Going Live on Wordpress

Today's short blog post (on Blogger) is simply to announce the launch of my Wordpress location! I've finally got things fairly organized and laid out the way I want it. So please update your links & follow:

http://scholarlyscribe.wordpress.com

I'll be dual-posting for at least another two weeks to catch those who don't check back very often. But I'd love for everyone to read and comment at the new location. Let me know what you think. Personally, I like having the pages along the top where you can access my poems, short stories, and each part of my serial novel with ease.

Tune in Saturday for the next installment of The Curse of Fierabras!

Monday Listicles - Books

Today is the first annual World Book Night in the United States. Unfortunately, I knew nothing of this event until today so I’m not able to be a participant in this great event. I applaud whoever came up with the idea to give away free paperback books to encourage reading among adults. I’ve been an avid reader from childhood and, as an English major, I am a huge advocate this sort of thing. I’m marking my 2013 calendars now for this event so I can help give away some books!

I follow a handful of blogs that post every Monday on this Monday Listicles event. This morning I was pleased to find that this week’s listicle is about books. This is a topic I can easily go on about. I’ve read hundreds of them that I can remember (and probably hundreds from my younger days that I can’t). I’m reading books each semester for my college classes. I read across several genres and indulge in many classics.

I’d like to think I’m an unofficial authority on this particular subject.

While I’d love to be selfish and encourage you to read my Serial Novel as one of the ten books, I will refrain from doing so. It hasn’t progressed far enough to be considered a novel, or even a novella as of yet (I’ve written 4 parts so far). I will direct you to my post where I shared my poem, The Thrill of Books. I believe some other avid readers will be able to relate to that poem.

I thought about doing a list of my ten favorite books. I’ll probably do that list at some point in time, but I think that I will take a different approach to this. I’m going to do a list of ten books that, in my opinion, are must-reads:

1.      The Dragon and the Unicorn by A.A. Attanasio – In the realm of King Arthur books, this one is by far the most unique approach I have encountered. There are four books in this series which is, disappointingly, difficult to find. I scavenged bookstores frequently for years before finally buying them all online. It is not a book that you can plow through quickly, but the angle this takes makes it worth every minute spent reading this book.

2.      The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas – I remember in high school being told that there are so many plot and character twists that we would have to diagram them all out on the board. Dumas wrote some excellent novels, including The Three Musketeers, but I feel this one outshines them all.

3.      Hamlet by William Shakespeare – What better way to honor the Bard than by promoting his longest play on the day of his birth (and death)? I’d wager almost everyone has read Romeo and Juliet at some point, whether by choice or because they had to. I’ve read this play many times over the years and I find that my appreciation for it increases as I get older.

4.      Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning – Everyone knows the poem “How do I love thee/let me count the ways” but few people have read the collection that it comes from. This is a collection of over 40 sonnets that Elizabeth wrote for Robert Browning over the course of two years. She gave this to him as a wedding present, and you can see how her feelings develop over time until she reaches the point of that famous poem (which is the second to last).

5.      Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card – I was pleased to see this is one of the novels being distributed for World Book Night. Even if you aren’t big into Science Fiction, this is a novel that you would probably enjoy. I fell in love with this book back in high school, and I still enjoy reading this novel every time.

6.      Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss – I know the odds of convincing most people to read a book about punctuation is about the same as winning the lottery, but her sense of humor makes this book enjoyable and memorable. And in this digital age the importance of punctuation and grammar has never been greater. Grandmothers everywhere will be thankful that you know to write “Let’s eat, grandma!” instead of “Let’s eat grandma!”

7.      The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – I’m currently making my way through the entire collection of Holmes stories/novels and they have not disappointed. While the vast collection might be unreasonable to expect you to read, this is perhaps the best set of short stories that I’ve come across so far.

8.      The Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Patterson – I can do no justice to this book by trying to express how wonderful it is. The ending makes me teary-eyed every time I read it. I still refuse to watch the movie because I don’t want to risk the chance of a bad film tarnishing my love for this story. This is one of the best books ever written in my opinion.

9.       Watership Down by Richard Adams - Who doesn't like books where animals talk? While novels like Charlotte's Web and Animal Farm are excellent, this is better than any of them. I've read this book several times and I am still amazed at how wonderful this story is. This is perfect for anyone who loves reading books from the young adult section.

10.      Queen of Camelot by Nancy McKenzie - I wasn't going to do a second King Arthur-related novel on this list, but I couldn't imagine leaving off either of them. This is perhaps the book I've recommended the most over the years. So far everyone who has read it upon my suggestion has loved it, even if they weren't huge fans of the King Arthur stories like I am. Therefore I am going to say that if you read no other book from this list, you should read this one. You won't be disappointed.


Comment and let me know if you, too, have enjoyed reading any of these books. Comment if you don't like any of these books. Or, better yet, comment after reading any of these upon my recommendation. I'd love to know what you think of these books. 


I'd love to know that you are reading.

The First Three Months

Reflecting back upon the day I began this blog, it amazes me to think of how things have surpassed my expectations. I figured this would be a small blog where a few family and friends would read occasionally because they feel the need to be kind and read a post or two. That was the status of my previous attempt at a blog almost two years ago. I think that one made it a month before it died off, much like my attempt at creating a website.

That tends to happen a lot. The grand visions fizzle out when the initial excitement wears off.

