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A Journey In Writing

When life hands you body parts...make a monster

- Didi Portia

Book One - Making A Monster

.01 - Let’s begin with the foundation of all writing. The Mission Statement:

It is my expressed desire to offer an insight into the Creative Writing process as taken from my very own experiences in both life and writing, which truly are interchangeable. My only hope is that you walk away with value from every lesson I share.

.02- Introduction: Who am I? The truth is...I’m nobody special. No more special than you. You live, you breathe, you dream. I live, I breathe and I dream. What makes me think that I can successfully teach writing? I guess its simple: I have been writing and “actively” studying the Art of Writing for many years.

.03 - Credits/Why I feel that I am capable to aid you in your own writing:

Some people may be under the impression that I landed my job because of chance or a lucky break. I resent that. What a lot of people don’t know is that I spent 15 years honing my skills as a writer. I went to University of British Columbia, completing several writing courses under John Maven as well as Samuel Petri who have works that are both a Part of the UBC as well as the University of Toronto’s Writing Curriculum. I would like to mention too that I finished at the top of every class, with the highest marks in every class. I also (while living on the streets in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside) was accepted into a well known Writing School in Connecticut “Long Ridge Writers Group” and trained under Karen Hammond, who is a star in her own right with hundreds of Publications from American Lawyer, American Profile, Family Circle, Runners’ World, Wine Enthusiast, Wine Spectator, and many others, and newspapers including the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Boston Globe, Columbus Dispatch, Miami Herald, and Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. She was also at one time the Senior Editor at Boston Globe.

Karen Hammond received the Outstanding Service Feature Article of the Year Award from the American Society of Journalists and Authors for an article on aging, the Jerry Morris Master Writer Award for an article on myths and realities surrounding the first Thanksgiving, a Travel-Media award for an article on Quebec City, and the Outstanding Poem of the Year Award from Perceptions literary magazine.

I trained under some pretty major writers—master in their field. This is to dispel any thoughts that I “fluked” off my position at a major UK Writing Firm. No. I worked damn hard for years and years to get where I am.

My journey in writing began over thirty-four years ago, back when I wrote my first genuine short story. I was 10 years old. The story, from what I can remember—written in pencil, on eight pages of loose-leaf,“front-and-back”—was one of those swashbuckling Space Pirate adventures, with loads of action and cool characters; Mercenaries named “Wolf” “Bruiser” and “Hawk” who walked with swagger, carried huge cannons and never flinched or moved for anyone except Dingo, who was the only badass in the galaxy who could tell a bunch of calculating savages what to do. As far back as I can remember...I wanted to be a writer. I used to dream of one day working from home as a real life writer who was actually paid to sit in his Pajamas and just do what came most natural. Now that I am a real life writer...I think its time to share this journey with the world. Anyone who is interested in becoming a writer should find this interesting. That is the hope, anyways.

Now that things are going moderately well—that is to say...I’m not broke, have a roof over my head, and the bills are paid—I can take a moment to reflect on my journey. And for what it’s worth...I will do my best to keep you entertained along the way. Looking back...I have to say...first and foremost...it was not easy. You see...I came from poverty. From broken homes. Foster homes. Alcohol and drugs. It is imperative that I mention before we go any further that I am a First Nation of the Saulteaux People’s of Central Canada. I was not born to wealth or stability. The total opposite, in fact. I was born to the natural chaos, ruin, and strife afforded to me and my people. That being said...I will not use that as an excuse to point out my very own, deeply personal struggle coming up through life as an uneducated aboriginal, ex-street kid in modern day Canada. I will, however, share with you some pinnacle moments that have both changed as well as shaped my life. But before we get too deep in...I would also like to bring to your attention the core of this Blog Book: writing.

Along the way I have amassed a considerable amount of knowledge on the subject. With millions of words written along the way, over the course of many years, and of studying the craft of writing intensely for the better part of two-decades, with University Studies, (UBC) College (VCC) as well as a renowned Writing Program “Long Ridge Writer’s Group” under my belt, I say with the utmost confidence that I am proud to be in a position where I can be of assistance when it comes to the Art of Writing. And make no mistake...writing is an art. And just like art...writing gets better with practice. The greatest thing to behold, in fact, is also the simplest statement, which says: “All people are natural storytellers. But not all people are natural writers.” Storytelling is a gift from our Lord, Creator...that one almighty deity who gave us such gifts as dreams and desires. It is our lot to dream. Why not “dream and do” then? Simple answer to that one...

