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The Boy Who Went in Search of Fear

The Boy Who Went in Search of Fear

Once upon a time there lived a Mother and son in a fine but tiny house on small farm.  One night, during a terrible storm, the mother told her son to go and draw closed all of the shutters.

“But why, Mother?” the boy asked.

“Without your father near,” she said, for her husband had passed two years before, “I am afraid of the lightning and thunder.”

“What is fear?” the boy asked.

“If you do not know I cannot tell you,” Mother replied.  “It is a sinking feeling of dread.  No, it’s a sudden shock of…oh fiddle!  It can be so many things !  I don’t think I can describe it!”

“If you can’t describe it, perhaps it isn’t real,” the boy said.

“I assure you, fear is very real,” she said.

They talked for some time, but still the boy could not grasp what she meant by ‘fear.’

When he awoke in the morning he was still obsessed with the subject, and so at length he decided he would go on a quest to find fear.  He began by going to where one of the farmhands was repairing the cow fence.

“Hey Jack,” the boy said to the farmhand, “I want to know where I can find fear.  Have you any ideas?”

“Start by spending a night in the graveyard.  Surely there you’ll find fear,” the farmhand replied sarcastically.  He felt certain the boy would not be brave enough to try it.

But the boy was indeed brave enough.  He decided to go on a quest to find fear, starting in the graveyard.  He would not return home until he found fear.  He packed a bag of food and water and headed toward the cemetery.  At dusk he arrived, and there amid the headstones he built a small fire and settled in for the night.  The sun went down and stars came out.  But the sounds that would have scared most boys nigh unto death – the rattling of tree branches, the fluttering of leaves, and the howls of wolves in the woods nearby — never gave him a fright.

About midnight, as he was going off to sleep, one of the sepulchers opened and out stepped a walking corpse!  The corpse shuffled up to the boy ominously and stood there moaning and staring.

“You must be cold,” the boy said cheerfully, adding a few sticks to the fire.  “Pray you poor soul, have a seat and warm your tired bones.”

The corpse sat down and kept the boy company all night.  The boy was unafraid, and together they talked of many things ancient and modern, sacred and wise. In the morning the boy expected the corpse to rise and return to its rest; but to his surprise, as soon as the first ray of morning sun struck it, the corpse transformed into a young raven and flew away.

“How curious!” the boy exclaimed.  He pulled a snack from his bag, rose, and moved on in search of Fear.  His day wandering on the road was largely uneventful until the sun had set.  Walking along the dark and lonely road, he saw a glow in the distance. 

“Fire!” the boy cried and ran in that direction as fast as he could.

Soon he came upon a house that was engulfed in flames.  Not a soul was in sight, but in the second story window he saw the silhouette of a maiden and heard a piteous cry.

Completely without fear, the boy ran into the front door and bounded up the steps two-at-a-time, dodging flames as he went.  Following the cries of the maiden, he avoided the flames and reached the bedroom where she was trapped.  He leapt over the flames blocking the door, scooped up the terrified girl, and out ran with her, oblivious to the heat, flames, and smoke.  Out the front door into the yard he ran.  There he stood her on the grass and looked her up and down.  She was a beautiful thin girl with hair of platinum.

“You seem none the worse for wear,” the boy said.  “Are you alright?”

“Perfect, thanks to you, although the house is beyond saving,” she said.  “Not even you could save it.  Thank you ever so much.”

“All in a day’s work,” the boy said.  “See here, you must be thirsty.  Let me fetch you some water.”

The boy went to the well, drew up a bucket of water and grabbed the ladle from its hook beneath the cupola.  He returned with the water and the two drank their fill.  By the glow of the fire they kept company all night long.  And when they grew tired, the girl with the platinum hair put her head upon his lap and fell fast asleep.  Although he had not found Fear, the boy thought he might be about to find something else that he had never felt before, for the girl was very beautiful indeed.

When morning came the boy urged her to awake.  Her eyes opened and she smiled sweetly.  But before she could speak, the first ray of morning sun fell upon her and she transformed into a full-grown raven, flew away, and was gone.

“No!” the boy exclaimed, sad to see her go.  But there was nothing he could do.  Feeling dejected, he produced a snack from his bag, rose, and resumed his search for fear. 