The excitement for this one hasn't fizzled yet. Instead it is exceeding what I aspired to accomplish when I created Scholarly Scribe. So, in celebration of reaching this first minor milestone, I will answer a few questions that were put forward by some of the readers of my Guys' Night post on Friday.

The following questions were asked by Youngman Brown:

1. What was your original reason for starting a blog?

My original reason for starting a blog was actually highlighted in my first post, Why I Write. I created this as a place to share my thoughts on writing and being a writer. I wanted to be able to share some literary opinions and make book recommendations for other readers (which I still haven't done!). And, most importantly, I wanted a place to share my writing with the world.

Like I mentioned in that post, I don't care whether or not I become a rich or famous writer. I write because I want to share my poems and stories with others. If I were to measure the success of that over the past three months, I would have to say I've succeeded. I've had almost 800 page views in three months. That is much better than I anticipated, and a lot of that is courtesy of Yeah Write. But people are reading some of these posts, which means I've met that goal.

2. Have you always been interested in writing/sharing your life, or was it something encouraged by others?

I have been interested in writing itself since about my Sophomore year of high school. That would date around 1999 or so. My earliest poems and stories come from that time frame, and some of them are still among my favorites. For years I have dreamed of getting things published so others could read what I've written. I have made websites and a blog over the past few years where I would tease with a portion of a story, or with some of my poems that I didn't expect to submit.

I was worried about First Electronic Rights for future submissions. So I posted subpar material or general blogs with my thoughts on a certain topic. But I never really shared the ones that I loved. That ended when I started this blog. I've shared a few of my favorites so far, and have even more to come (and others that I've yet to write!)

3. And would you say that now, three months later, that your motivation for blogging has stayed the same or has it changed?

I would say that it has evolved. Originally my intent was to do nothing but post short stories and poems and occasionally throw in something blogish, like my post From Skeptical to Faithful. Today I still have some original writings, such as my Serial Novel that I started a few weeks ago, but I also have a fair mix of regular blog posts about my life or my thoughts on certain topics. I'm sure over the next nine months it will continue to evolve as I find my style and my voice as a blogger.

But I don't think I'll ever lose my desire to share my writing with everyone. I love getting feedback on poems and stories. The good and the bad. Those comments help me to continuously grow as a writer and hone my skills.

The next set of questions come from Shiftless Mommie:

1. What were your biggest concerns when you first got started?

I was concerned about several things when I first started this blog. The first concern was that I would lost interest, yet again, in an attempt to share my thoughts and writing with others. As I mentioned above, I have had several failed attempts at starting blogs and websites with a similar purpose in mind. Thankfully it only takes one exception to break the cycle, and I think that is going to happen with Scholarly Scribe.

My second concern was that no one would take notice. My blog is still small enough and new enough that I get a sense of excitement when I see any new comment, or notice that any single post is getting a fair number of views. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment that aligns with the goals that I had for this blog. As long as I continue to get some views and some comments, I believe I'll continue to have a reason to post.

My third concern was that my greatest fears would become realized. My self-confidence would take a beating. The comments I would get would all be negative and along the lines of telling me to stick to a real job and that I couldn't make it as a writer. Finding acceptance and a sense of belonging never really came easy to me growing up. For the most part I have left that sense of insecurity in the past, but it is always ready to sprout up at the (not so) perfect moment and crush my hopes.

2. What is drawing you to WordPress?

Comparitively there aren't many major differences between Blogger and Wordpress. At least that is what I have been led to believe from the bit of research I have done into the matter. Blogger is newbie-friendly and has some great features. Wordpress, from what I have read and seen so far, takes most things a little bit further in what you can do. I like the designs offered on Wordpress, and they have a free account that gives the same sort of address choice that Blogger allows.

In the end it is just those minor things that Blogger doesn't do that draws me to try it out. I think the biggest appeal is the ability to create Pages, which will make it easy for readers to access each part of my Serial Novel. I'm 98% certain I'm going to enjoy the change to Wordpress and stay there for a long time. Now I just need to get enough skill to create a passable-looking banner for the top of my blog. I've never been able to do things in Paint, much less any of the more advanced photo/image creation/modification programs.


Many thanks to the two bloggers who presented some questions. Any others that happen to pop up over the next few days will be addressed in a future blog post. Feedback is always welcome, as are any other questions you may have thought of!

The Curse of Fierabras - Part Three

Part III - The First Battle

            The blade of the saber slices through the air. Dante crouches down, shifting his momentum and leaping back to avoid the fatal blow. The soldier’s force carries his weight forward and his sword cuts into the ground. Dante runs from the man as he struggles to remove his weapon from the arena floor. With his eyesight finally adjusted, Dante is able to look around and see what he is facing.

            A dozen pillars are scattered throughout the arena, most of them broken and worn down with time. Several large pieces of pillar lie among scattered rubble and debris from the prior battles. The floor of the arena is coated with a thin layer of reddish dirt intermixed with coarse sand. A few broken weapons have been left abandoned around the arena, many coated with a layer of dust. A few spears and an axe are lodged in the wall encircling the arena.

            Half a dozen men, including the one Dante evaded, are their opponents. Each one is wearing the same gold armor on their upper torso and is wearing a pair of gold greaves on their legs. Their feet are sandaled. Each appears to carry two weapons with them: a sword being paired with shield, spear, or mace. The four prisoners are outnumbered and outmatched, just like he was told they would be. The other three aren’t faring much better, either.

