Create. Even When It Hurts.

It’s Easy to Feel Invisible

            Imagine: working all week on something, possibly all month. You slave over the details. Work until your hands are cramping and it’s uncomfortable to even sit. Finally, after the week of not sleeping, devoting your precious free time to something, you’re ready to share this piece you’ve worked on.

            Bam, you put it on the internet. The internet (also known as a faceless void filled with millions upon millions of people doing their own thing) doesn’t respond. Somehow, of all those millions of people not more than one or two have stumbled upon this thing you’ve created.

            Suddenly those hours seem wasted. That work seems to have meant nothing. That voice in your head screams louder and louder that you’re wasting your time, why even bother sharing.

Your Art IS Important

            The internet can be a crutch sometimes. It’s easy to get addicted to the feeling of “importance” it gives you when fifty people you don’t know express how much they enjoy something you’ve done, created, or written. Often times this makes the rest of what we do, that receives little to no acknowledgement, feel… hollow.

            An important thing I’ve learned over the years is that no matter how much or how little praise you receive online one thing remains: it’s not real. It doesn’t matter. No amount of praise from a stranger will be enough. Yes, it will feel good for a moment, but in the end it means very little if you don't find joy in what you've done.

            Create because you want to create.

            Do it because you want to do it.

            Yes, sharing is all well and good but find a way to share with those who already love you. Of course, yes, still share online, but don’t let that void suck you in and make you feel bad for creating. Definitely don't let it make you feel like you're wasting your time.

            Do I do this? No, not all the time. I’m actually terrible at sharing. I’ve got a chronic case of I waste everyone’s time and I’m not interesting enough. Even with that being the case I have found myself world’s happier not relying on the internet for validation.

            You are talented.

            You are creative.

            Your art is important.

I’ll Stop Now!

            Really, I’m off the pedestal. Happy Friday everyone. I assume we’re all looking forward to the weekend? What are your plans? Anything fun? Dungeons and Dragons starts up again on Sunday. It’s our last Sunday though, we’ll be playing Saturdays after this from here on out. I’m both looking forward to playing and nervous to play.

Writing Prompt

            Last week we discussed world building but this week we’ll do a writing prompt. Feel free to do it with me too. I’ll still be discussing world building and how it pertains to the world I’m creating for The Aftermath, but I figured I’d shake it up here or there.

            As most of my writing prompts focus on the main character of my first novel, Cursed, it’s a bit different than the high fantasy nonsense I’ve been working on. I’m a tad rusty with him, so forgive me.

Rules: Set a timer for 10 minutes. Write. No editing allowed!

Dark Orange

            He stood in the shadows, next to the building. Arms folded over his chest he waited. The townsfolk mingled around him, pushing past, paying him no mind. He was just another man at the market, hoping to get his wares before they closed up and disappeared with the night. This town was superstitious, much of the north was these days.

            Khadrim was acutely aware as people moved past him, when people spoke to him, when they were suspicious of him from afar and while it appeared, he paid them little mind, it was exactly the opposite. He had made it a point to always be.

            The sun was setting, sinking over the mountains in the west, painting the sky a brilliant radiant orange. Khadrim watched, watched and waited for it to sink lower and lower, for the warm colors to fade to cooler ones.

            He was not the only one waiting, he was well aware of that. There was a creature on the roof of the church, seated like a gargoyle, waiting and watching. It had been watching him all day but dare not approach him in the daylight hours.

            Khadrim was unsure if this was the same creature responsible for the fear of night these people had. The further the sun sank behind the mountains the quicker they moved. Wares were shoved into carts, carts covered and closed up, being dragged this way and that.

            A young man dragging his cart fumbled and it fell over. Others yelled at him to get out of the way while he nervously tried to pick up his things. Khadrim sighed and ignored it, staring again toward the horizon. But out of the corner of his eye he could see the man shaking, fumbling, others spitting at him and calling him obscene names in their native language.

            Khadrim turned his gaze from the blood drenched sinking sun and walked across the busy street. People avoided him, went around him, he had a way about him that told most to steer clear. Those who didn’t were usually sorry that they hadn’t. The man muttered something indistinguishable. It was a language Khadrim was still learning but he was picking up on it fast. It was an apology.

            Crouching, Khadrim helped gather the fallen wares and put them in a pile. He nodded toward the cart and the man stood and gestured to it. Khadrim helped him lift it back into place and set about fixing the wheel that had cracked around the center of the spokes. There was only so much he could do at the time but at least this man would be able to get the cart home before darkness fell.

            Just because he wasn’t superstitious didn’t mean he’d belittle these people for their beliefs.

            Khadrim helped gather wares and the man put them away, having calmed considerably with the aid of someone there. By the time they’d finished, Khadrim no longer saw the orange of the sky but the familiar blues and purples of night. The man whispered his thanks and started along his way.

            The church bells rang and birds flew in fear of the sound, disappearing into the clouds to the north. Khadrim felt the air thicken. Something had changed with the coming of the night. The man was waving to Khadrim desperately, offering him refuge for the night.

            “Go.” Khadrim nodded his head and the man hesitated.

            Gentle footsteps landed in the distance, the sound of claws skittering on cobblestone a few feet away. The man paled.

            “I said go.” Khadrim clenched his fist and the man nodded, finally running toward his home around the corner. Wind rustled through the town and as the last church bell struck eight silence fell around him.

            When he turned, he saw a crooked, twisted silhouette in the distance, bright white eyes staring right at him. Khadrim took a step closer and said nothing but as he did the figure tilted its head and smiled, revealing pointed yellow teeth.

That's All She Wrote, Folks

            Thanks for hanging! Did you write? If you did, let me know, I'd love to read it!