Body rocked back and forth.
Shapely legs twisted and turned.
A small torso expertly maneuvered to get into a better position.
Then a feminine figure yelled….
“Woo~! I cut down my time to a whole minute!”
Let's have some fun,
This beat is sick
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick
Currently you and Steve were on the ground sweating.
“You have to do better than that to beat me, Stevie~” You brought your face close to his smirking. Lips just millimeters from his own.
I wanna kiss you
But if I do then I might miss you babe
It's complicated and stupid
Got my ass squeezed by sexy Cupid
Guess he wants to play,
Wants to play
A love game
A love game
Steve was breathing pretty hard. “Ma’am it would take more than that to take down Captain America”
His hands were at your hips and you were stra
I opened the door
And there I was,
Skimming the pages
Like the Dawn Treader
Flies over the ocean waves
Into the place beyond the horizon.
Whatever else I had to do,
It didn't matter
All I could imagine
Was the sight of Aslan,
A great and powerful beauty,
His rippling muscles
Stronger than known fact
As he let me ride across his back.
We rode far
Beyond the lamp,
Past the White Witches
Dilapidated old stone castle
And the now flourishing CAIR PARAVEL,
Past the tree full of the golden apples of life
Into Aslan's Country;
A place of song.
It didn't matter,
For I've been there too long;
As for Narnia,
I was there for years
Before I bade the world farewell,
For after many centuries
The story was over.
Back in reality,
It had only been a day;
To short for my joy to last
I'll have to wait to go back again,
For I know I will return
i’ll be honest with you;
there is a certain authority to being
somebody said once that writers struggle with reality
because we spend all of our time
constructing our own.
the truth is, life may be impermanent
but the details are not.
time has one direction
the past cannot be revisited
and history cannot be redone
with a red pen.
what happens, happens.
we are walking permanent records
that can never be expunged.
no matter how many orphans we pull from fires
no matter how many dying children we sing to
we still made our mother cry once
we still let our little brothers find us passed out
on the front porch when we were nineteen.
imagination is our primary retreat
because there, that boy does fall in love with us
and our first kiss is not spit on our chins
or misses landing on our nose
(maybe there are waves crashing in the background)
and we say everything right.
there, we have crafted a version of ourselves
that lives perfectly.
“if i could,” someon
I'd sculpt them to suit my waking hours.
With Pygmalion's hands, I'd build my Galatea
And watch her come to life.
Let me clutch thee...I hold thee not!
Anybody Can Write a Novel Version 2.0
Chapter 3 “World Building” – Section 1 “History”
“Man is explicable by nothing less than all his history. Without hurry, without rest, the human spirit goes forth from the beginning to embody every faculty, every thought, every emotion, which belongs to it in appropriate events.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essay I, History
From the events which take place in your novel, to the culture of the people groups present, to the attitudes present in the characters, to the nature of the cosmos and the natural consequences of actions, everything in your story will be rooted in the history of the world. Each of your characters will start out as the sum of everything they've experienced, th