[Will’s Scrapbook] Caveat Lector

[Tobias]

“Writers will happen in the best of families.”
―Rita Mae Brown

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Hey guys. For those of you who are unaware, my super-secret real name is Will. I currently play the PCs of Tobias and Jaadis Sitai. Before them, I had a couple other PCs...and before them, some other PCs, stretching all the way back to 2010. That little fact, however, is a bygone, and we all know what is to be done with those (filthy little buggers that they are).

Anyways. My name, as previously mentioned, is Will. For the purposes of delineating between the OoC and the IC, I prefer going by this name as opposed to the names of my characters. In the real world I am a college student, with a plan to major in English (Yes, I can hear that little “uh oh”, and can only nod my head and say “that is what my parents said too” in response). I would like to keep the rest private, if I may.

I goddamn love writing, with an emphasis on the expletive…never mind that I take forever to write and have several week-old replies waiting on me. The funny thing about that, though, is that nobody has even filed their pitchforks yet! Or lit any torches! You Mizaharians are the best, truly you all are. In any case, once I finish with those replies, prepare for this scrapbook to be filled with wonderful essays and well-composed posts…

…Or semi-coherent rants written about insignificant little trifles. Yeah… there’s probably going to be a lot of those. According to well-informed sources I complain like Gordon Ramsay on crack!

Before anything, however, I must make one quick note. I am a college student and dimly aware of the inflated sense of self-importance that comes with this territory. Believe me, I know that I am not a professional writer. I do not think I am even that good of a writer. But take all words written in this scrapbook with a grain of salt, yeah?

Other than that, I think I am done. Or have I just began? The introduction is complete and the words have run dry, but there is so much left to do. Oh well. I will write for this soon.

―Will

P.S. I found this as worth a quick laugh, and I hope you all will as well. I know most people here write for fun, but I think we all know that one guy (or were him, in my case) who exhibits symptoms of ‘aspiring writer’ disease. Maybe that’s just my sheltered literary background at work though. I dunno. Let’s just say your mileage may vary.

[Tobias]

Why write?

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The holidays hit me like a freight train; fast, unexpected, and hard. Uni ended only for a combination of sickness, family, Christmas, and shoddy Internet service to blindside me. Now, several bowls of chicken noodle and a new router later, I was finally able to see the familiar brown background of my favorite site on the web. I think the worst is over (even though my chosen holiday itself still has two more days to inflict terror upon me - but I digress). Nevertheless, it is after such events, such exhaustion, that I must ask: Why? Why am I here? Why write?

Nowadays, there are a thousand things – demands and requirements – buzzing around my head, and the buzzing only seems to get louder when I log into Mizahar. So many better things to do, they whisper. This can wait. My favorite things, it sometimes seems to me, are the ones that I must always wait to do. So why write?

What keeps me going when the world is too hard to bear? Why do I come here, when too many other things have a deadline? Sometimes even this site, wonderful as it is, has stress associated with it as well. I see that yet another drama has plagued the forums, another PM has gone unanswered, yet another of my favorite members has left the site, et cetera, et cetera. So why keep writing? It is a question I should really take more seriously than most, not because I am a better writer than most (as we all know that is certainly untrue) but because I am looking into writing as a career choice. So I should probably have an answer ready, right?! Uhh, well, actually...no.

After much thought however, I would have to say the answer is multi-layered and requires explanation (and that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you give a writer’s response!).

First and foremost is the pleasure aspect of it. I was never much of a sports type of guy, but nor did I really fit in with the mathletes when I was younger. People tend to associate a fondness for writing with the more intelligent schoolchildren, but truth be told I fit in somewhere in between; not dumb, but no Yale scholar either. Writing was just my thing. A well-worded phrase was to me what a touchdown was to a football player. I just…well, I just enjoyed doing it. So there is certainly that aspect to it.

But I think it goes deeper than that. There is a quote by the wonderful Pat Rothfuss that has resonated with me, and can express what I am trying to say much more eloquently than I can:

“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.”

And isn’t that what all people want to do – to make a difference?

…

Well, that certainly turned out longer than I thought it would have (and probably should have). And all because of a simple little complaint I had this morning. To be fair, however, I found this complaint harder to address than I probably should have. I’m not even sure if all that nonsense above even qualifies.

Regardless, I must now turn the question on you, Mizahar. This forum has one of the most diverse cast of writers I have ever known - from those who write professionally to those that see it as a hobby. So, I must ask: why do you write? Choose to respond here, or not; I am content with simply getting what I wanted to say out.

Now, it is time to write for my actual characters. Thanks for reading.