For most...writing is scary, frightening, and most of all...daunting. A real task. The very thought of writing freaks people out. I guess that is what separates writers from the rest. We writers look out at the world from the edge of a cliff. It is those stories and experiences that lie deep within us that bridges the gap between life and imagination, reality and a blank piece of paper. While a blank sheet of paper provides the platform, it is raw passion that allows for the means. Let me explain. Everybody has a story to tell. Some several. Others...countless stories. Sadly most of our stories will fade into obscurity by the wayside of our minds simply for the lack of desire. It is those desires that compel writers to write. Writers write for many reasons, but the one indisputable factor that drives all writers is the same no matter the individual. We writers write...simply because it is a part of ‘who’ we are. It is because we must write in order for us to feel free and understood. We are compelled by a most natural force: the desire to be heard and understood.

This Blog Book will be an introduction to the Art of Writing. How to bring that story that has been in the back of your mind to the forefront. Using my very own techniques I will share with you lessons that are both easy to digest as well as easily utilized. Together we will cover the entire range of Writing Your Story, from beginning to end. Using my own Writing from a Catalogue of over 30 Short Stories and several Novels I will guide you throughout the process: from fleshing out a story outline to simple dialogue to writing texture and settings using the six senses to final product of your choosing.

Let’s begin.

Book One – Making A Monster

Chapter 1 – Understanding “Heart.”

Understanding heart. “What is heart?” you ask. Well, in the shortest, easiest way I can answer...I would have to say that “heart” is the one thing which drives us all. That goes double for our favourite stories. In short...like every living creature that lives and breathes...our stories require one thing: a heart. Without a heart our stories are empty, lacklustre and quite simply, meaningless. In fact...it is the heart which drives all other functions of every story you’ve ever heard, whether you are aware of it or not. It is the one thing that gives us insight to the storyteller. Think back on some of the best stories you have ever heard. Now think back on the ‘way’ the person told that story. It is in this moment you can see his/her true self shining through. It is in this moment we gain insight to the person telling us the story. Notice the way she smiles when telling one of her favourite stories. Notice the way his voice dips and rises with certain aspects of his tale. Notice the eyes, the mouth and the posture. That is heart. Heart is the one aspect of any tale that drives its functions, from tone, to atmosphere, to dialogue to settings. Heart allows the audience to ‘feel’ the different aspects of the story, which translates further into meaning and purpose.

Now that we have an understanding of “Heart” it is time to really begin our journey in writing. At the core of “Heart” lies several forces that shape both our stories as a means of being understood, as well as our desires which forces us to sit in front of an empty sheet of paper and instill our will into a focused series of words and paragraphs. It is through this series of words and paragraphs that we begin our journey. Talking about forces that compel us...let’s begin with the inevitable question: ‘why?’ Why do I feel it is necessary to write a story? There are an infinite number of reasons as to why. But the same reason befalls every writer and every aspiring writer: passion. Like any art, the prerequisite for writing successfully, is passion. The prerequisite to finishing that story, whether it is a 20,000 word Short Story or 200,000 word Novel is passion. The truth about passion is also the most basic, fundamentally; and that is the fact that passion is directly associated with heart. With emotions. Desires.

I’m not going to tell you ‘how’ to write. That is not my job. I’m simply going to share with you some valuable lessons I have picked up along the way. Lessons which have aided me in becoming the writer I am today. Lessons that translate into fun little exercises to help you hone your craft. Think about writing like...a monster. A monster with sharp eyes that see far beyond the scope of ordinary. A monster with such senses that a buzzing fly could not go undetected for miles off. A creature so powerful that entire worlds become crushed beneath its fiery steps. A creature so wild that the even the Gods gather in conspiracy to keep it from spreading its great wings. The simplest terms by which to envision your story is to understand that indeed it is a monster. Like every monster a motive lies beneath its rock-hard skin. The motive comes from one place: the heart.

Allow me to share an example of what I mean when I say “heart.” Below is an excerpt from my Short Story A Slaves Tale: The Devil &Dominus Titus, a Gladiator Tale of Ancient Rome, which gives a clear indication of motive and compelling desires. Essentially we see a clear purpose involved.

“ - A Slaves Tale: The Devil & Dominus Titus

111 A.D. The West Farmer’s Road, Outside Rome

The boy was captivated. So much, in-fact, that he could not help running full out to the top of the hill to get a better view! He lost his breath to wonder. Not just by the busy south roads heading into the city, their long lines of desert caravans, merchants and slave-carriages, but by the endless traffic, the grandeur of such a place—its ability to host such numbers, such spectacle!

