Month: August 2020

The Grey Filly

Currently listening to: Incandescent by Aviators

Recently, in order to help myself increase my writing productivity, I’ve given myself permission to write whatever I want. Don’t worry about catching up on the many official books and series I’ve started or have planned. Don’t worry about making up for lost time on the blog. Just write. As such, I’ve turned to a slightly different type of writing. Something more realistic but maybe a tad less unique.

I haven’t decided whether or not to call it fanfiction yet, but it certainly is something inspired by a game. Not any game, though. It’s an old, mostly text-based online game called Final Furlong, and one of the few things/projects I’ve stayed mostly committed to for over a decade.

Final Furlong is an online virtual Thoroughbred horse racing game that was launched in 1997 that runs on real time. I discovered the game around 2008 while searching for virtual horse games (must admit, I was a virtual horse game addict). It’s been 12 years and I still play the game fairly religiously. It’s been a bit of a journey for me. It’s only been in the last 3 years that I’ve really been able to figure the game out and become successful. The creator of Final Furlong is, to me, a coding genius, making the virtual horses wonderfully complex, and I’ve found myself falling in love with the creatures that are as much in my mind as in the series of 0s and 1s in my computer.

It’s not like horse racing (or horses in general) are entirely foreign to me. I grew up close to a horse racing track (mostly quarter horses), and there was also a stud farm near where I lived. As a kid, my parents would (almost without fail) take me to the stud farm which technically housed more broodmares than stallions so that I could see the foals playing in the paddocks.

The short story/scene written below is largely inspired by an experience I had as a kid while at the stud farm. It’s possible I may one day rework this whole story to be an actual book, but for now, it’s just fun writing inspired by a mixture of the real and virtual worlds I have loved so much for so long.

It was a quiet, grey morning as an old Ford pickup pulled off the country road on which it had been travelling and onto the paved driveway of a small stud farm. A wooden sign at the entrance of the property read “Edgewood Stud,” which was scrawled in chipping paint across the sign’s weathered surface. Across from the weathered sign, a small duck pond shivered in a cool spring breeze, reflecting like a mirror the blanket of light grey clouds that hovered above.

Further down the paved driveway, the property opened up to a series of barns on the left and a couple dozen quarter-acre paddocks on the right. A variety of sturdy mares milled about the paddocks, polished hooves glistening with the moisture remaining from an earlier misting, while leggy weanlings tagged along at their heels and the local stallions nickered at them from the stables across the drive.

Halfway down the pavement, the old Ford pulled to a stop along the string of paddocks. The passenger door was the first to open as a girl of about five, with a mop of auburn hair pulled into a ponytail and lively brown eyes, bounded from her seat, small booted feet thumping lightly against the loose turf as she scanned her surroundings excitedly. Her name was Fae Darling, daughter of Neil Darling, one of the jockeys who took mounts at the small but friendly little Kentucky racecourse just down the road from the Edgewood Stud Farm.

Fae hardly waited for her father as she all but waltzed down to the first of the string of paddocks housing the mares and their tiny foals. It was a tradition for her, as far as traditions could go for a girl of only five, to go with her parents to the local stud farm to view the weanlings every spring, and so far in her short life, it was her favorite of all the places on earth.

Neil said nothing as he followed along behind his daughter, seemingly amused at her bright and childish excitement. Fae was hardly more than a weanling herself, thin and all legs as she bounced from paddock to paddock. She had to greet every mare and foal, no matter if the horses paid her any mind themselves.

“Hi, mama,” she would call to a mare, reaching one hand through the bars of the paddock gate and rubbing her tiny fingers together in an attempt to get the horse’s attention.

Some mares at least feigned interest, lazily wandering up to the gate to bump the child’s hand with their velvety noses, no doubt more in search of treats than of petting. Some merely chose to view the leggy creature from the hay racks in the center of the paddocks. A few ignored her entirely. Only one or two showed any real interest in the clumsy petting Fae had to offer them.

What Fae loved the most, however, were the foals. The tiny creatures, still more legs than horse, had no end of ways in which to flirt with the girl who beckoned for their attention from the barred gates at the end of the paddocks. Some ducked their heads beneath their mothers’ bellies, watching with a mix of fascination and fear, trying to figure out the two-legged human creature that was as small as they were.

