Writing Lesson: Character TraitsIt's come to my attention as of late that there are a few traits that people give their characters for no other reason than making their character unique. I thought I would just ignore it, but then they started popping up everywhere. I mean everywhere. I looked through the deviations in a group yesterday and saw reoccurring "traits" that make me want to tear my hair out. So this handy guide is here to tell you what's been done to death and when (if ever) it's still okay to use it. I am by no means a professional, but I certainly hope you'll take some of this to heart.
Please keep in mind that these are all just opinions, really. I am not telling you that you can't do these things! (Not that I have the authority to do that anyway). More than anything, these are just things to take into consideration when creating a character for a novel.
Heterochromia. This is the condition where one's eyes are two different colors.
things I never told you.some poems feel like water.
this one is more like sand,
and I'm suffocating in the maw
of a desert that was better left
rusting its clairvoyance.
it started one night when I remembered
that I've kept everything you've ever given me:
roses, faces, promises.
I never really understood
how to let things go,
and when the thought of
turning the things you'd touched
away from my doorstep
choked the poetry from my throat,
I realized why.
I keep reminding myself that
I should probably be nicer to you,
but I think you already know
that I'm only capable of being nice
when I'm cornered and out of ideas.
and despite what you claim,
you've never been like me.
you have a magic with the world
that I could never hope to understand, and
I think someday you'll charm the devil
into sending you back to the skies.
besides, when it came to you,
I was never an exception.
I named myself a blade of grass
and bit my tongue,
but like they say,
sometimes trouble can find you
when you least expect it.
yesterday."to make a daisy chain, you have to kill the flower," he says absentmindedly, elbows-and-knees deep in the rushing waves of summer field grass.
"no, you don't," I insist. my back is pressed to the bark of the tree behind me and the summer sun is caramel yellow on my skin. I'm thirteen, naive, soft-centered. at this point in my life, I have let no one break my heart or ruin the neat tight zippers of my long skirts.
"yes, you do." to prove his point, he wrenches a flower from the soil, taking up a clod of roots with it. teasingly, he shakes it in front of my eyes, dusts me with the dirt--I squeal girlishly and brush myself off. then his smile fades; his fingernail slits the daisy's slick stem. with perhaps more force than is necessary, he stabs a second daisy's stem through the tiny hole. "see?"
"well. okay. I guess you do need to kill it. but who cares?"
he shrugs. he's already turned his attention to the sea of weeds all around us. for a while I sit cross-legged next to him, watc
WakeA storm brews. Coffee,
perks, grounding grit
rich darkness cupping
the surge of orange
energy, morning- the lost
light sleep window, pain
breaks, cold snap
wrapped rain dogs
barked but naked trees
fall as dead, leaves me
swallowing bitter liquid
I considered bliss.
undefined[---404 error: file not found---]
I am undefined
like the irrational variables
that rot your computer;
never quite fitting into the
neatly arranged arrays
that fragment this world
congregations of 1s and 0s,
(the DNA between
my ribs does not
conform to your primal
[—503 eror: server overload—]
I am undefined,
an error in excess
desperately trying to exit
this (in)finite loop of
on-off signals that
my delicate newtork of
too (iso)late(d)touch-starved waistlines
recollect memories in old text messages
and incomplete composition notebooks
they argue with themselves
about self-preservation in a predatory
wilderness: the privacy of homes
and thick bedroom walls
with birds calling them from hiding spots
amongst the fear and hope
unfounded and unfound
& steady hands let go of their centers
to grip reluctance in pens
recording the songs of bluebirds
outside, outside, outside
as growth sets in with resignation smiles
TALENT IS EARNEDTalent is Earned
I get it. There are some people out there that do have some extreme capabilities right out of the womb, but this is targeted to those who are average joes, who think they can’t do things that a person with ‘Talent’ can.
Let’s start by defining the word ‘Talent’. According to dictionary.com it states
1. a special natural ability or aptitude: a talent for drawing.
2. a capacity for achievement or success; ability: young men of talent.
3. a talented person: The cast includes many of the theater’s major talents.
4. a group of persons with special ability: an exhibition of water colors by the local talent.
5. Movies and Television. professional actors collectively, especially star performers.
This definition, in my opinion, is misused when said to me. Because to me it implies that what I do, is specially natural to me and
Art AdviceSomeone had contacted me for advice on getting into freelancing and gaming. I thought I'd share it over at my tumblr for anyone interested in that advice. Hope it helps!
Days (Short Story)
The first day they met was an epic disaster.
Aleks cursed at the male barista behind the cash register for receiving the wrong coffee—decaf instead of his usual double shot espresso. He yelled so much that tears began to run down the young worker’s face before she appeared. In a flurry of wild red hair and jangling bangles, she swept the poor barista aside and stood firmly on the other side of the counter with a wide smile. “What seems to be the problem, sir?”
He yelled at her too. Something along the lines of “liquefied crap for coffee,” and “I know animals that are better trained than all of you!” She continued to smile and nod, her bracelets rattling when she lifted her arm to brush a red curl from her eyes. Aleks walked away with a free espresso to down on the long subway ride to his work and a scowl that dissuaded everyone from getting too close.
UnclearThe picture is framed in lakeside mists,
We're swathed in blankets
And chuckling about how
We look like Scottish immigrants,
And groaning and grinning,
Because we aren't morning people.
The sun creeps over a sapphire hill
And lights the water on fire
We sit and sigh
Our bare feet tucked up
On the cold wooden pier,
And I fit exactly beneath your arm.
The scene is utterly clear
Shining like the morning;
I look up into your face,
But I don't know what I expected
Because that part
Is not so clear.
|In my free time I enjoy taking photos, sketching and painting.|