His day upon the cold and lonely road passed without remark.  At length the road ran along the cliffs by the sea.  As he walked he listened to the waves pounding the shore below and watched the iron clouds bang to-and-fro.  Just about dark a storm came up.  Lightning flashed and thunder rolled, but the boy overcome, not with fear but with  admiration for the majesty of the scene.  He stopped and looked out at the raging breakers, and there he saw a ship running a-ground in the surf. 

Without hesitation, the boy jumped from the cliff and fell a hundred feet down, his body as straight and as strong as a mighty nail, and plunged into the water without a splash.  Rising to the surface, he swam out to the ship.  As he bobbed about in the turbulent water below, the seamen on the slanted deck above pointed and yelled in the direction of the maidenhead at the fore of the ship, but the boy could not make out their words over the cracking of the ship’s hull on the rocks and clamor of the tempest.   Still, he swam in the direction they were pointing.

When he reached the bow, he saw a danger even more immediate than the rocks — a horrible tentacled monster threatening to slay the sailors as soon as they dove into the water! The boy grabbed a tentacle and swam unflaggingly for shore, dragging the shrieking beast with him.  At one point the beast encircled his entire body, but the boy did not flinch; he bit the animal until it released him and swam on.  At length he hauled it far up onto the rocky shore.  Out of the water the beast was crippled, and there it flopped and hissed, spasmed and shrieked.  The boy left it there and swam back to the boat.  One-by-one, he helped the sailors back to shore while their ship broke up amid the storm.

The sailors were overjoyed and offered to take up a collection to reward the boy, but he would not take the coins in their pockets.  Together they all took shelter among the caves beside the water and shared company through the night as the storm abated.

Just before sunrise, the boy and the sailors went back to the beach to look at the monster in the light of day.  But as soon as the first ray of sun struck the slimy beast, it was transformed into a large raven that took flight and soared off into the distance.

“Curious indeed!” the boy cried.  After chatting with the sailors for a bit, and telling them which way they should walk down the beach to find the nearest port, the boy bid them goodbye and began to make his way further down the beach in search of a way back up to the seaside road.  At dusk the sandy beach gave out and he came to a cliff so sheer and so high that he could not see its top.  The boy looked up into the darkening heights and said, “Surely if I was to scale this dangerous cliff in the dark, I would know fear.” 

As the sun fell he began his climb.  He whistled a tune as he made his way up, in good spirits despite taking great care when climbing the chalky stone that threatened to crumble beneath his hands.  Unafraid of the stiff wind that made him stick close to the cliff face or be blown to his doom, and utterly immune to any fear of the dizzying heights, he looked out in wonder at the incredible view.  The moon shone over the dark, pounding surf which echoed up to him like distant thunder.  Thin clouds, blowing like silver gauze across the dark blue heavens, glowed when they crossed the path of the moon.  He was sure it was the most incredible sight he had ever seen.  He sensed something then that seemed very close to what his mother described as fear, but soon realized that it was not fear, but its first cousin: awe. 

About midnight he came upon a nest as large as a pig pen piled high with twigs and limbs.  Beginning to grow cold, the boy entered the nest and looked about.  In its center sat a large grey egg as big as a gallon jug!  He went over to the egg, placed his hand upon it, and found it warm.  Although the high sides of the nest broke the wind, the egg was in danger of freezing without its mother there to sit upon it.

His stomach grumbled for want of food, for his bag of food had been lost in the dive to save the sailors.  This egg would make a hearty and welcome meal, he thought, and the nest provided ample kindling for a cooking fire!  But he could not do such a thing to a magnificent egg such as this.  Without another thought, and with no fear or worry that its angry mother might return in the middle of the night, the boy sat down and put the orb in his lap.  There he spent the night, sharing his warmth with the egg.

In the morning he was delighted to see the sun come up and he turned his face toward it.  Looking up he saw that he was only a short climb from the top of the cliff.  “You’ll be warm enough soon,” he said to the egg.  “Here come the first rays!”  And as soon as the first ray of the sun crept over the high rim of the nest and fell upon the egg its shell gave way.  Out of the egg came a massive raven, fully feathered and ready to take flight, that swiftly flew away into the rising sun.

“Even curiouser than the last!” the boy cried aloud.