Some weren’t so much afraid as they were entertained, teasing Fae by trotting just outside of her reach before kicking up their little heels and putting on a show as they ran circles around their mothers who watched in seeming resignation.

Most of the mares seemed at ease around the humans at the gate, keeping close to their foals but never really feeling the need to butt in to whatever it was they were on about. Some were more protective, ushering their young away from the gate whenever they got too close to it. The odd mare actually seemed to become jealous of her foal, pushing her baby away in favor of a good pat on the neck.

Sometimes, though rarely, a particularly curious foal would wander all the way to the gate, relaxed mother watching on in what could only be construed as curious boredom, allowing Fae to stroke it a bit before romping off to play, either alone or by challenging its peers in the neighboring paddocks to a race up and down the fence line.

One paddock, two paddocks, three paddocks, four…

Fae made her way down the rows, giggling at the antics of the babies while offering pets to the mothers. She was nearly to the end of the paddocks when she at last came to one with a particularly bright-eyed grey filly, who cocked her head and perked her ears forward when Fae approached. The filly’s dam, also a grey with doe-like eyes and a white star on her forehead, chewed lazily on the hay in the rack, watching her foal and the human girl with interest but little more.

Again Fae started up her ritual, putting her hand through the gate and rubbing her fingers together to get the mare and foal’s attention, as she had seen her mother and father do in times past.

“Hi, pretty baby,” the girl cooed, locking eyes with the bright-eyed filly. “Can I pet you?”

The filly let out a little snort and shook her head, prancing in place when she realized the two-legged creature’s attention was on her.

Fae smiled brightly, leaning her head against the bars of the gate.

“It’s ok, baby, I won’t hurt you.”

She clucked lightly at the filly.

The little horse seemed overcome with curiosity then, edging closer, big, dark eyelashes blinking back at Fae as she walked. The filly stopped within inches of Fae’s outstretched hand, sniffing curiously.

“It’s ok,” Fae cooed again.

A little more coaxing, and suddenly the filly was in reach.

Gently, Fae tickled under the filly’s chin. The little creature jumped slightly, unsure at first about the unexpected touch, but on the second try she seemed to settle into it, clearly beginning to enjoy the new-found feeling. At first it was just chin-scratches; then it was jaw rubs. Soon Fae was petting the filly from the face, down her neck, and to her back. Slowly but surely, the little creature began to press into Fae’s hand. Before long, the filly was all but leaning against the gate, and the next thing Fae knew, the little creature had poked one tiny hoof through the bars of the gate, resting it in the little girl’s lap.

A bit of a squeal escaped Fae’s lips at the gesture.

“Daddy, look!” she called as quietly as she could muster.

Neil, who had been petting a mare in the paddock next to this one, glanced toward his daughter at the sudden call.

“That’s cute,” he chuckled lightly, going back to petting the mare in front of him. “We probably need to get going, though.”

He gave the mare one final pat before making his way back toward the truck further down the drive.

“Just a little longer!” Fae pleaded, half looking after her father and half watching as the filly continued to lean into the petting that the girl offered. The tiny hoof spearing Fae’s leg now was a bit uncomfortable, but she dared not move.

I want this horse, she thought to herself. I wish I could take this baby home with me.

“Fae!” Neil called then.

The girl let out a very animated and frustrated sigh, and the grey filly opened one eye curiously at the sound.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Fae said, gently trying to push the filly’s leg back through the gate without hurting her. The little horse pressed forward, as though not wanting to put her leg back through the gate.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Fae apologized again, this time managing to safely put the filly’s leg back on the other side. As she stood to go, the foal put her face through the bars, as though reaching out for more petting.

“Don’t do that or you’re gonna make me cry,” Fae fussed, patting the filly on the head one last time.

By now, the filly’s mother had come to see what all the fuss was about, leaning her head over the gate to inspect the small girl. Fae giggled, giving the mare a pat as well. It was then that the glistening of a name plate on the mare’s halter caught Fae’s eye, and she traced her fingers over the letters, reading out slowly.

“Some…thin’ Spe…cial… Somethin’ Special,” she said out loud before looking back up into the doe-like eyes of the grey mare. “Yeah, your baby is somethin’ special. I have to go now. Bye bye!”

