled and tumbled to the fallen snow beneath, white drifting into white, tearing rambling marks in the pristine purity. I watched in wonder as the host emerged from the trees, a great colorless river, whiter than the snow, heads thrown back as they ran. They tumbled over and beyond each other, their paws only brushing the snow beneath them.

A figure emerged from the trees, black against the absolute white of the snow. It raised its bow, a brown feathered arrow cocked against the string. I cried out as the shaft surged through the cold air and lodged in the neck of one of the wolves. The ghostly, joyful howl turned to a yelp of terror as the creature fell, its body sinking into the snow. Another arrow tore into its side, and I felt a stab of deep sadness as the creature yelped again.

The wolves screamed and scattered, terrified by the black form and the fall of their brother.

My own brother lowered his bow and trudged grimly toward the motionless wolf, his knife drawn. He looked haggard and far too thin, as if he had aged since I had seen him only that morning—but it couldn’t have been that morning anymore, I realized numbly. More time had passed for Hallgeir than it had for me.

The wolf whined piteously, its cry rending the crisp air.

“Can’t you help it?” I pleaded with the bear. “You’re supposed to be the caretaker of these wolves.”

The bear said nothing, only watched the fallen wolf as my brother approached, his knife drawn.

Another figure appeared from the trees behind Hallgeir, a long, flat dagger glinting heinously in the brightness of the snow. In an instant, I recognized Thorbrand’s hulking figure, though he too was only a wraith of the strong warrior he had once been. A furious heat surged through my body, and I screamed, “Hallgeir, watch out!”

My brother’s head snapped up and he turned as Thorbrand lunged. The knife scraped along his back, cleaving through cloth and skin so that the knife came away red, appalling against the colorlessness of the snow.

I ran, my feet carrying me across the snow as if I were one of the ghostly wolves. Hallgeir had come so far. He had tracked and brought down the white wolf on his own. I could not allow Thorbrand to use his cowardly tricks to take what was my brother’s by right.

The two men grappled in the snow, Hallgeir’s blood staining the whiteness a vulgar, garish red as their black forms clashed and pushed apart and clashed again. Thorbrand threw himself at Hallgeir and smashed my brother violently into the ground. He growled, almost bear-like, beating at Hallgeir’s face with his gloved hands. Hallgeir shrieked in outrage and shoved the larger man away, scrabbling for his knife in the snow. The white wolf still whimpered helplessly, its pitiful moans whistling with the icy wind.

I reached the struggling pair as Thorbrand found Hallgeir’s knife. I screamed, and he faltered in surprise. Hallgeir was on his feet, and scrabbled to place himself between Thorbrand and I. Thorbrand hurtled toward me, his knife raised, a snarl of absolute hatred twisting his face.

Something awoke within me. As if a gate had opened, a surge of white, like the snow, like the ghostly wolves, like the bear’s coat, rushed through me, and I felt as if I were in the stars again, part of their divine singing, part of a world greater than myself. I was more than myself, and I was filled with myself too. A flash lit up the sky, whiter than the snow, the wolves, the bear, and I closed my eyes at its brilliance. My entire body was burning, was on fire, and the greatness of it was painful and terrible and too beautiful to fathom.

Then it was gone, and the snow seemed like a sheet of obsidian, dark in comparison with the brightness.

Thorbrand lay in the snow, babbling in terror, clawing at his eyes as if to tear them out. Hallgeir stood beside his adversary, looking at me as if he had seen a draugr.

“What happened?” I asked breathlessly, and collapsed into the snow.

Thorbrand’s eyes rolled crazily as he scrambled to his feet. His face shone with a look of such absolute terror that for the first time in my life, I felt sorry for him.

“Go away,” he babbled, “I have seen it and I can’t get away. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone!”

“Thorbrand,” I said wearily, hoping to calm him, but he only shrunk back in terror. His eyes rolled back into his head, and for a moment, I thought he had fainted.