He finished the last of the climb in a trice and made it to the road.  As he walked along the boy became convinced that he would never find fear.  Certain that he must be some kind of freak, and resolved to the impossibility of the quest, his face grew hot with shame at the thought of giving up.  But why go on?  He thought it best to head home and comfort his dear mother who must be very worried.

He took a shortcut through the woods, and about sundown he entered the square of the town.  All the residents were crowded there, and the town’s elders were addressing the great assembly.

“The King has died leaving no heirs,” the eldest of the elders declared.  “Being at an impasse, we have decided to set free this young raven.  Whomsoever the raven shall alight upon will be named King.”  So saying, the elders released the raven, which wheeled and circled over the crowd.  To the boy’s surprise the little raven landed on his shoulder.  All the eyes of the town fell upon him.

Gripped by a strange and unknown feeling, afraid for the first time, the boy cried out, “No, I am not qualified!” He thought the young raven looked familiar, but he could not be sure.  “And besides, a king must be prepared to die for his country!”

“You must!” the elders insisted, but the boy would not accept.  After some argument, some of elders thought it best to choose a king from one of the rich merchants of the city.  But eventually they simply decided to try again.  They released a second, full-grown raven which again circled over the crowd.  To the boy’s surprise, the second raven also landed on his shoulder.  All the eyes of the town fell upon him as he realized that this was the raven that once been the platinum-haired girl.

“No, I am not qualified,” the boy proclaimed, now afraid for the second time.  “And besides,” he said, thinking of the platinum-haired girl, “a King marries only for allegiances, never for love.”

“You must!” the elders insisted.  But after some argument, some of them wanting to pick a worthy knight for the job, they decided to try again instead.  They released a third, even larger raven which circled ominously over the crowd.

To the boy’s surprise, the large raven, which he recognized straight away as the one that had risen from the corpse of the sea monster, landed on his shoulder.  Again all the eyes of the town fell upon him.

“No, I am not qualified,” the boy declared, afraid for the third time.  “To be King is to be responsible for the safety of everyone in the kingdom!”

“You must!” the elders insisted.  But after a great argument, some the elders thinking it best to choose one of their own number as king, they agreed to try again by releasing a fourth, and even more massive raven, which wheeled and circled over the crowd.

To the boy’s surprise the huge raven, which he was certain was the one that emerged from the egg on the cliffside, circled above him clearly seeking him out.  The boy extended his arm and the huge raven lighted upon it as if it was a falconer’s hunting bird. Now all the eyes of the town fell upon him and there was a great tumult.

“No, I beg of you, I am not qualified,” the boy proclaimed, now afraid for the fourth time.  “To be king is put the wants and needs of others ahead of your own.”

Suddenly the boy’s mother appeared from the crowd.

“But you must!” she cried.  “I can see the fear upon your face my beloved son.  Having found your only fear you are qualified — more qualified than any other!

With great reluctance boy accepted the title and the crown, and he reigned in peace for many good years until his death – which he faced completely without fear.

Bradbury Challenge: Weeks 7, 8, and 9

If you’re new to the idea of the Bradbury Challenge, here’s my inaugural post.

I promised myself I’d finish The Vase of Melampus by the end of Week 6, but the thing grew into what looks like almost a novella.  The challenge is to write a story a week, not to not to come up with ideas for novellas and get bogged down.  Melampus was way too big of a concept, so I decided to come back to it later and left it about half done.

Week 7:  I wrote a story called Soup, a quirky little piece that takes the form of a fake newspaper article about the POTUS going off the rails.

Week 8:  This was a super week.  I wrote Rebirth of a Salesman, which may actually be the best short story I’ve ever written.  Love this story, and I plan on entering it in the Zoetrope contest this weekend.

Week 9:  This week I bombed.  Although my writing output is solid, I put all my effort into working on the upcoming calisthenics book and editing the novel.  I did however submit a story to the Paperbook Collective and I made the next issue.  By all means check out the blog and online mag.  There’s some great stuff going on over there (and Jayde is an aspiring ‘zinester, which gives her additional cool points).

Next week: back on the horse.

