One of every human being’s most deep-seated needs is to form a personal identity that defines who he or she is.
In my series, The Seven Words, the demon, Sigmund, blocks young Prince Rayne’s memories. Why? So he can implant false memories and warp Rayne’s character—his identity. Rayne’s perception of himself—as seen through the deceptive lens of Sigmund’s corrupted identity—would taint Rayne, making him unable to become the One’s Light Bringer and fulfil the prophecy that promises Sigmund’s failure.
But Rayne’s identity is already secure in the One. He has planted an ember of hope within the young boy, giving him the strength to defy Sigmund. Eventually, Rayne recovers his old memories and, with the One’s help, realizes his true identity as a child of the One.
There are two kinds of writers: writers who overuse the thesaurus and writers who are afraid of using a thesaurus.
There are actually three types of writers, with the third type being the writer who actually knows the proper way to use the thesaurus, but those writers don’t need my advice today, so I’m pretending they don’t exist (even though I have slowly become one of those writers, but only with a great deal of practice.)
I was once afraid of the thesaurus. Somehow, I thought I should have all the words in the universe in my head already.
It’s happening again. I’m starting to hate what I love — that which provides an escape for me from the depression and the anxiety. It happened once before, about six years ago when the love of photography was beat of me not by others but by myself.
I immersed myself in photography — learning every facet about it, taking my camera everywhere, trying to build it into a business. I also learned about Lightroom and Photoshop, the editing software most commonly used by professional photographers. The business failed and I felt like a failure as a result. I also felt extremely rejected after some former friends and family members rejected the notion I could take photographs for a living. I set the camera down for a few months and thought about how something I had once loved was now my deepest source of rejection and self-loathing.
The time is the 1860s in the United States. The west is still wild and there are murmurings of a war between the North and the South. There are still Indian troubles along the trail.
This is the historical period I enjoy writing about. A time when men were men and women had some grit. I write about true history using fictional characters and relationships, and of course, at least one romance along the way.
“You must think of yourself as a businessman as much as an artist.”
I have often heard this statement or variations of it, and here I give my thoughts on why it is misunderstood, and difficult to accept.
There is an image of businessmen (and salesmen) which in many ways is defined as “not an artist at all”, in fact someone who doesn’t appreciate or care about or interact with art or the concept of art in any way. It isn’t part of the definition, and it’s rarely spelled out in so many terms, but if one accepts some exaggeration (like a mental magnifying glass) we can more easily address the issue.