A late update

Wow, this past week went by in a flash. I lost the day of the update, or as you people call it: Monday. So, This Wednesday I have some things to share: I have been updating the Red Universe RPG System; The Grand Tour (2022 edition) is going well enough; I have actually enjoyed a movie, which led me to immediately start reading a book. So let’s break this down one step at a time.

First, the writing: I have really been pouring energy and time into editing the Grand Tour to make it better overall. I am currently redoing chapter five of the book, the point of no return in the story. It is hard to write this part of the story because I have to come up with a LOT of things to touch the characters and the reader to make them all feel the impact of what is happening in that chapter. Human relation is hard.

The Red System is going better as well. I have finished the basic equipment section for the different scenarios and now I have to move on to what I think may be the most challenging: magic. I like magic, but much like Conan (the Barbarian, not the detective), I have a special fear of magic and all things not of this world. It’s hard to come up with rules and effects for magic when one is prone to avoiding it altogether. So, the next step in system creation is MAGIC!

So, for the fun part: I watched a movie called Mortal Engines, released in 2018, and boy-o-boy was it fun (up to a point). I really got into it and was really curious to read the original material. I was surprised to see that the movie was made so long ago (4 years is a lot in Cinema years) and that the book was made even longer-er ago. 2001, as a matter of fact. It was written by Phillip Reeve and is part of a 4-book series. I already dropped the other two books I wasn’t reading in order to not completely read this one. I hope I can manage.

And that is all for the past week. I hope next week will have more to be told. Or maybe I’ll just come up with a nice review of Mortal Engines, the movie. Cause I still have to finish reading the book.

See you next week.

much time

yes, much time has passed

way too much. this is embarrassing, in a way, and interesting in only my way.

I would never choose to stop writing. Given the opportunity i would live off writing, but no one asked me. Not yet anyway. So, I just let it sit there, gathering dust and withering away along with a lot of other interests in my life. Music, RPG, board games, cosplaying, dating and drinking. I loved doing all those things, but now I can barely think of a moment to do any of these things. I guess it’s just life’s way of saying: you choose your own poison. I could go on to talk about how life has forced me into not writing because of my hours at work, but the reality is that i have been making choices in my life that have slowly pushed me away from this solitary craft.

I know some people may disagree with me on this one, but i do consider writing a very lonesome activity. not to say that one needs to be lonely to write or write well, but there is no one helping me come up with the words. someone may help me edit the words, choose better ideas to expose and even some images or videos and sounds to go with the text, but in the initial setup for this particular craft there is no one holding my hand. Do i dislike it? Not at all. I love it, actually. It’s one of the few times i actually manage to center myself on myself and my ideas. no other time allows me that freedom of looking within myself. All that is sweet and dandy, but only half-true.

The truth is, my life has not been my own for year now and I chose it like that, at first. Now it’s just straight gone because I offer more and more of myself everywhere I go, except to myself. And I want to change that. and yet, i sit with my computer on, watching House M.D. on the desktop and browsing Amazon for stickers to plaster all over my brand new laptop (a very nice chromebook that i have been using for everything except for fun).

i don’t really know how or where to start from. it’s a complicated thing. it’s a hard thing. it’s painful because so many people are going to get hurt, I think.

So i just write. I do what i did many times before: i scratch and crawl my way back into the world of the writers. i watch movies, i play games, i go back to old habits and maybe i try to come up with new habits. It’s what I’ve always done, it’s what i’ll always do.

So, hopefully, this will not be an empty post. This will not be a shout into the void that is as empty as the void itself. I hope that this is another part of my path to what I hope is a better version of myself.

Farewell Typewriter

One day, the man could write no more.

Despite his best efforts to write, his focus and will, he could not write a single word that made any sense. So he just sat there in front of his typewriter, staring at the blank paper, as if he was waiting for it to speak, to tell him what he should write about.

No amount of coffee or smoke helped. No amount of miles walked, places visited or people met. Nothing inspired him.

So, one day, while he sat on his wooden chair, staring at his typewriter, he gave up. He got up without hurry and grabbed the typewriter. He went to his basement, where things were left to be forgotten. He placed it carefully on a shelf full of other things no one used anymore and walked away. As he went up the stairs a tear fell from an eye for he knew what destiny awaited all those things that were left in the basement. He knew he would never again see that typewriter.

The man then went back into his office and dropped back into his chair feeling sadness crawl inside him. He had no more stories to tell, no more adventures to live, no more characters to meet. His creative mind was empty. He hung his head and cried in silence.

The typewriter, however, had no idea of what was happening, so it never lost heart or hope. It knew that its master would eventually return. How many times had he not left it somewhere else than his working desk? And he always returned, no matter how long it was. He always used it again. Lucky for the typewriter, it did not know time and its flow.

Years were gone without the characteristic sound of the typewriter in that house. The place had a new type of life and sounds. Instead of coughs, curses, steps and typing, the sounds became those of laughter, running feet and many talks. The man had built himself a new life without the typewriter and that strange unpleasant feeling of a blank piece of paper.

The typewriter, on the other hand, knew too well its place in the world. It knew that to dance under the quick precise fingers of its master was its one and only purpose. And so the typewriter waited.

One fateful day the door to the basement opened again and someone came down the stairs with slow but steady steps. The typewriter could not see for it did not have eyes, so it simply waited. The strong young grip of her master came to it and carried it away. The typewriter was glad to be out of the basement and back into the hands of her young master.

The typewriter was gently rested on a desk and was fumbled with by sure fingers. Ink rolls, typeset, all in place, just like the last time she was used. Then the dance started again, just as the typewriter knew it would. The fingers had lost some of its confidence, but the typewriter knew it was a matter of time before it was back to full speed.

Unbeknownst to the typewriter, however, that was not the same young man who made it dance with grace and that characteristic tapping only a typewriter can produce.

The years had come and gone and now the youngest son of that first writer touched the typewriter with skill, precision and grace. But that made no difference to the typewriter. It knew only that it was performing that which it was built to perform.

The man who could not write devoted his life to his children after he left his typewriter on that musty shelf in his basement. After the man realized he could no longer create incredible stories, he decided to tell his tales to his sons and daughters. One of them took a special like to his tales and decided to create his own. The son became a man and his father told him about his companion in writing.

Now the man sat with the typewriter, tapping away all day long, weaving story after story. He had many ideas, many tales to tell.

So one night the father went to the desk where the typewriter once again rested. He stared at it with a warm smile on his old face. He caressed the old friend and said his final goodbye to it.

The typewriter, however, knew nothing of farewells.