            Dante turns back to check on the location of his opponent. There is a large gash in the ground where the sword became lodged, but neither man nor saber is anywhere to be seen. Dante steps around a stone pillar, determined to locate this missing soldier. A large piece of stone falls to the ground in front of him, sliding into the pillar. Dante looks over and sees the soldier reaching down to grab another stone to hurl.

            Dante notices a splintered shaft of wood on the ground a few feet away from the soldier. The man is taking aim with another stone. Dante charges forward, sidestepping the projectile as it flies through the air. The soldier picks up his sword and plants his feet, bracing himself to meet the attack. Dante slides along the ground, his fingers grasping the fragment of a wooden handle. Dust stirs in the air. The soldier swings his sword in a powerful cut, but the shaft of wood has better reach and pierces the soldier’s exposed shoulder.

            The sword drops to the ground and the soldier staggers back a step. His left arm dangles uselessly at his side. Dante gets to his feet and grabs the dropped sword. He swings wildly, cutting through the air. The wounded soldier easily dodges a few attacks. Dante rushes forward with a feint, but the soldier trips him up.

            Dante slides along the ground, his lungs filling with dust. He rolls over in time to see the soldier pull the splintered stick from his shoulder, blood oozing from the wound. Dante scrambles backward, sword still clutched in his hand. The sun gleams on the golden armor as his opponent readies the makeshift weapon for a fatal blow. He pulls the weapon back for a powerful thrust. Dante brings his arms up over his face and braces himself for the upcoming pain. Instead of being skewered, the soldier falls to the ground, his neck twisted.

            Dante looks up to see Slate standing over him, arm extended to help him up. He is covered in cuts and scrapes. His one good eye is slowly swelling shut. His breathing is ragged. The corpses of two soldiers are behind him. Hoggle is pinned to the wall of the arena by a spear through his chest. Jerek is nowhere to be seen. The remaining three guards are advancing quickly on Dante and Slate. Dante grips the saber in his hand and Slate picks up a massive stone.

            Slate times his throw perfectly, but the three soldiers scatter before it hits them. The stone shatters into a dozen smaller pieces, flying in various directions. Most bounce harmlessly off the greaves, but a few cut through skin and one lodges itself in the foot of a soldier. Dante swings his sword at the nearest soldier. It is easily deflected off a large brass shield and the soldier thrusts with a counter-strike. Dante steps aside to avoid the blow but the sword catches his side, leaving a narrow gash in its wake.

            The soldier presses the attack on Dante, slashing and striking relentlessly. Dante backpedals, struggling to keep up with each attack. His breathing becomes heavy and sweat pours down his face. The soldier sees the sign of slowing and presses with renewed vigor. Dante parries a thrust, ducks under a slash. The soldier sweeps at Dante’s feet with his shield. Dante jumps to avoid the blow. The soldier anticipates this and stabs Dante’s thigh.

            The crowd frantically cheers for the soldiers. Dante is exhausted and wounded. Slate takes the mace from one soldier and crushes his skull with it, but the other soldier takes advantage and runs Slate through the chest with his sword. Jerek is still nowhere to be seen. The other soldier picks up a discarded spear and starts toward Dante. Pain shoots through his left leg from the wound, but Dante tries to ignore it while fending off the swordsman. His reactions are getting slower and the attacks are getting closer to striking a lethal blow. Dante closes his eyes and makes a desperate thrust, praying for a miracle.


Go To: Part Two - Cellmates                                                                                Go To: Part Four - Jerek

The Curse of Fierabras - Part Two

Part II - Cellmates

    Dante wakes when a bucket of cold water is splashed on his face. One of the guards spits at him and they walk out the door, locking him in. The room is dark and has a musty smell. Rough, dirty clumps of straw are scattered about on the stone floor. A single torch burns out in the corridor on the other side of the door, granting a small amount of light for him to see. His chains are gone and he rubs his wrists. Dante winces in pain as his hands pass over cuts from the metal bonds. His legs have cuts and scrapes everywhere from being dragged to this cell.
           Dante struggles to his feet, reeling back as a wave of light-headedness sweeps over him. A pair of rough, calloused hands grabs his shoulders and helps to steady him. He turns around and finds himself face to face with a giant. The tall man stares at him with his one remaining eye, frowning. Behind him are two others cowering against the wall.
           “You picked a bad day to come here,” says the giant. “It is our day to perform.”
           A frail old man begins to chuckle nervously. His long, white beard sways as the man laughs. He has two teeth left in his mouth, both yellow and rotten. He has a wild look in his eyes and he skitters forward to get a better look at Dante.
           “Hoggle thinks you’re not going to last,” the old man says.
           A short, heavy-set man looks at Dante with a hard glint in his eye. “He’ll outlast you, old man,” he says.
           “Hoggle will live,” the old man snaps. “New boy doesn’t know what is coming. He will be the first to die.”
           Dante is confused and irate at the exchange between these two. “What do you mean by perform?” he asks the giant man.
           “That coliseum above us isn’t just for appearances,” he answers. “Each week they pick a cell to fight up there, and bring the others up to watch. Today is our day to fight.”
           “Fight against whom?” Dante asks as he swats a fly.
           “Depends,” the short man answers. “Some days it is the Emperor’s Royal Guard. Sometimes mercenaries paid to fight. Sometimes wild beasts.”
           “No matter who it is, the odds are against us,” the tall man says.
           Dante turns and takes a step toward the door, looking at the ground. “In what way?”
           “Our opponents have weapons,” the short man says, “while we get a dull knife or a knotted stick if we’re lucky.”

