Archive for February, 2012

It’s gratifying, really, to land yourself a tiny freelance writing job on the side. Since time immemorial I have wanted to earn money by writing… and experience deadlines.

A deadline is something that resembles a tip of a loaded gun pointed at your temple. Or a ticking timebomb. The deadline is something terrifying for me because I’m a bloody lazyass and it makes me want to curl up in a ball and whimper my days and nights away.

The deadline also forces me to do my best, even if it’s a last-minute best. I still meet the deadline ’cause I am so terrified of being a – quoth Twilight Sparkle – tardy.

It is quite easy for me to fall into the Pit of Desperation once the deadline is nearing its end. All because of me taking everything so seriously.

Instead, I ought to wind down a little bit, sip my favourite coffee, watch the clouds drift in the gray Irish skies and stop taking every single thing, every single moment of my life, every single mistake (be it a writing one or not) so seriously! This is what hinders me the most, to my mind.

This is what hinders my writing, my actions, my positive attitude.

So it’s best to remember that other people are not monsters and will not cut your head off if you don’t meet your deadline once due to personal problems.


What is more, the deadline set by a stranger is more powerful than the deadline you impose on yourself. So you have to give it everything you’ve got. In the end, it really pays off.

Stop worrying, self, and fill your days with reading and writing. It’s the least you can do to make yourself happy.


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Jumping on the Six Sentence Sunday bandwagon. Do I hear a collective sigh or hoorays?

(I think I hear crickets.)

The Blacklands is my main novel. Main meaning: my first baby and the first novel to get published. Main, as in: every other novel/short story idea that has ever sprouted from my brain’s soil is somehow connected to this one. I have been working on The Blacklands for a really long time now. Should have finished the first draft by the end of 2011 but my laziness got in the way and ruined everything. Same old, same old.

I only have myself to blame.

With the arrival of 2012 I decided to put my heart into it. So far it’s working.

Here’s a snippet for you! The Severan Thieves Guild and the protagonist – Anfimeier – at your service:

Burglars and thieves, this collective bunch were, but not back-stabbers, no: they had decency and good manners engraved into their souls, despite being outlaws. No one would dare steal loot from another thief, though, as that would call for an execution, and everyone cherished having two hands.

Not that he would trust any of them to begin with. Guarding another thief’s possessions while they were out on a mission was not a wise thing to do, under any circumstances; the Severan thieves knew better than to put trust in each other.

Cheats, burglars, pick-pockets, looters, swindlers, pirates – all of them.

A family of a sort, Anfimeier thought fondly, locking his hands behind his head and relaxing in the chair.

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The OfThePistol community for original fiction I have recently joined provided its members with a wonderful prompt.

I decided to share my response to said prompt in here. In this particular piece, two OCs from my 2009 NaNovel (an unfinished one, alas!) have been brought to life yet again. Unforseen, that; strangely liberating. Confusing, too. They have been silent for so long, these two, I haven’t the slightest as to why they re-appeared. I’m glad, though.

On with the prompt response, then~!

There is this hissing noise at first; she backs away slowly. The firework makes its way upwards, arrow-like and still hissing, booms overhead and sprays orange-red sparks in all directions. They highlight the night for a short while. Other colourful fountains join in and the sky’s blooming. The sky seems happy.
Emma looks at Henry; as opposed to the sky, the man appears irritated.

“Happy New Year,” she finally says.

“You too,” comes the reply, a strained one. “We should go back,” he almost growls, hands balling into fists.

She merely stares back.

“We have to – ”

“You know, I haven’t celebrated New Year for five years. This year, my brother promised to visit me, make it worthwhile. He’s not here, though, all thanks to you.”

You have to let me linger this time, her gaze tells him.

Henry frowns. Emma knows she went too far. Her brother will never be anywhere again. Unless he is, miraculously, alive; unless she finds him in a different timeline. She turns her back to Henry and observes the fireworks, wishing she hadn’t said anything, wishing she was at home, huddled in her rocking chair, sobbing into her blanket, wishing everything was different.

Now she’s with him.

She blames Henry, constantly, but he never walks away.

I have you, you should be enough.

Henry gulps down whatever alcohol’s left in his bottle, walks up to Emma and they remain there, never rejoicing, never exchanging looks or words, and the time flows by way too fast.

We only have each other.

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