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Posts Tagged ‘fear’

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I considered pursuing a writing career outside of novel writing. The idea of journalism had never really appealed to me and even though I did things like give reviews on video games or books I enjoyed, I never actually wrote my reviews beyond the fairly personal and grammatically free variety.

Last year, I got up the courage to actually step into writing as a career. I’d been growing tired of my day to day job and I needed a change. I knew it would be a long time before I could say that writing was my career choice but I also knew that there was no way I would be able  to make writing my career unless I actually put one finger… in front… no… that won’t work. I wouldn’t be able to do it unless I actually sat down and wrote.

Don’t get me wrong, I write every day, and I don’t mean blogs. I work on my novels on a daily basis and I’ve recently started penning my comic book series. I make sure to do a few pages of each a day and if I’m entering that point where I’m a little burned, then I make sure to at least do something related to my art. Sometimes it has nothing to do with my projects but most of the time it does. Any headway is good headway, even if it’s only a little. But this will only take me so far. Both of these avenues take promotion, which I’m not adverse against, and neither of these paths offer a sure-fire way to making a living. There are so many writers these days, it’s almost scary. The amount of informative blogs, self-published novels and comics, and independent and professional screenplays on the market are staggering. It can make someone who is an unpublished but avid writer since the day they could form actual words (and before even that, as I have some books from the 1980s that prove I was at least putting scribbles together on paper for as long as I could remember), such as myself, develop a deep-seated fear that I will never actually make any money with my writing. And that’s a very real possibility.

It dawned on me, however, that there are other ways to make money writing, while, at the same time, working on those projects (novels and comic books in my case) you’ve poured your heart into: freelancing. I’d never considered this route because I knew nothing about it. How did you get work? How did you maintain steady work?  How much were you paid for your pieces? Not to mention the fact that the idea of having my pieces read and critiqued by, perhaps, millions of people was almost too unnerving to think about. But last year, all of that changed.

I was, oddly enough, on Neogaf.com, like I sometimes am during the afternoon, when I happened upon a thread talking about a site that needed video game reviewers and editors. About a month or so before that, I had started getting an itch to “report,” not in the traditional sense, but in the “this is why you don’t/do want to use this product” kind of way. I can’t remember what triggered the itch, but it was there and it wasn’t going away. I looked at my fiancee, told her about the subject of the thread, then agonized over what to say in my application letter. I sent along a sample after responding and asking questions in the thread and waited.

I didn’t get a response back from that website, but there were other websites that were also looking for reviewers, newshounds, and more. I sent applications and samples to these sites and waited.

Less than a month ago, I got a response. It was one of the other sites that had been looking for people. They needed a reviewer and possibly someone to write articles and editorials.  We corresponded back and forth and found that I would be great as a reviewer and doing articles when possible, mostly because of my schedule and my lifestyle.

It was that easy… I suddenly became a freelancer. It’s not permanent and if they don’t like my reviews after a few submissions, they could easily sever ties with me. But I suddenly became a freelancer, in what amounts to the blink of an eye. There wasn’t any fan-fare. I didn’t need a degree in Creative Writing or Journalism. I didn’t even need to rub shoulders with industry bigwigs. I simply needed to send an application letter and a sample. I needed to take that first step. That’s all you ever need to take. I’m glad I’ve taken it… I can’t wait to see where the other steps take me.

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Senaiya watched as the man, covered in mud and dripping with water, crawled onto the bank before her, exhaustion rattling his breath. Water ran down his face, dripping from his hair and nose. He looked defeated, beaten by what ever ills had befallen him, but still she did not move, afraid that he would see her through the fog and green shoots of bamboo separating them.

She didn’t need to worry. The man collapsed, lying still on the lake shore, his breath rattling from his lung as he tried to catch it. But he never did. A wisp of steam rose from his lips, the last breath he would ever release and his body stilled.

Horrified, Senaiya stared at the man, too frightened to investigate and too entranced to run. She’d never seen a dead body in all of her years; at least not one so unceremoniously strewn like the man on the shore. He may have had family who didn’t know he was gone, perhaps children and a wife who would miss him. Maybe he was a lowly farmer who had been robbed of his wares by bandits while he went to sell them in town. All she knew was that he was dead.

The lake was oddly silent. From where she sat she couldn’t hear the bubbling of the streams that filled the lake and the normally boisterous cranes were quiet. Even the fog seemed to press in all around her, suffocating.

She was alone with the man, the only witness to his struggling, final breath. She felt responsible. If anything, he needed a proper burial. If he didn’t have one, his soul would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Senaiya swallowed back the horror and revulsion she felt and made her way down the muddy, rain slicked slope to the shore and crossed to the man’s body. When she got close, she paused.

A trail of blood led from the man to the water still lapping at his ripped and water soaked sandals. She swallowed. It had been bandits. Senaiya went to her knees in silent prayer but stopped with her hands clasped before her. There was something on the man. Something distantly familiar. She hesitated. Would it be wrong of her to turn him over and see what it was that had caught her eye? Would the dead understand?

Not wanting to wait for the answers and with the sand digging into her knees, Senaiya crawled across the sand, gripped the man’s shoulders, and pushed him onto his back.

Of all the things that had given her pause since the man had crawled upon the shore and exhaled his final dying breath, what was on his chest made her faint and sick. There was only one other place she had seen that perfectly etched, pure white symbol: on her.

Against her will, she reached out and touched the symbol. When she did, the man’s eyes opened. She wanted to scream, but her voice was caught in her throat. Unbidden, the man sat up and stared at her. His eyes watched her, not exactly into her own, but through her, as if he was seeing her from a great distance, and she knew that he was. He was seeing her from the echoes of death. Senaiya tried to move away but the man grabbed her wrist, held her as she felt bile rise up in her throat and her heart thunder so hard it almost drowned out the soft lapping of the water on the shore.

He pulled her closer. His strength was so much greater than hers, perhaps the strength lent by the Gods upon his death. She tried to get away but she couldn’t, he held her too tight. When they were near enough that their faces almost touched, he opened his mouth. “Do not let the child emperor have you. Escape.”

She opened her mouth to ask a question but he was gone. His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell back upon the sandy shore in the same position he had been before, death once again claiming his person. Senaiya peeled her wrist out of his cold grip and backed away from the shore. Against her will, she vomited on the sand, hacking and retching as that morning’s breakfast came out in great chunks. When the digested food came no more, she spit, looked at the body one last time and started back up the slick slope. She needed to get away. Whoever had killed the man would look for him. She didn’t want to be there when they came. She needed to get back home.

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