            “Jerek is right,” the giant man says. “Few survive their first battle in the coliseum.”

            Dante sighs and turns around. “There has to be a way to get out of this.”

            “Hoggle thinks you are fool if you think of escape,” says Hoggle.

            “There is no escape,” Jerek says. “There is one chance of being released, but no one has ever managed it” The giant turns his head and glares at Jerek. “I’m telling him the truth, Slate, and you know it.”

            “No sense getting the kid’s hopes up,” Slate says.

            “What is it?” Dante asks.

            Slate looks back at Dante and shakes his head. “Anyone who wins five battles gets an audience with the Emperor. He is the only one who can release us, but he won’t.”

            “He seems like a good man,” Dante says, taking a step forward with a glint of hope in his eye.

            All three men laugh hysterically. The laughter dies down when Hoggle coughs violently, spraying a light mist of blood. Dante wants to ask them what is so funny, but the sound of footsteps approaching turns their attention to the door. Two dozen armed guards crowd the hallway outside the door as the captain turns the key. All four men are shackled without attempting to resist. Dante begins to understand why escape seems impossible.

            They are led through musty corridors, past dozens of cells holding prisoners. Everyone has the same look of despondency. They all expect to die soon, and have resigned themselves to that fate. Dante tells himself he won’t let himself fall into that same state. No one will escape if they don’t try.

            The cheers of thousands of people reach his ears as they reach the surface. Sunlight floods into the eyes of the men as they march forward. Dante brings his hands up to shield his eyes as they try to adjust. The guards fall in behind them, forming a defensive barrier to prevent escape. The chains are removed from the four men and they are shoved through a doorway.

            The cheers become a chorus of jeers when they see the prisoners step outside. The door they came through slams shut and is locked behind them. Dante tries to see the surroundings, but his vision is still blurred from the sunlight. His three companions take off in different directions, seeking weapons or shelter, while Dante is still trying to adjust. A gate across the arena opens up and the crowd cheers. Dante struggles to make out the forms coming out of the gate, his impaired vision still creating problems for him.

            Dante runs to his left, rubbing his eyes frantically to get them to adjust. He sprints past a large stone pillar in the ground. A spear flies past, inches from his face, and secures itself in the wall. Dante turns to see a large, muscular man dressed in gold armor standing five feet away from him. The man swings a giant sabre at Dante as the crowd cheers him on.

Go To: Part One - Into the Capital                                                       Go To: Part Three - The First Battle

The Princess and the Poet

Today I celebrate the birth of my better half, Nicole. Words can't do justice to how much I love her and how blessed my life has become since she became a part of it. In celebration of this great day I thought I would share the story of my proposal to her last year.

It started by me asking her parents to eat lunch with me once I purchased the ring. We ate at a sushi place in West Des Moines and I asked their permission to marry their daughter. They gave me permission, and that night I came home and we were both doing homework. The whole time I was mulling over how to propose. I knew one thing was certain:

She didn't want any sort of public proposal. She had mentioned that before in passing.

I kept coming up with all these grand, elaborate ideas like proposing after going skydiving. But the more I thought about it the more I realized I didn't want to wait any longer. I wanted to ask her that night.

And then it hit me: I should propose in a story.

And so I wrote a short story and, when she was done with her homework I asked her if she would let me read her a story and tell me what she thought about it.

And here is how it goes:

---------------------------------

            Once upon a time there was a beautiful young princess who was the envy of the kingdom. She had long brown hair and a smile that could melt any man’s heart. Her brown eyes sparkled brighter than any star in the sky. Her skin was smooth and fair in complexion and as soft as silk. When she sang it left men enchanted by her angelic voice. She had a great many suitors during the prime years of her youth, but she never met a prince in the four corners of the earth that could win her heart.

            One day a young poet was in the courtyard when he heard the young princess singing. It filled him with such rapture that words flowed freely from his quill onto the parchment, filling it with such perfect lines of poetry that he became convinced that he must meet the source of such a sweet melody. Every day he came back to the same courtyard, hoping to hear that sweet voice. Nearly a week passed until he once again heard the wonderful singing, and although his urge to write inspired poetry was great, he instead followed the sound of the voice until he came across its source.

            When he first laid eyes on the young princess he instantly believed that she was an angel sent from heaven, so great was her beauty to match her voice. He admired her from behind a bush, and watched as several men tried in vain to get her attention. She ignored them all and continued singing, and the poet had an idea and began to write a new poem. When the singing ceased, and the men all dispersed, he walked over toward the window where she had stood and began to recite his poem.

            The young princess had never heard words filled with such fire and emotion, so she came to the window to see what manner of prince was making these claims. When she saw the poor poet, she took an instant liking to him because he was nothing like all the boring princes she had rejected. For over a year the two continued to meet in secret, since it was forbidden for the young princess to take an interest in anyone but a prince. Yet her heart sang every time she was with the poet, and the poet’s soul was filled with such sweet verse that neither one wanted things to come to an end.

            One warm spring day the poet professed his undying love to the young princess, saying he wanted her to run away with him and live down by the sea in his hut. While she loved the poet, she could not bear to leave her family and her castle behind. She ached to do as he asked, but before she could give up her life she decided to test the poet to determine his commitment.

            The next day, when the poet came and proclaimed his love for the princess and once more asked her to run away with him, she presented her challenge to him. He had thirty days to prove to her his love and, if he could do this, she would run away with him. If he could not do this, she would have no choice but to accept he did not love her and they would never speak to each other again.

