Update! (And A Wee Bit Of Poetry)

     Well, hullo there! It’s been far too long since last I’ve posted (isn’t that always the story?), and you might notice that things look a wee bit different around here. But thank you to everyone who’s submitted something to my Story Review! I will start posting the first of those soon. 

    But meanwhile, here’s a raw and unedited poem inspired by Hamlet that I thought it’d be lovely to share for some feedback. Enjoy! (But if you don’t, feel free to tell me so in polite and Christ-like terms :))

but break, my heart 

“But break, my heart. for I must hold my tongue.” —Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 2

but break, my heart—

for I must hold my tongue. 

oh, that I could cast off this

too-changèd face!

I am confused, alone, broken—

broken, like the shards of

a crystal goblet discarded—

broken, like the dead tree that falls 

when discontented winter comes—

broken, like when the sun shines brightly

but not on me. 

break, my heart!

for broken things may mend, but oh,

God, God, don’t abandon me any longer.

I don’t want to break anymore.

— 

Namarië, 

Astrya

Announcing… The Story Review!

     Greetings!      

     I’m beyond excited to launch a new series on Inkling Corner: The Story Review! This is where I’ll list all the requirements and details.

    What:

I was inspired by a good number of other bloggers to create a monthly submission portal for draft review: that is, I’ll be critiquing poetry, short stories, and even short plays that writers submit. It’s meant to encourage, while also providing (hopefully!) helpful constructive criticism. I’ll of course always to my best to foster a Christ-like environment for other aspiring authors to share their work and do what I can to help! 

    When:

Every month on Saturday, starting with the first entry!

    Requirements:

ø the submission must be a short story, short play, or poem. 

ø I will not tolerate any foul or explicit language, innuendo, or anything of an inappropriate nature. 

ø the submission does not have to be explicitly Christian, but it should be glorifying to God—especially in reference to the above point.

ø please create a separate document with your submission alone.

    Feedback:

I will...

ø do my absolute best to evaluate the submission fairly and offer as much feedback as I can.

ø give my honest opinion in a timely manner.

ø share the review with you before posting.

I won't...

ø be negative or heartless.

ø publish or steal your work without your consent.

ø post the review without sharing it with you first.

Thank you so much! I'm so excited to start this. Here's the link for the submission portal, too!

Screaming Into Silence (a story)

 Hullo and greetings! Today I'm sharing a story I wrote recently--which, admittedly, is far different than anything I've ever written before. But the best way to learn is by trying new things, right? Well, one would think.

This photo has no relevance to anything, other than the fact that it's beautiful and I wanted to put it here ;P

    Anyhow, any constructive criticism would be much appreciated! Here goes nothing...

EDIT 12/12/24: I have revised the story, and that version is now included here instead of the original. Thanks so much for reading!

Screaming Into Silence

November 24, 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

They have told me you are dead. There is no body.

I wish I could believe they were lying. They’ve strapped me to this bed like some fool child who can’t control herself. I am not a child. I am grieving, and they say I am mad. What balderdash.

I wish the accident had taken me and not you. You see, James, I love you. 

Yes, I love you. I’ll say it a thousand times, though now you’re not here to listen. I love you, I love you, and you are dead. I never told you. I should have. 

I was such a fool.

I remember. Don’t you? That day, the day before Christmas vacation last year, when we left class early and went sledding? It was the day I fell in love with you.

Allerton was miffed that we left, he always was—because those boring lectures of his were so important—but we didn’t care. It was Christmas and there were snowflakes in the air. I tried to catch one with my tongue, and you laughed at me.

Oh, how I miss that laugh, James, I miss your silly laugh and that lopsided grin you’d get whenever I was angry at you. But I could never stay upset for long and you knew it.

That was when I realised I loved you—when I pushed you down and you dragged me with you onto the ground, and you looked at me with snow in your hair and laughter in your eyes. “Isn’t this grand?” you shouted, and I responded by pelting you with snow.

Wasn’t it grand?

James, the nurse is here. It’s tiring me, she says, to write for so long. I try to chuck the nearest object at her, which happens to be a pillow. She calmly steps out of the way and folds her arms. You’re done for today, she grunts, in that spiky voice of hers. 

NO I’M NOT.

James, James, all I want is to pretend like you’re not gone, you’re not out of reach, and we can still talk and laugh like we used to. 

Goodbye, goodbye, James—talk to you tomorrow, like we always used to say.

Talk to you tomorrow—

November 25, 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

It took far too much begging for them to give me this notebook back. When I had politely explained to the nurse—Emilia, she calls herself, though it doesn’t suit her at all—the reason why I wanted it, she scoffed. You are mentally unstable, she said, in her usual staid manner. You’re just fantasizing. 

Mentally unstable, my foot. James, you’d know if I was mentally unstable. I’m not. I don’t know why I’m here, in this hospital for “mentally unstable” people. The French girl in the next room keeps sobbing and screaming bloody murder—she alternates days. I think today’s a murder day. I can already hear her shrieks piercing the thin walls. They sound so near. I can almost feel them coming from my own lips. Taunting. Tantalising.