The sight of wild animals in cages—a long line of them—made his heart sing! He could hear their savage growls from here: tigers, lions, bears, jaguars and some too that he’d heard of in late tales by the fire. Those strange, tall beasts whose spots resembled dry, cracked mud-beds, lanky beasts with long legs and high reaching necks—those ones that stood taller than three men. So that’s what a “giraffe” looks like!

Following single-file, sitting rather comfortably atop a dozen elephants, beautiful veiled women looked out from a world pampered by elegance and wealth. And as sweet as they were, nothing could be sweeter than the coins they tossed out to the waiting children, if only to see them smile. And the colourful feathers, rose-petals and jewels they tossed to the crowds were but a sprinkle compared to the rest of their great wealth.

Nor was he taken by the natural beauty of the land: the gentle hue of a perfect sunset spilling over lush groves, with gentle forests stretching away on the far southern slope, opening up to easy flowing valleys to the east, far beyond the city’s reach. To the north lazy marshes bridged a wide western field, trailing little forests south along the river Tiberus adding more shine to an already splendorous city. He did not blink. Not once. The perpetual movement of mighty Rome embraced him in loving arms, to his utter disbelief.

He could see now how it was the most spectacular place in all the world, truly a city of the gods! A city of dreams and might. Its tall white columns, magnificent temples, wide halls, teeming markets, lavish hillside homes, brilliant villas, wonderful bathhouses and glorious theatres brought the masses from far and wide across the known world, hosting tens of thousands of milling prospects at any of the great forums, named after mighty rulers: Traiani, Vespasian, Boarium and so forth. The city was home to breathtaking arches, basilicas and of course the most magnificent and prominent creation to date—rising straight up from the earth; an intricately designed marvel of modern architecture, the very pulse of Rome: the great Colosseum.

One-hundred-and-sixty-foot walls the colour of dry sand rounded a long line of wonderful stone arches, boasting the gods in all their glory: Jupiter, Apollo, Venus, Ceres and even great men as well: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, Nero Claudius Drusus and Gaius Julius Caesar—names that transcend time itself. Among them the founders of Rome themselves, the twins Romulus and Remus, posing tall and proud among a legion of excellence.

The Boy breathed deep, overwhelmed by her magnificence, her seeming grace, her light and her lull. But that was not it either.

Dominus, instead was enthralled by what lay beyond the first south road, further east to the second road. He wished he were there right this moment, lost amidst the thousands upon thousands of soldier’s heading out of the city, crowding the distant plains far into the clear evening. And still, it was not just the power of the Praetorian Guard that seduced him, nor the sheer numbers of the Roman Army, the greatest force in all the world, no. It was something even stranger that gripped him, something not seen, but ‘felt.’ It was in the way their women—a long line—trailed closely behind, seeing their men off to war.

He sensed a great power in all of it, discovering within himself a profound connection with his fellow man, that deep-seeded desire for great responsibility; to matter, to show his worth. How he wished he were a soldier, standing side by side with bloody, strong men, hoisting the grandeur of Rome on his shoulders, screaming mad—victorious, winning and expanding her glory, displaying her infectious will to dominate. Her will to power.

Tilting his head dreamily he crossed his arms, letting his mind run away with him. Someday, I’ll have great wealth and power. And someday too, I’ll be rich and famous and have a wife and many mistresses. Someday, I’ll be ‘free.’ He smiled to himself, I’d sell my soul… By Pluto I would.

Amethus walked up beside him, “Your fate is set in stone, boy. Even Jupiter would not bother with such thoughts of heroism and riches. And scantily clad women too, hmmm...?” the skinny fellow teased, nudging him lightly, reasoning with him. “We are slaves Dominus, and don’t you forget that. Your father, his father before him and so it is, all the way down, over a hundred years now. Good-hearted people, your folks. Hard working. You should be ever so proud that we serve above our dreams.”

Not my dreams, old man. -

(From “A Slaves Tale” The Devil & Dominus Titus” By Didi Portia)

Right from the beginning we get the sense that Dominus does not like his plot in life. He is willing to sell his soul to escape the harsh binds of slavery. He wants more. He sees the world before him and dreams of a life far beyond his reckoning. If you dissect this excerpt long enough you will find many instances of yearning; one boy’s powerful drive to climb out from beneath a hundred years of slavery. This is essentially the heart of the story: Dominus’ desire for fame, for riches and freedom. This one facte of the tale can translate into every aspect of our own lives. The trick is to allow it to breathe, and grow and manifest into a real, tangible item.

The very first sentence reveals Dominus’ heart. “The boy was captivated.” He was captivated by the sight of power, freedom and glory. He sees all three facets of life in the city of Rome which rises up in the distance. If you study the excerpt closely you will see his ‘desires...that which drives his heart, clearly.