Then a voice, more powerful and full of command than I had ever heard before, boomed across the snow. “Thorbrand Thorsteinson, you have followed this path of hatred for too long. Leave this place. Get out.”

Thorbrand scrambled to his feet and shouted, “I will not, I cannot. Why won’t it go away? I cannot get it out of my head. Why can’t I get it out of my head?” and with that chorus he stumbled as fast as he could back into the forest. It was a long time before the sound of his mad ravings ceased.

I closed my eyes, exhaustion wrapping my body in a haze. A final whimper from the fallen wolf brought me back to the world of ice and snow. Hallgeir was on his hands and knees beside the regal creature, a look of infinite sadness etched into his tired face. I rose and moved to kneel beside him, my hand resting gently against his shoulder.

He looked up at me, eyes full of wonder and relief. “It is done,” he said softly, the gentleness of his voice like a salve after the wretched screams of Thorbrand.

“It is done,” I echoed.

I turned my head to where the bear had been waiting with me as we watched the beauty of the wolves flowing from the trees, like water over a weary land. It stood, almost invisible against the snow covered trees, only the black of its nose and its ancient, sad eyes giving it away. It nodded at me once, as if to echo our litany, and melted back into the whiteness.

The tingling warmth of the bear’s breath still glowed in my limbs, and I looked down at my hands. They were shining faintly. The white light that had blinded me, and driven Thorbrand to madness—I had felt it when I traveled with the bear, when I had lived among the stars. It had been in the breath of the bear what warmed me, but it had been in the wolves and the snow too. It had fluttered in the mists of White Lake the morning I had first seen the bear, and before that too, rushing in the air, breathing warmth and goodness into the darkened landscape. I clenched my fingers in wonder and watched the glow fade away, but the warmth still remained.

Hallgeir laid his bleeding hand reverently against the matted fur of the wolf, then stood to his feet, and lifted the body over his shoulder. The once bright eyes were now dark and vacant, but as I looked, I thought I saw a wisp of remaining light flicker out of its body and rise into the frigid air.

I strode proudly beside my brother, the rightful heir of White Lake, bearing his stained burden, as we made our way home through the luminous whiteness back to the shadowy hills. The glow of warmth swelled inside me, and I remembered those hopeful faces, waiting and trusting for our return.

I still need a title

I should probably set a goal for this blog. 

And a topic.

And while I'm at it, I might even go all out and come up with a title. (If anyone has suggestions, feel free to post them below).

So far, this blog is essentially about writing. Which isn't bad in itself, it's just not. . . catchy. I want to draw readers in. I want to have a niche in which I can be a self-proclaimed expert. Thus far, I've got nothing.

Well, not nothing precisely, but no true direction (I refrained from writing One Direction for the sake of my sanity--again, darn you imgfav). And without a set goal, I have no drive to continue this blog.

I love writing, but I write for non-school related projects as sporadically and rarely as it is to find a shiny Pokemon in Pokemon Sapphire. . .When I do write, I go at it with a passion, but once the piece I am working on is complete, I abandon writing anything else to bask in self-perceived glory. I have finished a piece of writing. Look at me being so productive. I believe I shall lavish myself with a well deserved break. 

A year later I might decide to finally sit down and write something again.

Basically, my problem boils down to the fact that I am a lazy college student of the technology age who believes I am entitled to luxury and rest. I am complacent to laziness. Which I hate myself for half the time, but it's a rut I can't seem to get out of. (Again, this is the exact same complex I have with imgfav).

Thus, trapped in complacency, I ramble on through life.

So, I think I am going to try and post a post every other Friday. That way I can teach myself discipline. Right? 

We'll go with that.

I am a Writer and therefore a Blogger

This morning I attended a seminar on creative careers hosted by Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh. Since I was 8-years-old, I have always dreamed of becoming a Published Author, and now that I 'm twenty, I know that gaining such an Illustrious Title will not be as simple as I used to think. I, along with everyone and their mother, have had a novel or 12 cooking for most of my life, and while I'm always constantly working toward that most Resplendent Goal, I know I'm not going to get there overnight.

