A Command Of English

My inability to write fiction crossed my mind today.  It's one of my many weaknesses that I find rather puzzling.  I think I have an adequate command of English (at least I like to think that I do, which is another argument for another time).  I have successfully published a Master's Thesis, and have always written well in situations involving formal writing.

However, I have no capacity to write fiction or to tell a story.  I wish not to hear the argument of "the more you practice writing fiction, the better you'll become."  I already know that.  I'm not concerned about the skill.  I know that can be developed over time.  I'm writing about the ability and capacity without which the skill cannot be present.

All fiction writing I've "produced" to this day has been nonsensical garbage.  I lose all command of the language when attempting to write fiction.  The words I write have a depth of thought akin to a brainless slime.  Even though I'm attempting to write fiction, where I can create my own rules of logic, etc., I cannot produce text with any cohesiveness.  The writing is segmented and reads of a person incapable of creating consecutive thoughts that complement each other.  The ability to create worthwhile topics is not worth mentioning.

What is curious is that I can write in a formal setting / voice.  My command of English is there when I write for research or when I write about another's work.  With my self-critique, I will not slash as far as to say I cannot write, for that would be untrue.  I can write.  I simply can't write when it is only I creating the narrative.  I can write about others' work.  I can write to describe a process and its conclusion.  Those two areas require either another's work or my own non-written work (If I attempt to describe the process and conclusion of my writing, I fail.).

My mind and knowledge of English simply do not allow me to create the substance.  Eventually I'll accept this reality, and not bore your with the cyclical lamentation.

The Wave of Hatred

Serous dodged three bolts of energy and heard a groan.  The attackers stopped looking stunned.  Serous glanced behind him and saw the lifeless body of his master on the ground.  There were no visible marks on his robe, but three auras of energy shadowed what would be three entry wounds.

The middle foe yelled at Serous.  He didn’t understand it.  The world was moving in what seemed to be slow motion.  Surrounding sounds were muted, and the only clear images in Serous’s visual field were the three enemies.  At that moment, Serous felt a coldness inside him freeze solid then burst forth.  In an instant, all light was drained from his world.  The exhalation of power seemed to never end.  Serous heard screams of pain, fear, and confusion.

Just as quickly as it disappeared, light returned to the world.  The sounds of nearby combat surrounded Serous, but in his wake were four dead bodies.  One of his master, and the smoldering corpses of the three aggressors.  A wave of fear and anger filled Serous as he surveyed his situation.  Only one thought entered his mind:  run.

Serous Darkice can't sleep

Enjoy some terrible fiction.

Serous lay on the bed in his chamber trying to drift to sleep. For the last two weeks, each attempt to sleep has become a greater challenge. It was as if his mind needed to continue working, regardless of how fatigued his body was--or, ironically, his mind for that matter.

The contemplation during these restless states was often meaningless. Serous would ask himself about what was he thinking and became frustrated when an answer wasn't apparent. Tonight's was different. Rather than responding to Serous with unfocused cacophony, his mind simply said it didn't know. Serous did not understand. He asked himself again how he came to be where he is: living in a castle, the sole apprentice of a powerful being (Serous sometimes questioned how human Darkoan actually was), learning to wield an control a power that he still doesn't understand why its at his disposal. His mind searched as far back in memory as it could, and no definitive answer was available.

The state of bewilderment annoyed Serous. His mind, despite being young--not even a proper adult by the count of years, was able to grasp most concepts. The study of his internal power was proof of this. Though not knowing why it was at his disposal, he learned how to control and wield it, even though the principles behind such ideas were the epitome of abstract. Serous knew he has been in the castle and under the tutelage of Darkoan for almost eight years. He also knew the existence of his power before then, but, tonight, was unable to connect the events together. At the very least, Serous knew he was thirteen years old.

Serous admonished his mind again for not having a memory of coming to the castle. How was it possible that he cannot remember? He acknowledged this was something he has never considered--of if he had, it was so long ago he couldn't remember. Perhaps time was the thief of this memory.

In the midst of his argument with his mind, Serous knew he had lain on his bed without sleeping longer than any of the recent nights. Tonight he blamed his restlessness on the moonlight pouring through the window. The illumination had always stimulated his mind -- even before coming to the castle. Finally, he yawned, and told himself he would ask Darkoan tomorrow about how he arrived at the castle. Serous was not going to waste the brief gateway to sleep his yawn provided.