            Over the next twenty-nine days the poor poet tried everything he could think of. He wrote her songs and poems about his love for her, but that could not move the princess to be convinced of his commitment. He brought her jewels and flowers, but she was still not convinced. He begged and pleaded for her to change her mind, or to give him a hint, but she stood firm by her decision. On the final day of the test, the princess woke up feeling sick with despair, knowing that this might be the day she would have to say good bye to the poet forever. While her heart ached to consider the idea, she knew she could never leave her life behind. She put on her best dress and went to her window, and there was the poor poet waiting for her.

            He looked up into her eyes and smiled, certain he had finally figured out what he needed to do. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small box and opened it up, dropping to one knee as he spoke to her, saying:

            “You are a wonderful woman and I am so happy to be with you. I am so happy you are a part of my life and I want you to be part of my life forever. I love you so much. Would you do me the absolute honor of marrying me?”

--------------------------

At this point I was on one knee with the ring in my hand as I said that last paragraph. She cried and said yes. And then we tried taking a good picture of the ring for about half an hour. It was dark and the flash wasn't cooperating. Then we watched her favorite movie: Twilight.

Ten months later we're still happily engaged and celebrating her birthday today. I love her so much and can't wait to find out where our lives will take us as we journey together. Forever.

 Happy Birthday Nicole. I love you. :)

The Curse of Fierabras - Part One

I've decided to try my hand at writing a serial novel. My intent is post every Friday with a continuation of the story, so be sure to check back each week for the next installment. Feedback is strongly encouraged, so please let me know what you think in the comments below. I do not have a title for this yet, but I hope to come up with one before next week.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy and encourage you to share with anyone you think might enjoy reading this as well!

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Part I - Into the Capital

            Dante has always wanted to see the capital in person, but he never imagined for his first visit he would be bound in chains. The rusty metal links rattle every time he shuffles his feet along the dirt road. The thick bars of iron cut into his flesh every time he lifts his feet too high or takes too large of a step. He has to move fast in order to keep up with the guards surrounding him. They won’t stop for him if he falls. He learned that two days ago when they dragged him along the road for over a mile.

            His lips are cracked and his skin is caked with dirt. Dante tries to rub the dirt from his eyes but he only manages to irritate them further. The heat from marching under the sun has his brown hair slick with sweat. He tries to catch the droplets with his tongue as they roll down his face. His body is in dire need of hydration.

            Dante’s mind, distracted by the physical discomfort, is still in awe of the vast walls surrounding the capital. They stretch in all directions as far as he can see with hundreds of buildings crowding together inside of them. Thousands of people swarm through the streets and stand in doorways, most of them dressed in torn and dirty clothing. His appearance right now blends in perfectly with the crowd of citizens, apart from the chains around his hands and feet. The stench of the unsanitary living conditions threatens to knock him off his feet, but the guards around him seem unfazed by it. He reaches up to cover his nose but a guard tugs on the chain and forces his hands down by his side. He supposes the smell is to be part of his punishment.

            As they navigate the labyrinthine twists and turns of the outer city the swarms of people begin to thin out. He can smell fresh fruits and meats and the aroma of burning coals in the furnaces of blacksmiths. Peddlers are stationed alongside wooden carts, holding up their wares to try and attract customers. The ragged clothing of the outer city has been replaced by vibrant colors and smooth layers of cloth. This part of town seems more alive, even though there are fewer people crowding the streets.

                The further they travel into the city the more open space they encounter. Houses and buildings become scarce, replaced by flowering trees and flowing fountains. Thick tufts of green grass are sprouting everywhere and extinct birds and animals are present among them. Everything he has ever been told about the capital and the Emperor don’t fit with this image of beauty. Why would the Emperor destroy everything out there while maintaining this paradise outside the palace?
            A sharp jab from the blunt end of a spear disrupts his thoughts and gets his feet moving again. Suddenly the decisions that have led him to this situation no longer seem to be the right choices. Maybe his family and friends were wrong; maybe the Emperor was trying to restore peace and prosperity to the land and everyone rebelling was preventing his success. Maybe he should have chosen differently.
            The guards bring him to a halt in front of a massive coliseum. White marble pillars gleam in the sunlight. Beds of vibrant-colored flowers encircle the base of each massive column. Dozens of arches lead into the building, each opening as wide as a dozen people. Stone steps are chiseled into the structure, leading up and down into hundreds of rows of seats. All the people in his hometown, combined with all the neighboring villages, couldn’t fill up a fraction of the seats in this coliseum. The enormity of the structure leaves him in awe of the place.
            All around them are soldiers dressed in short crimson tunics over a thin coat of chain mail. A black raven is embroidered on the left shoulder of each tunic. Each soldier has at least a small sword sheathed at their waist and a longbow strapped to their back. Many others also carry a variety of spears or maces, and a few have massive battle axes. All of them salute the man seated in front of the prisoner and his accompaniment of guards.
            The captain appears bored as he rustles through a few scrolls of parchment. He scratches his gray beard as his eyes glance up at the prisoner. He frowns and grasps a black quill and a blank roll of parchment.
            “Name?” he says without looking back up. The prisoner is hit upside the head from a gauntleted hand of the guard next to him. His vision blurs and he stumbles over his words as he attempts to answer the captain.
            “My name is Dante Silverstar,” he says. The captain jots the name down without looking up.
            “Crime?” he asks. Dante starts to answer, but one of his guards cuts him off and answers for him.
            “The prisoner is guilty of open defiance of the Emperor, inciting rebellious activity, and being in league with The Restoration.”
            Dante furrows his eyebrows and tries to step forward but the guard behind him kicks him in the back of his knee. He falls down on his knees, inhaling a cloud of dust that stirs from the impact. “I did no such thing,” he says.

