So, last week I went over three categories of worldbuilding problems (irremediable, unremedied, and inherent) and four types of wounds they can inflict on a story (to the setting, the plot, the characters, or the theology). Today we’re going to
Worldbuilding, no matter how you cut it, is a difficult task, at least if you’re actually trying to do it right. Sometimes you feel like you have to become an expert in a hundred different fields at once; sometimes, you’re
UPDATE: I’ve revisited this topic in more detail and with more accuracy here. Go there instead, please. ‘Death of the author’ is a fairly grim name for a somewhat controversial approach to interpretation. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, it does not
Note: Last edited 12/22/20. Title added 12/29/22. Ban’s armor gleamed in the sunlight as he strode forward, passing between the two tall walls of stone. He was bound for the Great Way all his kin had walked or would walk,
Note: This is a camp song (the sheet music for which is posted here) meant to be sung by soldiers, with each return of the refrain increasing in length. I’ve killed many men, sir, I’ve killed many men, I’ve thrown
Note: A poem about… see if you can figure it out. Women wail as warlords waste, Lusts of flesh with cold steel embraced, Stomachs torn for birthless babies, Blood for dead men who know life’s taste. Death we tasted, and
Note: Last edited 4/17/22. Audie stared up at the trees. Could he do it? Could he walk forward into the unknown? A moment’s thought would dissuade him, he knew. He lunged past the first trunk, and the forest appeared behind
Kill them, O men brave and proud, it’s all we can do; They’re barbarians, wretches, inhuman blood-stew. You cannot dare spare them, the vile and the damned. Tear them and rip- not men, just beasts. Understand? That child, a murderer,
Note: Last edited 8/3/20. Richard leaned against a rock, chest working, cold air roughing up his throat. Darn spring mornings- beautiful, sure, but the chill was no fun when all you wanted to do was lie down and start breathing
Note: An old poem of mine, a presaging of my poetry’s tendency towards grimness and written from the perspective of an unnamed narrator. I had been reading some World War One poetry. Men are beasts, no, not beasts but birds,