BUT NO. I’m not like that, I’m not, I promise. You’d tell them, James, you’d not let them keep your girl stuck in this God-forsaken place. But you’re gone, now, and there’s no one else left for me.

No one else will laugh at my awful jokes. No one else cares about me.

Oh, dear God, how I miss your smile.

November 26 (or so), 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

Yesterday was a self-pity day. I cried myself to sleep and couldn’t bring myself to think about anything. Not even joyful things, because that would bring me back to what I’ve lost. 

The Emilia hates that I’m writing to you. You’re making it up, she says, you’re making it all up. I respond most reasonably by screaming in her face. You deserve to be written to, James, you deserve to be remembered. Even if I’m the only one left to do it.

I’ll try to remember, write about what happened, without crying again. I don’t want to be like that French girl. 

I’m not. I won’t be.

But it started… I don’t know how long ago. I was waiting at home. Waiting for you, actually. You were coming from Leith on the train, and we were supposed to have dinner together. I was supposed to tell you that I loved you.

Key word: supposed. I waited all night. They phoned me the next day—I don’t know who, the train station, the hospital, someone, something—and told me there’d been a crash. A terrible crash. No survivors.

I cried all night. And the next night, and the night after. Really I don’t know how much time passed. I couldn’t believe you were gone. I still can’t. Sometimes I wonder if they’re all just playing a joke on me. Sometimes I wonder if I really am going mad.

I’m not. I’m not.

You are, says The Emilia, from where she’s watching over my shoulder. That’s why you’re here.

I am not. The only reason I’m here is because your friends in this stupid place coerced me. You told me to come watch him die, only yesterday, and he was already dead.

You’re mad, she repeats, and tries to pull the pen from my hand. How many times have I told you that you are making this up?

How dare you—

James, you know—

You are real. I am real. We are more real than The Emilia or this place or anything. 

You’re mad, says The Emilia.

Liar. You liar. Go away. Let me finish. Let me finish, you stupid woman. I’m not done yet.

I’m sorry, James. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to die with you. I’m sorry I never told you I loved you—

Some Day In December, 1904

Edinburgh, Scotland

The Royal Infirmary

Room 408, The Left Wing

Today I was woken by the French girl’s screaming. But then I remembered I had watched you die in my dreams, and I screamed and screamed and screamed—

I feel blood on my lips. The Emilia says it’s from biting them. I think she’s lying to me. 

It’s been too long, James, far too long. Much has happened. They all keep telling me I’m mad. And then I wake up screaming. What if I actually am?

Today I’m to leave this room and go somewhere safer. They’ve been telling me that for weeks. At least, I think it’s been weeks. I don’t even know what day it is. For all I know, it could be Christmas Day. 

Merry Christmas, James. You’d get me out of here if you could, I know. But they’re keeping you. Someone must be.

The Emilia is hovering, pulling on my notebook. I don’t like this, James, I don’t like what’s happening. Only God knows, but does He even care about me anymore? I’m just some poor mad girl locked up in a room.

James, if you’re in Heaven, tell God I wish I’d loved Him more. Maybe then this wouldn’t be happening. 

Oh, God, save me, please, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s happening. 

We’re leaving now.

Wait I don't want to go wait wait wait—

James I love you I love you ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU

____

Soli Deo Gloria,

Astrya

Guest Post: Don’t Stop Writing

     What-ho! It’s been far too long since I’ve done a post, and I’ve made many promises that I still intend to keep, but it may take longer than anticipated. (Real-Life has a way of getting in the way of things, if you catch my meaning.)

    But anyhow, I have a special treat today—the lovely Hannah Ruth of Faith, Fiction, and Fairytales has agreed to do a post-swap with me (despite my busy schedule and unfortunate habit of procrastinating). So thank you, Hannah Ruth, for your graciousness and fantastic advice in this post! (You can find my swapped post at this link.)

    Without further ado, here ‘tis…

    Hello, all! I’m Hannah Ruth from Faith, Fiction, & Fairytales, and I am so honored to share a post here! Today I want to take a moment to offer some tips and encouragement for beginning writers… and if you’ve been doing this thing for a while, these are for you too!

If you are among those who have dedicated hours upon hours to your writing, all while wondering if it will ever see the light of day, know you are not alone. And know, too, that what you are doing… this writing and working and waiting… it has purpose. 

If nothing else, I hope you walk away from this post inspired. What you’re doing matters, so don’t you dare hang up your writing hat.

1. There is no “arriving” in writing. Practice makes better!

2. Every draft you write gets you closer to a published manuscript.

3. It’s a hard thing you’re doing.

4. Criticism can make or break you.

5. Use the waiting to your advantage.

6. Just because you’re stuck now doesn’t mean it will always be this way.

7. If God’s put it on your heart, you’d better get it on paper.

I think we all have this notion that someday, somehow, we’ll make it… we’ll be a real writer. We’ll have the education, the understanding, the practical skills… and our writing will be fantastic!

