It's NOT Garbage

"Writing through the Garbage"

I HATE this phrase, much though I maintain a very relaxed demeanor when folks use it.  "Oh, the first time I tried to write a story, it was trash.  It was garbage.  It was TERRIBLE.  These judgments are generally presumed to be relative or contrasted with present accomplishments, but there are primarily two major problems with the statement.

The first is that this makes "good" drafts with small flaws automatically equated to garbage, trash, and terrible things.  Having a "thick skin" or developing one in response to the perception that work is always one step from trash is not a very good way of maintaining a healthy outlook.  Between the stress, ego, and self-worth aspects, far better is the concept of word doodles, of experiments, of exercises and play.  A word doodle isn't meant to be high art, but it's certainly not garbage.  Such creations are pretty in their own way and have no need to be either complete or professional. They are not trash.  They are doodles, and masterpieces may come of a single line -- or not.

Sketchbooks and Privacy

Having known a great number of artists, there is a certain vulnerability in revealing old sketchbooks.  There is an ettiquette to the act, a respect for agency that is held above other aspects.  Sixteen sketches that are nearly the same, perhaps of a bird in flight or a particular flower or an abstract repetition of the same geometric shapes, might have deeper meaning to the artist in question or might just be how the mind crafted those lines.  

When an artist shows a sketchbook, be this a collection of poems, a few short stories, perhaps a line of dialogue that they like, they are revealing something that makes them extremely vulnerable.  At the same time, these are sketches.  Doodles.  They will have hints of brilliance without being themselves brilliant.  This in no way degrades the works, but to call them trash is utterly inaccurate.  

As part of this run, I'm sharing another word-doodle.  It's got good lines and scenes, but it's also chock full of lines that do not flow, that do not make the piece high art.

Inspiration and Idea Theft

Word-doodles often have lines, scenes, or ideas that are inspiring, that help the mind flow in a particular direction.  As general advice, artists taking inspiration should follow the same rules as artists in other mediums, like Oil, Watercolor, Ink, or Cloth. Sometimes, trying to type a favorite scene from memory, embellishing as the mind dictates, is FANTASTIC exercise and can lead to great things.  With such exercises, ALWAYS credit the source.  Best wishes and may this word-doodle inspire.

Today's Offering

Today, I'm sharing a Word Doodle exploring ideas for A Vow Unbroken's greater world.  This segment explores how things might go down if the classic power dynamic suddenly reversed. I have dozens of these doodles, none of which are intended to be cannonnical on their own but which have helped to inform the final direction, either through rejection or through later adoption.  My hope is that at least one line inspires.

Empty air is never really empty, at least not in the middle of an ambush.  Well, not quite the middle. The part where the enemy can be seen trundling with their armored wagon some eight meters off is filled with the thoughts and anxieties of the moment.  A tree fell a little to the left and the frustration and hostility that filled the air was all but palpable.

Only one in about eight hunts is successful.  Often, the attacks are called off because our quarry senses something amiss and grows overly cautious.  Sometimes, they simply repel us. Those are bad days. Rarely, they manage to simply run away with their goods.  Had our

A thrush pecked at the rocks beside the trail, utterly unperturbed by the twenty gathered souls spread throughout the trees and loosely ringing the trail.  Thoughts and doubts whittled at the otherwise still air, reaching out to caress the promise drawn by a lathering team of four horses and the humans that, spent from helping to push the laden carriage up the hill, now panted and climbed back into the wagon.

This was a dip in the road, a place where the wagon would not get far if it rolled to either side or the horses tried to bolt.  Six of those gathered were in charge of preventing escape. The rest, well, the rest save Ogdhixt, were charged with subduing any and all members of this team who might be so unwise as to resist, and they always seemed disinclined toward wisdom.

Melokt gestured faintly at his diplomat and watched as the well-grizzled mutt stepped free from a clump of otherwise unoccupied brush and made himself comfortable, leaning against a tall stump such that he would not be visible until the forward advance was nearly astride him.  The slow trundling continued and Melokt smiled as the haggard merchants drew into view. They were spent, having clearly marched through the night, and fully half their number were injured. There was a certain gauntness to them that spoke of transported riches and not victuals, too.  Ever since the war had resolved, the dynamics between the races had begun to shift, and not just in the distant nation of Erreatha.

No longer were the roads guarded so well as once they had been.  Instead, resources were directed to the borders, leaving those within the nation to pilfer unabated.  The cities were no longer even slightly accommodating, but there were vast swaths of wilderness to which the displaced could swarm and find their peace anew.  