Bradbury Challenge Weeks 4, 5, and 6

The Bradbury Challenge that I set up for myself was basically to write a story a week.  Week #3 i started The Vase of Melampus.  That turned out to be a really long story, and I spent week #4 working on it.  Week #5 I went to Kill Devil Hills, NC for a week of vacation.  Now it’s Week #6 and I’m going to wrap up The Vase of Melampus and start a new story.

This is a great challenge.  It’s everything Bradbury said it was cracked up to be.  Not only does it require discipline, it requires creativity and imagination galore — in fact I have absolutely no idea what the next story is going to be about.  I got nothin’.  I guess I’ll have to cruise over to Terribleminds and get some inspiration.  Chuck’s always got a challenge going over there.

 

New Writing Gig for Me — and for You (Submissions Wanted)

h_360_picI’m now a contributor to the Hulltown360 Literary Journal‘s blog entitled Writer’s Lunch.  You’ll see me posting about writing over there.  Check it out!

If you’re a writer and you want to get published (ePublished that is) by all means submit something to Hulltown360.  Please note that I’m not an editor.  No begging and pleading with me for inclusion in the next issue — just dodge over there and submit.  The editors will contact you through submittable.

Hulltown360 has been around for several years, and if they’re going to make it another two or twenty, they need you to submit your stuff.  So do it.  It’s a win-win (how very 90s of me, but oh how true).

Update: “The 14th Mansion”

Writing Progress 130528I was supposed to be done with the next book — “The 14th Mansion” — by 5/15 and I’m not.  I let things interfere, and that was dumb and regrettable.

But I’m not looking back.  New goal is to be done by July 4th.  About 25,000 words left, give or take, then the editing part comes.

Sorry guys, release date is probably going to be September/October instead of July.

Writing Progress Report (and some perspective)

I’m a little behind the plan on the new novel, but after some extra writing time Friday night, I’m starting to catch up.  The 14th Mansion — which features characters from both of my previous novels by the way — should come in around 80,000 words.  Which means I’m more that a quarter of the way through in just 30 days.

I also entered a short story called Ms. Ishmael’s Box in a contest over at Litreactor.  So far the story has a 100% positive rating.  The prize?  A chance to get feedback from lots of great writers (including Chuck Palahniuk).

Speaking of Palahniuk, here’s a quote from the movie Fight Club which was based on his novel of the same name.  It leads nicely into what I want to talk about next:

“This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”

One of the things that has made writing for more fun and easy is my perspective.  Since putting my books up on Smashwords last year and really taking the plunge, I’ve used my martial arts training and knowledge of the occult to turn my perspective inside-out.

When I was younger, becoming a successful author seemed like an impossible task and an unattainable goal.  But now I see that if you want to be a writer, you just be a writer.  This applies to whatever a person wants to do or achieve.  I redefined the phrase ‘successful author.’  A successful author approaches the craft of writing with sincerity and writes stuff that people enjoy reading — no more and no less.

Defining success in terms of money is a trap.  Money is not lived.  Life is lived, and it is fleeting; it wants to be spent in the practice of whatever craft that beckons you.  This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.

Whatever it is you want to be, I suggest you become it today.

Writing Progress on The14th Mansion

Writing Progress on The14th Mansion

200 Downloads — What Does That Mean?

Another milestone reached today: my books have been downloaded 200 times.  But what does that mean?  After all, it’s not like I’m on the New York Times Best Seller List or anything.

After years of collecting rejection letters from publishers, dreaming of someday being a published author, fantasizing about what the life of a novelist might be like, and wondering if my books could change lives and maybe even make the world a better place, I decided to stop talking and start chalking.

In October of 2012 I came to a realization and put two novels up on Smashwords.  As a martial artist who knows that living in the moment is a prime ingredient of physical survival and spiritual well-being, I’m still shocked I didn’t see it sooner.  What I realized last year is that being a writer isn’t a destination but a state of being.

If you want to be a writer, be a writer.

What does 200 downloads mean?  It means that, since the definition of a writer is someone who writes stuff that other people actually read, I’m no longer merely a fantasizer, wonderer, or dreamer.

I’m a writer.

The Tarot of Character Development

image

Every writer has tricks and odd habits, idiosyncrasies and methods for starting a novel. Some outline like crazy, some not at all. Some like to base characters on figures from myth and fairytale. And so forth.

My favorite tool is the Tarot.