I always find it interesting when teens or young adults want to be writers, have spent a lot of time writing short stories or maybe even working on novels, but then will say something like, “Yeah, this is what I want to pursue in college, so maybe once I have a degree I can get published!" 

 

Um, what? 

Education is great. There is such a wealth of information out there from other writers and from professionals on the subject, and they can teach us a lot about methods for plotting, how to fully develop our characters, and any number of specific topics. But a college degree won’t make you a good writer—you know what will?

Writing.

Plain and simple.

So what you’re doing right now? It may not feel like you’re working toward something serious. But “getting serious” about writing doesn’t have to be a future thing. It doesn’t have to wait for adulthood or a degree or anything for that matter. It’s just waiting on you, and on your writing. Becoming a good and confident writer is all about discovering your own methods and tendencies, and working to improve your writing.

As a yet unpublished author (other than a few short pieces), I have many, many manuscripts under my belt. Some decent… some embarrassing… some unfinished… etc. And while many of those aren’t my pride and joy, nor have any of them found a home, they are valid and important parts of my journey.

It’s incredibly discouraging to write when we think the story will never get published—I feel that 100%. It makes it hard to keep going, to not give up. But when we keep going, we get to learn how to build a story. How to bring a plot from start to end. How to develop our characters over the entire novel. All things that are incredibly hard to learn with just beginnings.

So keep writing! Finish that manuscript, even if it seems like a lost cause. It may not be published, but it will teach you important lessons.

Walk into a library, and you’ll see abundant books. Authors who have multiple shelves. So many people have gotten their books published. Surely it was easy for them… how would there be so many books in the world if it was this hard for everyone?

Don’t believe the lie that you’re the only one fighting writer’s block… that you’re the only one working on the same project for years… that you’re the only one wishing this was a smidge easier.

Writing is hard. And I think it’s meant to be that way. It’s the very outpouring of our souls. It’s the invention of worlds, of people, of lives. It’s powerful, and it has the opportunity to touch many. So let’s embrace the struggle!

Criticism is an easy reason to quit, and if there are people in your life who discourage your writing, I am so sorry. If someone is constantly down on you and what you’re writing, it can be incredibly hard to keep going.

Even if someone just has specific feedback on things you could improve, things you’re *gasp* doing wrong, it can be hard to swallow. And let’s be honest… sometimes pride makes it easier to just quit.

But stick it out. Take criticism as an opportunity to better your writing and your craft. Allow it to prune you rather than cut you down entirely. Keep going. That’s the only way to get better!

When you’ve got a manuscript in the query trenches, it can be easy to invest your whole self into seeing it published. Sometimes it seems like your entire publishing future is in that one story.

(I hope your lie detector is going off)

Your publishing future is so much bigger than a single manuscript. A great way to get your mind out of the query trenches (and to invest in your real publishing future) is to start a new project.

Here’s the truth of the matter… we’re all going to write manuscripts that never make it into our hands. And that’s okay. It’s part of the process. If you keep writing, you create more opportunities for publication… and, yet again, you have the chance to practice your craft.

When school started in August, I was at about 90K words of a 100K goal for a novel I’m working on. And, I’ll be honest… I was stuck. See, my plot outline was fantastic right until the very end, and then I had to flex my writerly genius.

My writerly genius was feeling pretty wimpy.

So I dove into school and homework and classes and the busyness of life, and it’s gotten me pretty far. I was kind of ignoring the fact that I had an unfinished manuscript sitting in my files… and then, out of nowhere, inspiration struck. I got the piece to connect what I had written to the ending I envisioned.

And, voila! The words started flowing again!

 

All this to say… it’s okay to take a break. But don’t give up on yourself or your project! Sometimes time and space is exactly what you need to find inspiration. Sticky situations don’t last forever. Make sure to give yourself margin.

More than anything, you and I need to hold ourselves to this—because God has given us gifts… and we’d better be putting them to use!

If you have the imagination to create worlds, create worlds! If you have the gentle wisdom to write inspiring fiction, write it! Use your skills and develop them. Bring Him into your writing process; ask him to inspire you and to give you His ideas. He will. Time and again, I’ve found the inspiration to pour out thousands of words.

Writing isn’t just a hobby, though it certainly is that too. For many of us, it’s a calling. Don’t lose sight of that!

 In conclusion…

I hope this post has inspired you to keep writing, even when it gets hard. Being an author isn’t easy—not by a long shot—but it’s certainly a worthy calling. It will feel like failure, time and again, but I believe wholeheartedly that you and I will make it to the other side someday—if we’re willing to stick it out.

Thank you so much for letting me stop by today and share my piece, and happy writing!

What do you do when you struggle to find motivation to write? Is writing a hobby for you, or a calling? What resources have you found that have helped improve your writing?