            “Guilty,” the captain says.

            “Because I refused to join the Emperor’s army?”

            “Guilty,” the captain says again as he stifles a yawn. “Take the prisoner to the pit.”

            “But I…” are the last words Dante says before the world goes black and the guards drag the unconscious prisoner into the depths of the coliseum.

Go To: Part II - Cellmates

Reject This

At the end of the week I had something arrive in the mail that I forgot even existed. Last year I had entered some of my writing into the Des Moines Area Community College writing contest and my essay took first place. I opened up a packet from DMACC and inside were two copies of the West Campus publication that had winning writings from 2009-2011. I finally held in my hands a printed, published copy of my writing.

That feeling was inspiring. I have felt the urge to write and submit some more. I've decided to put pen to paper and start writing more new things. And this motivation came at the perfect time...

Because yesterday I got an email back from Poetry magazine with a polite rejection of the poems I submitted to them.

Normally I would go through a phase of lost motivation because I sent them what I felt was the best of the best. But today I really feel like just submitting even more things.

Because I know my writing is good enough for publication. I have physical proof of that on my desk right now. If it is good enough for one, it is good enough for others. I just have to find the right place at the right time.

So I'm going to send out a flood of submissions this week. And if I get a flood of rejections, hopefully there will be at least one pearl that washes up with an acceptance.

And those publications who reject me have only strengthened my resolve to continue writing. And inspired this poem:

Reject This

Reject this poem

Like you have rejected many others,

You aren't rejecting me;

I am not this poem.

Reject this poem

So that it can move on

To be rejected again and again;

That is its fate.

For if a thousand publications

All read this and reject it,

At least it will be read a thousand times.

  And the reason I write

Is so that others can read, so

Reject this poem.

I'm linking this post up with Yeah Write this week so they can all read and reject this poem, too. Feel free to share this with others so that it can get rejected 1,000 times! :)

Writing Goal Tracker

An odd set of coincidences has convinced me to create this post. A few nights ago I was falling asleep and thought about making a blog post to establish my writing-related goals for 2012. I figured this would be a way of keeping myself accountable, since I would have my readers to encourage me to achieve these goals.

The next morning there was a prompt on The Lightning and the Lightning Bug for "Commitment Device". Coincidence? I hardly believe it could be. It was certainly a sign to get motivated and put an action plan into words.

For those who read my last post about the fear of submission, I will provide a status update. I got a response for three of the seven poems I submitted. They were all rejected by an "Emerging Writers" publication. The kicker? Two were rejected solely because they rhyme even though the submission guidelines mentioned nothing about not wanting rhyming poems.

They don't deserve to publish my poems anyway.

I've decided to break this down into six categories: books read, poems written, stories written, works submitted, works accepted, and works rejected.

An important part of being a writer is reading a lot as well. It helps us to grow and develop ideas and voice in our own writing. This is never an issue for me because I love to read. I decided to finally create a GoodReads account last night, where you can see my collection and which books I've read this year.

I tend to write a lot more poems than stories, but I think it would be best for me to continue to generate new work in both categories. That is why there will be a lot more poems than stories for the goals, and for these categories I'm tracking from today through 12/31/2012.

For the submission-related ones, the reason should be fairly self-explanatory. I'll never become published if I don't submit, and I'll hopefully fail to meet my rejection goal.

Check back often because I'll be editing this page every time any of these numbers change!

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Books Read: 17/52           Last Book Completed: The Importance of Being Earnest and Four Other Plays by Oscar Wilde

Poems Written: 2/65

Stories Written: 1/12

Works Submitted: 17/100

Works Accepted: 0/5

Works Rejected: 10/95

Thoughts Upon a Valentine

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. The day that people celebrate the love they share for each other by purchasing cards, flowers, chocolates, and waiting three hours to get a table for dinner. The day that some single people lovingly refer to as a “Hallmark Holiday”. There was a time when I was alone and bitter and felt that way about this holiday. Maybe I was alone because I was bitter.

I am blessed to have such a wonderful woman to share this holiday with. I am a better person today because she has been a part of my life, and I look forward to many great memories that we’ll share together in the year 2012. She is my valentine every day for the rest of my life. I can’t wait to marry her this summer.

Writing can be a very solitary craft. Even when you have the support of someone else, it can still feel that way when you only hear “I love it!” about everything you write. I do hear my share of positive feedback from her, but she also is not afraid to let me know when something isn’t quite right. If she can’t understand something, I usually wording things poorly or assumed that people would know certain tidbits of information. She keeps my words concise and my focus grounded. She is the best support system I could ask for.

She understands me in a way that no one else has. She might not understand why I get excited about the next installment in the Zelda series, or why I absolutely have to get a 4.0 GPA every semester, but she understands that these things are important to me. This weekend she gave me my valentine/birthday present: a Playstation 3 and Final Fantasy XIII-2. I didn’t even have to hint at a game; she knew the right one to get me.

She encourages me to get homework done even though I know she’d prefer to have me sitting by her side on the couch, watching Twilight for the hundredth time. She tells me to play my games on our only television and that she wants to watch me play, even though I know that it can’t be that interesting to watch another person playing a RPG. She encourages me to write and to submit things even when I feel like I can’t write or that my writing will never get published.