―Will

[Caelum]

I write because I must. Every word must fall like a brick. That was the oft repeated demand of a man who believed that in order to write well one must first learn how to write poorly. While I don’t unilaterally agree, I have nevertheless learned how to write horribly in spades. This is an undertaking I’ve considered since I rolled over one three A.M. nine years ago, the sludge of rail whiskey and sour mix still clogging my bloodstream, and relocated the dog earred spine of a trashy romance novel out from under my ass. Of all the books in all my belongings, it was the one that had managed to find its way into my bed. I knew in that moment that there was both something incredibly wrong with the publishing industry and that three tylonal and a mug of black coffee was not going to make me human enough to attend class by eight. Not, mind you, that at that point in my life I particularly cared. More on that later. Since I was ten, I have been attempting to write the next great American novel or, at the very least, the next great counter culture, spit and tissue paper anti-climatic piece of so-called literature shit that all the same causes me to be both worshiped and despised in equal measures by the Unwashed Masses until I am either found, cigarette in hand, squatting by a rail road track in a little black dress and red patent leather high heels giving the sky the finger or vanish into an obscure nowhere with a different name and a white picket fence of which a very oppressed part of me is ashamed. Numerous novels, novellas, short stories, screenplays, performance pieces and a veritable horde of one take scenes have been penned or picked out in this endeavor since. Once I even tried my hand at writing a play. Imagine my surprise when a friend informed me that it might first be wise to know some small thing or three about theatre first (you mean it requires more knowledge and skill to be successful at than a rousing session of kindergarten make believe?). It must be said at this juncture that I am incredibly fortunate to be blessed with a number of highly talented authors as friends. I call this a fortune only because their talents make me so amazingly jealous that there can be nothing else but an equal if not greater achievement on my behalf. One-up-man-ship, making humanity strive for the stars since 10,000 B.C. Seriously though, I know some very talented writers and I’m not just talking about Mizahar. I have read their books. I have edited and critiqued their outlines. I have yelled at them to finish that chapter or demolish that first draft and listened to endless readings of screenplays and recommended paths out, above, below, around and every so often directly through the corner they have written themselves into and I have brought them gin and cigarettes when they receive the inevitable rejection letters or, sometimes worse, are forced to kill off a beloved character for the betterment of a very necessary plot point. Regardless, we’re all nameless, sometimes soldiers desperately scribbling with our ink either a-way-out-of-here or just a-way-to-survive. Ideas happen in a frozen rush. They form always, interminable, and at unexpected intervals pop like match strikes against all of your senses. You lose track of where you are, what’s playing the radio, airing on the television, and God knows whoever and whatever else might be watching. They can paralyze or ride you to your feet, spinning, muttering as though you’re caught in an infinite conversation with the universe, with the hours, and in buckshot-like scatters of language, clips and phrases of coherency, you are abruptly speaking in the tongues of angels even if it is on the devils you are elaborating. You have lost your moorings and, aware of it, grope for both a hold as well as a hand up higher, always higher and so find a pen or cigarette, a keyboard or a drink (the very fortunate find all of these) and because the minutes are mumbling dire warnings of running out and the taste of fear in the back of your throat says sweetly this all may go pew-pew or kaboom or up, up in ashes and embers if you don’t get it out, get it down, right now, before your heart thuds another beat, you write. You write because you must. If you are writing for any reason but this, then you have chosen the wrong hobby for your heart. Expect more from yourself. You deserve it. -k. post script: I apologize for my ramble. Your scrap felt cozy.

[Taylani]

Why Write?

My reason for writing is part self-medicating for refusal to be medicated (Adult ADHD) since in all probability I have spent my entire life having some form of ADHD or another but only recently in the last few years having been diagnosed with it. Since I did spend my entire life with it I have learned what is called behavioral coping mechanisms, one of which predominantly witnessed while the other mechanisms is just little things no one else knows I do to keep my mind focused, on track and finishing projects. The predominant coping mechanism? Extreme multi-tasking. Sure many people multi-task, and talk about how they talk on the phone, drive their car, and read the newspaper all at the same time (whaaaaa?) but what I do is much more ingrained then what others do. I literally can not focus on one thing at a time, if I try I drive myself nuts. And nothing gets done. I had a friend once comment about how much fun she had talking with me because I am always jumping around in conversation points. I hold 5 conversations with the same person in the same AIM window..>.> Yeah it takes a special kind of person to put up with me.


And see? Here I did it again, just wandered off topic. The reason I write is to focus some of the mental energy that I expend. While I am talking to someone or doing housework, if I have a post to respond to I can be writing a post in my head while talking, grading, cleaning..the more posts I owe the faster I actually respond because it helps me to focus.

So I write to help get my thoughts focused..and so that fewer people have to sit and be confused trying to hold a simple conversation with me.

Welcome back to Miz

[Tobias]

Both of your responses were absolutely terrific. A++ effort, guys.

Caelum: Beautifully said. Those are interesting points raised as well. I’ve never seen writing as a duty, but then again they say if you enjoy something it never feels like work (God knows that that feeling is rare enough as is). However, there is a flickering of understanding here I believe. I understand that you are not speaking of a mundane duty - that you are not speaking of the day-to-day chores like I elaborated on - but of something more. Something greater. A duty so great one would also call it divine. This I understand. Thank you.

Also: never apologize for rambling! (Only I can apologize for rambling.) I loved reading all you had to say.

Taylani: Once again, an interesting viewpoint that I had failed to consider. I’m so glad there are so many different people are here on Mizahar! Now that you’ve raised your points however I too can sympathize with using writing as a release. Sometimes the temporal nature of the spoken word is too fleeting or too small to properly convey all these thoughts we have bubbling up inside of us…or, at the very least, that’s how I see it.

Thank you for the warm welcome, by the way! And for opening up to me. I feel like a just got a look into what makes Taylani tick.

[Tobias]

Day 43. Still cold as balls outside. Snow shows no sign of stopping. Still trapped in my house, have resorted to eating rats for sustenance. Please send help.

[Caelum]

I’m air mailing you a bag of kittens and a pack of smokes as we speak. That’ll help, right? Wait.