And with a wave, the girl trotted off after her father who waited somewhat impatiently at the passenger side door. A little whinny cut through the quiet morning atmosphere from behind, as though issuing a final farewell.

Living Through Your Characters

Currently listening to: Traveler’s Song by Aviators

 

Look who’s still alive!

I’m not even going to pretend that I’ve been good at keeping up with my blog in recent years, and honestly it’s time to stop making excuses. (I feel like all attempts at blogging in the last few years have been excuse-making and not actual blogging). There are a myriad of reasons why I’ve struggled with the blog since leaving college, but this will be the last time I mention it. I’ll update when I can and just work toward better consistency in the meantime.

One thing I’ve realized in the years since leaving college is that I am not so much a writer as I am a social writer. Some people write simply because they have a story to tell, or some sort of burden on their hearts that drives them to write even if no one will ever look at what they’ve put on paper. Maybe I used to be that way, but in the years since leaving college, I’ve found that being creative without people to share that creativity with has meant that I have a lot less drive to prioritize my writing over housework or computer games.

Freelance writing has been a lesson in futility for me, being an extremely competitive and often thankless work. I’m not competitive, but I am hard on myself. My view of my ability as a writer has always been tied up in the approval of others, and I am quick to become despondent when my proposals are rejected over and over again. I’ve done ghost writing, but there is something very empty about that, and in the end, I have turned to other, more consistent forms of work. I’ve done some editing along with my journey into the world of freelance, which has been mostly positive but it has been made very clear to me that my editing is not publishing house quality. I suppose I’ve always known that, but I wanted to try. My husband has been very supportive and tries to listen when I rattle off story ideas of my own, but he’s not really the literary sort, so everything sounds good to him as far as he’s concerned, and I have stopped asking him for feedback because frankly he’s too nice. I have felt like I have been stuck in a tailspin with no way to get out. And for a while, I became so depressed that I stopped writing all-together. If I did write, it came in very short spurts followed by days staring blankly at the computer screen.

However, there has also been something in the background that has slowly but surely begun pulling me out of that depression, beginning last summer but growing over the course of time to the point that I finally felt I could pull this blog back up and try again. Some may laugh at my source of inspiration, but here it is. Last summer, I discovered Dungeons & Dragons (D&D for short).

I had heard about D&D for years but had never given it a whole lot of thought. I come from a very religious family and community, and anyone who knows anything about D&D knows that it used to be considered, at best, a game for 40-year-old men living in their mothers’ basements and, at worst, a devil-worshiping cult. As such, I never had a whole lot of exposure to it. I just thought of it as another game. So when my husband suggested we join a D&D game last summer, as both of us were sorely lacking socialization in our lives, I readily agreed. It sounded like a fun way to pass some time. What I discovered, however, was that D&D was much more than just a game. At least for the group we play with, D&D is like a living, breathing fantasy novel.

For the first game we joined (after trying a couple characters I didn’t end up using very long), I created a wizard bladesinger who multiclassed into rogue named Aeva. I did a cursory overview of the lore of the Forgotten Realms, which is where our campaign is based, and wrote up a little blurb about how Aeva had studied at the Blackstaff Tower and had become an archaeologist, but that was pretty much it. We played through a good portion of the campaign, and like the other characters I had tried, Aeva seemed bland. She wasn’t fun to play, and I really couldn’t figure out why. I mean, the game was fun enough, but if Aeva had died during that part of the campaign, I wouldn’t have missed her much.

At one point, another of the players decided it made sense for her character to stay where the group currently was. (Her character was from that city, and the city was trying to recover from nearly being demolished while its leader, that character’s brother, recovered from a bad injury sustained in the most recent battle). At the time, my character’s one driving factor was her search for ancient ruins, so I thought maybe I’d just dump Aeva here, too. After all, there were some ancient ruins nearby that we had failed to explore thoroughly thanks to a brutal encounter we ended up running away from. Then the DM (the person who runs the game) asked that no one else switch out characters. OK, I was stuck with Aeva. But if I was stuck with Aeva, I needed to make her more fun to play. That’s when I realized something. My character had no depth. Her driving force was shallow. So I asked the DM if I could redo Aeva’s backstory. He said that was fine.