For the record, I’ve only seen rejection letters; however, I’ve only submitted a handful of things over the years. I’m sure I’d be published by now if I submitted more often.

She makes me feel special because she supports the little things that are important to me. I know she doesn’t really want to see Star Wars in 3D, especially after hearing that the 3D is nearly non-existent. But she still declared we are going to see it anyway.

These are a few of the reasons why I love her. The list could go on forever. She is probably the best care provider for children that I’ll ever meet. She will be an incredible mother, and I can’t wait to start our branch of a family together. She wants to make life better for everyone.

She has made my life better.

I’ve finally found who I am through her guidance. I’m not as overweight as I used to be. I don’t play video games for hours every day and spend my days off glued to the games. I have found faith in God for the first time because of her, and can see His blessings in my life that led me on the path to her and the blessings that have come since I’ve found her.

I could never fully express how much I love her. It would never be enough. She has changed my life and who I am, and given me more joy than I knew could be possible.  That is why I help with things around the house. That is why I randomly surprise her with flowers on days that do not fall on February 14. That is why I will remain devoted to her for eternity. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. For better or for worse.

But no matter what happens, things will always be better than they were before she came into my life.

Tell me about your valentine. What makes them special for you?

This post submitted to Yeah Write #44. Check out the great community of bloggers taking place in this weekly contest every Tuesday.

Why I Write

Welcome to the first blog entry for The Scholarly Scribe. My name is David Wiley and I've been a reader all my life, a writer since high school, and a journalism student for the past year. I am 27 years old and I currently attend Simpson College's Evening and Weekend program in West Des Moines. I am considered as a junior at this point in time, with the goal of graduating next spring with a Bachelor's Degree in English and a minor in Multimedia Journalism. I work full-time during the day and I take full-time credits each term, which makes for a busy life. Add in planning a wedding and it would seem there should be no free time for me to do something ambitious like start a blog.

I welcome you to join me and spread the word to others about this blog. I plan on sharing some of my personal writing, sharing my thoughts on writing and journalism topics, introduce you to great pieces of literature that I think everyone should read, and sometimes just write for no apparent reason.

And I want you to link this to everyone you know. Not because I want exposure to become rich or famous, but because I feel my talent as a writer was given to me so that it can be shared with others.

For my first blog I am going to share with you something I wrote a few months ago. I sat down and wrote about why I should choose to write, and I think it is a proper thing to share for my first blog (Warning, this is 2,081 words long. If you are intimidated by lots of text, this may not be the post for you to read). Come back tomorrow for a poem about why I like to read!

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Why Write?

            The act of writing is a lonely craft. It means hours spent in isolation from the world around you, as you hammer out words and phrases with meticulous care. It means those awkward pauses when you introduce yourself to someone new and they hesitate about how to react to the news that you are a writer. It means countless piles of rejection letters (emails, in today’s world) that are in endless supply. In a profession where failure appears to be the norm and where most writers work another full-time job out of necessity in order to pay bills, why on earth would anyone want to write?

            In this modern age, we all participate in writing in some sense. From the tweets that you Twitter to the statuses and notes you post on your Facebook page, you write most every day. It is part of our accepted culture to write, albeit neither proficiently nor grammatically correct at times. So many things in the world around us are going digital and it is hard to believe that there will not be a place for writers amongst all this technological revolution. Yet the reality remains that the notion of seeing my works in print, filling a shelf on a book shelf, may be nothing more than a pipe dream anymore because everything is trending to go digital in time.

            I have reached a crossroads in my career as a writer, if I may be so bold as to call myself that. Yet why, in the midst of all of this writing, do I hesitate to name myself a writer? If we look to dictionary.com for the definition of a writer, we would find that it defines a writer as the following:

1.      A person engaged in writing books, articles, stories, etc., especially as an occupation or profession; an author or journalist.

2.      A clerk, scribe, or the like.

3.      A person who commits his or her thoughts, ideas, etc., to writing.

4.      (In a piece of writing) the author (used as a circumlocution for “I”, “me”, “my”, etc.)

5.      A person who writes or is able to write.

Am I a person who is engaged in writing books, articles, stories, etc.? I am certainly not busy, occupied, or involved with the act of writing on a monthly basis, much less a daily basis at this point in my life. Sadly, an activity that I once took great pride and pleasure with has fallen to the wayside as an afterthought. I could not tell you the last time I wrote something to completion beyond some sort of Facebook status. It has been months since my last poem and perhaps nearly a year since my last story. I certainly do not qualify as a writer under this first definition.

      I am unable to consider myself either a clerk or a scribe, although in some sense I suppose I could now be defined as a clerk. I do handle data entry at my job, and spend hours keying in addresses, item descriptions and specifications, and emails to customers informing them that we have processed their order. This mode of writing lacks creativity, innovation, and the potential for growth. This writing churns out no story, book, poem, or article in the process. This is merely repetitious entry of hard data. This does not make me qualified to consider myself a writer.

      The third definition is a person who commits his or her thoughts, ideas, etc. to writing. You may pause for a moment to throw the argument in my face that I am doing exactly that at this moment in time. With every word of this document, I am fulfilling my definition of being a writer. Yet I am unable to cease my reflection of the past months and see how much I have failed to succeed at even this simple aspect of being a writer. If I truly loved writing as much as I have led myself, and others, to believe, then why have I not been indulging in the act of writing until now? Why did I need to reach a crossroads of confusion and doubt in order for the words to finally spring forth from my fingertips? If I was truly a writer, this would be a constant, continuous act for me. It would become routine and second-nature.