“ - He lost his breath to wonder. [Not just by the busy south roads heading into the city,] their long lines of desert caravans, merchants and slave-carriages, but by the endless traffic, the grandeur of such a place—its ability to host such numbers, such spectacle!

The sight of wild animals in cages—a long line of them—made his heart sing! He could hear their savage growls from here: tigers, lions, bears, jaguars and some too that he’d heard of in late tales by the fire. Those strange, tall beasts whose spots resembled dry, cracked mud-beds, lanky beasts with long legs and high reaching necks—those ones that stood taller than three men. So that’s what a “giraffe” looks like!

Following single-file, sitting rather comfortably atop a dozen elephants, beautiful veiled women looked out from a world pampered by elegance and wealth. And as sweet as they were, nothing could be sweeter than the coins they tossed out to the waiting children, if only to see them smile. And the colourful feathers, rose-petals and jewels they tossed to the crowds were but a sprinkle compared to the rest of their great wealth.

Nor was he taken by the natural beauty of the land: the gentle hue of a perfect sunset spilling over lush groves, with gentle forests stretching away on the far southern slope, opening up to easy flowing valleys to the east, far beyond the city’s reach. To the north lazy marshes bridged a wide western field, trailing little forests south along the river Tiberus adding more shine to an already splendorous city. He did not blink. Not once. The perpetual movement of mighty Rome embraced him in loving arms, to his utter disbelief.

He could see now how it was the most spectacular place in all the world, truly a city of the gods! A city of dreams and might. Its tall white columns, magnificent temples, wide halls, teeming markets, lavish hillside homes, brilliant villas, wonderful bathhouses and glorious theatres brought the masses from far and wide across the known world, hosting tens of thousands of milling prospects at any of the great forums, named after mighty rulers: Traiani, Vespasian, Boarium and so forth. The city was home to breathtaking arches, basilicas and of course the most magnificent and prominent creation to date—rising straight up from the earth; an intricately designed marvel of modern architecture, the very pulse of Rome: the great Colosseum.

One-hundred-and-sixty-foot walls the colour of dry sand rounded a long line of wonderful stone arches, boasting the gods in all their glory: Jupiter, Apollo, Venus, Ceres and even great men as well: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, Nero Claudius Drusus and Gaius Julius Caesar—names that transcend time itself. Among them the founders of Rome themselves, the twins Romulus and Remus, posing tall and proud among a legion of excellence.

The Boy breathed deep, overwhelmed by her magnificence, her seeming grace, her light and her lull. But that was not it either.

Dominus, instead was enthralled by what lay beyond the first south road, further east to the second road. He wished he were there right this moment, lost amidst the thousands upon thousands of soldier’s heading out of the city, crowding the distant plains far into the clear evening. And still, it was not just the power of the Praetorian Guard that seduced him, nor the sheer numbers of the Roman Army, the greatest force in all the world, no. It was something even stranger that gripped him, something not seen, but ‘felt.’ It was in the way their women—a long line—trailed closely behind, seeing their men off to war.

He sensed a great power in all of it, discovering within himself a profound connection with his fellow man, [that deep-seeded desire for great responsibility; to matter, to show his worth.] - ”

In this short passage we come to learn both Dominus’ driving ambitions as well as give a small peek into his character. We see that he is both young and dreamy. We see that he is a slave early on, which makes us (the reader) root for him instantly. We see that he has his own dreams. That his ideals sit higher than those of his parents’ who were also slaves. I hope that I was able to clearly define the meaning of “Heart” by both showing and telling. By sharing my work with you, I am able to breathe a sigh of relief knowing that together we have taken the first step in discovering our own monster.

Now that we have “heart” out of the way...I think it is time that we delve into fundamentals. The basics. Let us take a moment to ask ourselves, “How do we begin, exactly?”

Now that we are done with an introduction into who I am as well as looking into the meaning of “Heart” I say we begin from the very bottom. The idea.

In the next Chapter “The Blood of the Monster” we will look at giving a life to our Monster. We do this by examining what it is we wish to write, what message lies at the core and also...examining the most basic facet of writing: how do we begin properly so that our story is met with sincerity as well as an engaged heart. Together, in the next Chapter, we will witness firsthand the first steps our Monster will take in its lifetime. Exciting times up ahead. Stay with me. This is going to be exciting! I hope that you have taken something from this lesson. I did my best to keep it engaging as well as thorough and meaningful. Until we meet again...happy writing, friends! ( :E