That’s when I really sat down with my character and looked her over. D&D, I realized, wasn’t just a game where you threw together a bunch of stats and killed monsters. It was a living, breathing world woven together by the amazing storyteller who ran the campaign for us. If he was going to put that much effort into telling the story, I needed to put some real effort into making one of that story’s characters worth “reading” about.

First, I looked at Aeva’s classes. She’s a wizard but also a rogue. Rogues in D&D are typically associated with thieves. Why would a character who studied magic at the exclusive arcane academy that practically runs the metropolis of Waterdeep have anything to do with skills related to a rogue? Where would she have learned them? I had originally chosen to multiclass her to give her a little extra damage with her rapier (bladesinging feature), but what kind of reason in the story would she have to know those things? I had recently learned that Aeva, being an elf, would have lived through the Spellplague, a time in which using magic would (at best) not work and (at worst) turn the magic user into some sort of horrible monster. Aeva survived that as a magic user, which meant that she had to have had some sort of skills other than magic to keep her alive. That, I decided, was where she must have learned to use a sword. I then wrote in a character for her backstory who taught her how to use her rapier more effectively. This character was a rogue who helped Aeva survive some awful times during that part of her life. That was how she multiclassed into a rogue.

Bit by bit, I began to ask myself other questions. How did she gain the cartography skill? Why has she not been to Waterdeep for nearly 100 years? Why would she join forces with this eclectic group of adventurers (which I have affectionately dubbed “The Odd Squad”)? With these questions in mind, I began to build a character who really wasn’t much of a hero in the standard sense of the word but who had a reason for being part of the adventure all the same. That’s when I began to have fun playing her. That’s also what has engaged me more in the overall story. I worry for my character now. I try to make the decisions that she would make and I try to see through her eyes. Sometimes those decisions really aren’t the best, but they’re hers. I started writing the story of our campaign just to keep up with all the information and to make sure I was playing true to my character. And that’s when my creativity started to return.

When sifting through the myriad of writing tips that float around the internet, you often see advice to “interview” your characters. I have done that before even on this blog. The interview questions I have often seen listed range from “What is your character’s favorite food?” to “What is your character most afraid of?” These are all good questions to ask, but perhaps for people like me they’re a bit too specific early on in the development process. Perhaps a better, slightly broader question is: “Why is your character here?”

I know that more than once I have written down plots that sound like pretty cool ideas, but my characters seem only to be along for the ride. They otherwise have no real reason to be there. They are apathetic at best, and even their deaths would not elicit an overabundance of emotion. That’s when you know the character isn’t real.

Recently, one of my friends from the said D&D game introduced me to a book he has been using to build his newer characters as he, too, has been struggling with a character with minimal backstory who he doesn’t much care for.

The Ultimate RPG Character Backstory Guide - (Ultimate RPG Guide ...

The book is called The Ultimate RPG Character Backstory Guide by James D’Amato. Though definitely geared toward RPG players (think Dungeons & Dragons or Pathfinder), I have found that the ideas behind it have been very good for my story characters, too. This is especially true since I’m more experienced with fantasy writing than other types of writing.

While not every question or category really applies to a given character, there are a variety of things in this book to get a person thinking. These topics can range from creating holidays for your character’s culture to discussing how a group of people working together might react to each other in certain scenarios. If your character is leaving on a journey, what might they be leaving behind? If your character were to be severely wounded and on the verge of death, what thought might keep them fighting for their lives? What kind of experiences in childhood would your character never want to experience again, and how do those experiences shape the way they react to the world around them now? These are just a few questions brought up in the book that I have found very helpful in shaping my characters.

For me, I often find that I get too fixated on the mechanics of writing. I want to do things perfect the first time, so I focus on themes, and wording, and punctuation, and all those other formulaic guides about how to write a perfect book. It gets depressing, because I am quite aware of the fact that I am not perfect, and I probably never will be.

I read a comment on a forum recently that struck home for me. The person in question wrote, “I would rather read a book with a sucky plot and a character that I can identify with than a book with a perfect plot and a boring character.”

It made me realize that I have been so focused on building the perfect story that I have forgotten that the characters are the ones who give the story life. Characters need flaws. They need struggles. More specifically, they need backstories. Because in the end, where we come from greatly influences who we are and where we go in the present.