These creatures were celenicics, which normally would have been cause for concern, but they walked with somewhat hunched shoulders and, though they did not sweat, theirs was an air of exhaustion all the same.  While their clothing was fine in make, it was worn as though it had been the only clothing brought to bear against the elements for some time. Their cheekbones were not so much high and haughty so much as gaunt and hard.  Each panted like a human and Melokt wondered if, perhaps, these were somewhat more than simply devious refugees. If so, then chances were they had taken the mountain paths in the hours of Spring least suited to travel. There would be no enforcement from the cities, he mused, as none save the daft would ever make such an attempt.  The daft and the desperate.

Ogdhixt’s voice sounded, rolling smoothly in the sing-song baby-talk of the language shared by all common races.  Melokt watched with narrowed eyes, daring even one among this most hated race to even hint at drawing steel. Instead, the wagon caught space just behind the forward advance and, dull eyed, the entire troupe simply watched without seeming emotion.  They then, as one and with the uncanny synchronicity known of the race, put their hands upon their belt buckles and allowed their scabbards to slide into the dust. Two walked to the horses and began unhitching these, leading them slowly to the side as though each step hurt and every effort was a wasted expenditure of calories, and tied them to a few nearby trees.  Melokt watched two of his men shift as faintly luminous celenicic eyes flicked over them and lowered, clearly not any more concerned by this immediate peril than they were with their myriad other woes.

He shifted his weight, not entirely sure if he trusted this display, and decided on an order of soft capture.  The movements for this were simple, though he’d never given them before a bit of slaughter. His underlings, a healthy mix of lasses this year to complement the brawny lads he’d picked up from the city’s discarded masses, seemed to understand.  First, the six in charge of making sure the carriage didn’t bolt came down and “helped” to tie up the horses. Next, a few more filed into place, one catching a member of the troupe and tying its hands together in front of its face before pointing toward the side of the road.

They didn’t resist.  They didn’t fuss. They hardly reacted, instead seeming almost relieved that things were being taken care of efficiently.  One that might have been their leader, a stalwart woman of sharp angles and abrupt syllables, was speaking with his diplomat.  Both were solemn and spoke in quiet tones. It seemed she aimed to negotiate, which was hardly her place in the circumstances. Melokt finally strode out among the quiet mass and set a hand commandingly on her shoulder, squeezing just enough to feel the bones give a little.  Her voice had drawn still at the contact and her breath hissed faintly at the pressure. He patted her twice and left his hand in place, feeling her intentions through threadbare fabric and skin.

Turning his voice to his diplomat while his eyes roved this scene for potential dangers, he allowed the accent of his homeland ring between his thick tusks.  

“This one giving you trouble?”

Ogdhixt’s voice stumbled somewhat as he switched between tongues, though his meaning was, as always, quite clearly rendered.

“Not as such.  I informed the miss that this was a “money for your life” kind of situation and she has interpreted it to mean that, if they give us all their money, we will help them set up a new life.”

“An interesting understanding.  Tell her we have no need for prisoners at the moment.”

“It was one of the first things I informed her.  She responded that a mule is no more a prisoner than a riding bull.  It’s a play on a colloquial expression from Erreatha and its surrounds.  It means --”

“I’m not daft.”  Melokt tapped his right tusk with the flat of a dagger, gripping the shoulder of this elvish woman with a touch more force.  His own peoples had been displaced thousands of times before. They were, in fact, presently displaced. It had seeped into their culture and made nomads of warriors, dismantling any hope at true mechanical genius.  He’d seen the weapons a few generations of peace had wrought; the softer races were wise to fear the stilled beast’s mind. Elves, celenicics, heck, even gnomes and the local population of kauapika had not been uprooted from their ancestrial homes in thousands of years.  The strain of constant travel wore hard on his prisoners, but there was a strength to them that spoke of some years’ experience. “We have nets that need mending. If they don’t mind working from the first of the sun’s songs to the last, I can set them to the task. They own nothing that came with them.  They beg for food on hands and knees. They eat last, after even our mounts and children.”

“I’ll let her know.”  Ogdhixt switched to his mother’s tongue and relayed all that needed to be passed on.  The matron stiffened at the words but otherwise did not protest, instead moving into a subtle bow and offering what could possibly have been thanks.  She pulled off the tunic and soft, flowing robes she’d worn, though she left a thin layer of cloth over her chest and about her legs. Melokt considered pushing for full compliance, but there was something about the way she complied that indicated she was already breaking in the deed.  He nodded and gestured for her to spread the instruction to the rest of her party.