I start with an idea, a general plot, theme, and feeling that I want the reader to experience when the last page is turned.  I create a list of major characters and their relationships.  Then I get out the cards.  The deck in the picture is the one I bought with my allowance as a teenager in the ’70s, the only deck I’ve ever used.

I complete a reading for each major character using the Celtic Cross format. This process tells me where they’ve been, where they’re going, what’s vexing them, and so on.  I read as though I’m reading for a real person, and try to bring all my intuitive skills to bear.

Once that’s done, I revise the plot, theme, and message to incorporate all of the great detail gained from the Tarot process. At this point the characters take on a definite ‘life.’  The Tarot readings have a profound effect on the process, often taking the original story idea in a different direction than I had previously  envisioned.

I then clearly conceptualize the end of the book, the climax, the point at which everything comes to a head.  Starting at the end, I work backwards to create a detailed chapter-by-chapter outline, layering in the events, character interactions, and sub-climaxes so that they build toward the climax.

Next to each chapter in the outline I estimate how many pages it will take to relate the material.  I then add up the numbers and make sure I have enough to make a novel.

Once that’s done, I start writing at the beginning, at page 1.

Call me crazy, but I don’t think my methods are that unusual.  After all, the Tarot have been used for centuries to help unravel the personal stories of living people.  Why not fictional ones?

As Promised, Big Changes

After many half-hearted attempts since exiting college thirty years ago, I have resolved to make real go of it as a writer.  Here’s where I am as of today:

  1. Two of my novels are out being professionally formatted and prepared for upload on Smashwords.  Planned release is 9/30/12.
  2. I will be tabling at Richmond Zinefest on October 6th to sell my goods, network, and hopefully talk some people into becoming fans of my stuff.  The plan is to begin making regular public appearances on a monthly basis — attending local events, hosting workshops, and so forth.
  3. I have a request from a major magazine to write a martial arts article.  Photos have been taken I should have that done and to the feature editor shortly.  Since the request was “on spec,” there’s no way of knowing if it’ll ever see print.  Keeping my fingers crossed.
  4. I have decided to take ownership of the really great occult-oriented material I’ve been writing under my alter-ego Modred since 2007.  If you’re interested that kind of thing, or if you’re just curious, read this post.  As a result you’ll see some new links and a new category across the top of the blog.
  5. I created a really retro business card based on my grandfather’s business card.  I’ve put them up here side-by-side so you can compare and reflect because, well, I think it’s a pretty cool idea.

Stay tuned.

My new business card, circa 2012

F. J. Mitchell’s business card from the 1930’s

Writing Productivity

Realization time:  as a writer I’ve been trying to pick my own path up the mountain without learning from those who’ve gone before.

In a very Tim-Ferriss-like manner, I analyzed what I’ve been doing and found it lacking any kind of real plan.  If you’re going to climb Everest, you should know how the other guys did it, and also what killed the guys who failed.  So I started asking myself some questions, and for answers I decided to use James Patterson and Stephen King as a baseline (not because I idolize them, although I really dig King, just because they were the first two who came to mind and there’s a ton of info available about them online).

How long is the average best seller?  James Patterson averages 100,000 words, Stephen King 125,000.  My books seem to fall into the 60,000 word range, making them far too short.  The sweet spot for best-sellers seems to be in the 80,000 – 125,000 word range.

How often does a successful writer publish a new book?  In the last three years James Patterson (with the help of his famous/infamous team of assistants) has churned out over 30 novels.  Stephen King has released 6.  I’ve produced 3.

How many query letters does the average writer put in the mail each week?  I couldn’t get any reliable figures on this, but I’m fairly sure neither Patterson nor King sends query letters anymore.  Publishers call them.  I sent 5 last year.  By any measure, that’s way too few.

Anybody can run a marathon, a mile a day spread over a month.  A champion marathoner runs it in under two hours and fifteen minutes.  Anybody can write a book a year, muck around trying to sell it, and mope when nothing sells.  A master of his craft writes well, writes consistently, and actively hawks his wares.

So each week I’ve resolved to write 6,250 words and to mail at least one query letter — that’s 5 times the production and 10 times the sales effort.  And I will be coming up with stories that take a little longer to tell.

Everest, here I come.