At the seminar, most of the speakers gave tips that I probably definitely pretty much knew, but it was the reiteration of these tips that started the rusty cogs in my mind grating against each other again. Here's a few things I relearned, as well as the reasons I decided to start this blog.

1. Write every day - I knew this. I really did. The point of being a writer is to write, and the only way to get better at writing is also to write, so, therefore, I should write. I knew this in my brain, but my brain was always giving me excuses such as "I have too much homework" or "I need to hang out with friends" or "ALL THE TUMBLR FEELS". Those aren't necessarily valid excuses. I MIGHT have too much homework some days, but the free time I do have when the homework is done I spend on the aforementioned Tumblr, or, even worse, Imgfav, basically the worst website ever. I have time to write. I just need to sit down and do it. I need to Hone My Craft and the like so that I might get noticed by a Real Publisher and become a completely for real Published Author.

2. Do not give up - A few weeks ago I had a severe crisis of inadequacy after watching a required documentary on Charles Dickens for class. After watching the documentary, I closed my computer with a snap and wailed to my electrical engineer roommate, "I'm never going to be a good writer because I'm not like Charles Dickens!" She gave me a confused look and I suddenly realized I was comparing myself to Charles Dickens, one of the greatest writers of all time. . .of course I felt inadequate. BUT, the point is that you may have some rough spots in your writing career, but that is no reason to give up entirely. One of the panelists at the conference said "The difference between a writer and a published writer is that the published writer did not give up." These are words with which I heartily agree and just might have to write on a sticky note and post on my wall somewhere. Possibly right up next to my Green Bay Packers poster.

3. Market yourself - Admittedly, this was probably the one I had never considered. At all. I simply knew that I wanted to be a writer, but had no idea how to get there. I figured it would happen, because I wanted it to. But things in life don't happen like that. Almost ever. Especially in the world of writing. So get your name out there. Try getting short fiction published. Network. Work with friends who critique your writing, etc. Don't sit there like you don't really care, thinking that "one day I'll be discovered." No truly great writer was ever discovered that way, and if they were, they were already dead, so it didn't matter to them anyway. Which brings me to my final point, which is kind of the point of this entire post and the reason for this blog.

4. BLOGGING - Honestly, I knew people did this thing called blogging, but I simply never had an interest in it. I had always defined myself as a Writer of Fantasy and Fiction, and had no interest in "factual writing". The more I thought about it, however, the more I realized that blogging is a way to Hone your Craft, and much more legitimate than I had realized. People have even been offered book deals through the discovery of their blogs, and what writer wouldn't want that? There is a creativity to "factual writing" as well that goes beyond the typical college paper. But even in a blog, I don't have to tell only facts. You would have no way of knowing if I am a 20-year-old college student as I say or not. I could be the hybrid Alligator-Penguin King of the North for all you know.  The fact is, I can publish whatever I want on this blog, from short story pieces to more life based reflections like this one. I could publish lists of "Ar" words, characters I've created, or my favorite Pokemon. I could write poetry, book and movie reviews. I could write about anything I wanted. This blog holds a host of brilliant though as-of-yet unexpressed thoughts waiting to be unleashed on the unsuspecting internet!

At some point during the seminar I was sitting in my chair, my feet freezing in my black business pumps, listening to a panelist talk about being a writer. As I listened, my mind was transported back to fourth grade, when I was ten-years-old, and I told my teacher that my dream was to become an author or editor when I grew up. I was struck by a deep, joyful sensation, a sort of pride that here I was, ten-years-later, seriously working to attain my dream. I don't know if any of the other kids in my class attained their dreams, or even if they kept hold of the same hopes as I have, but I know that my entire life has been leading me to this point. I am a writer in my soul, but it is up to me to work and make something of it.

And so there you have it. This is the reason I'm starting this blog. Because I am a writer and I will not give up.