      I could argue that I feel like I do not have the time in my busy day to write. I could formulate magnificent defenses to plead my case as to why I simply could not have been expected to write any more than I have. I could cloud myself amidst the delusional depths of excuses, but the light of reality can easily dissipate this shroud. You are too busy to write each day? Yet you find the time to check Facebook every day! You find time to check the NFL website every day for updates on football! You find time to scroll through the news articles on Yahoo almost every day! You have times where you sit in boredom, indecisive about what you want to do at the moment! YOU HAVE TIME TO WRITE IF YOU CHOOSE TO USE IT TOWARD THAT PURPOSE! My choice to use this time for different matters, every single day, disqualifies my argument and thus disqualifies me from this definition of a writer.

      The fourth definition is quite conditional. As the author to this article, as well as my past poems and stories, I could be referred to as the writer of these. It would certainly be true. I was the writer of those, and when you are reading this article I will once again be a writer in the past tense. If I desire to be a writer in the present and future tenses, I have a need to write on a more frequent basis. Until I can accomplish that, I can only be a writer in my past.

      The final definition is the one that catches my interest the most. A person who writes or is capable of writing is a writer? Having the ability to write is all it takes to qualify? I am surrounded by writers everywhere I turn! My beautiful fiancée is a writer. I am a writer. You, dear reader, are a writer. We all have that potential to be writers because we certainly have the ability to become writers. We can qualify as writers through four of these five definitions of the word if we simply choose to write!

      Why would a person choose to write? What possesses a person to sit down and place thoughts, ideas, stories, or facts onto paper? Is it because they want to become rich and famous? There are numerous articles and books out there about writing that brace you for the reality of writing: the huge successes of the writing world are few and far between. For every Stephen King, who does not need to work elsewhere to support his writing, there are thousands of other authors who need to work a full-time job to pay the bills. The reality is that writing is too inconsistent of a source for income, and the odds that you’ll become that next breakthrough novelist are probably worse than the odds of being struck by lightning.  If you are looking to get rich, look somewhere else.

      Perhaps a person chooses to write because they want to see their creations get accepted by an outside source and published into print. They want to get that golden ticket which invites them into the league of exclusivity known as published writers. They want to call their families and friends with an excited tone in their voice and breathlessly revel in the joy of finally holding that acceptance letter. They burst with joy as they send out copies to everyone they know, parading their success as a published writer around to everyone. After months and months of awaiting a reply, they finally had to wait more months to see this story published in some obscure magazine that five hundred people hold a subscription to and that, of those, only a handful may read the story. And they will take immense pride in that accomplishment.

      That used to be my dream and my motivation as a writer. I have sent out stories to magazines, marking down the date four or six months later when I could expect to hear back a response. In the meantime I sat back and did various things, such as creating websites to champion the reading of poetry, teasing my few readers with samples of my own poetry that I had no intention of ever trying to send out for publication. Let me emphasize that for you: I had no intention of ever trying to send out for publication. Translation: I shared what I felt was less than my best work. It would be like sharing an apple core and saving the rest of the apple for my own enjoyment. I did this because I was blinded by the pipe dream of publication.

      I have thought, like many others before me, that I needed acceptance and confirmation from a “definitive source” that my writing was good. I wanted to know that my poem or story was good enough for them to publish, thus receiving justification that my writing is good. So I sat on my trove of treasured works, hording them for my eyes only until they saw the light of publication. I felt like I needed an outside source to grant justification that my writing was good enough to be shared with others.

      I look at that now, and see the foolishness contained within. Who cares if I am never published by some big publishing company, or even by some miniscule magazine that no one has ever heard of? If I am a writer, and I truly take joy in my craft as a writer, then simply writing should be the reward in itself. I do not need a big contract for the next hot book series to make me enjoy writing. I do not need to be heralded as the next big writer in order to write something worth sharing. In the end, it comes down to the want to share what I write.

      I can see that clearly, as I wind down to my conclusion of this article. When I was at the peak of my writing, I was sharing it with a few others who I considered to be my “writing friends”. Even then, I sought acceptance and reveled in their praise, but I was still driven to write even when they didn’t give any feedback. It pushed me to write more because I wanted to give these readers more to read for their own pleasure. I took the best of what I shared with them and sent it off for publication, but I was at least writing. I wrote a lot in my Creative Writing class over a year ago because I knew others might be able to read it. It fueled my creative output, so to speak.

We are all capable of being writers. We are capable of being whatever we set out to become. I truly believe in that statement, that life is what you make it out to be. The naysayers, who stand in our way, saying we can’t be something, should only fuel us to push even harder to prove them wrong. In recent months I have not been a writer. I have come up with dozens of ideas, and read many books that have given me source for ideas, but I have not been a writer. That changed today, when I woke up this morning and sat down with a mission: to discover why I want to write. I want to write in order to share my poems and stories with others. With that in mind, I will begin to approach my writing career from a new direction.

      I will no longer horde my best work, saving it to send off time and time again in the rejection cycle that most writers choose to undergo. I will no longer sit idle with my writing progress, allowing my creative process to stagnate.  I am reclaiming my title of writer with a new attitude and a new perspective. And I hope that you will join me as I write new stories, revise old ones, and continue to grow and develop into a better writer.