Advice · Humor · Short Story · Writing

Artists and Writers

Morning all. Coffee’s currently being consumed for power and majesty, and it’s time for a new blog article from the forges of Casa de Geek. Tuck in.

drink-coffeeWay ahead of you, lady.

Let’s talk visuals for a moment, ere I leave you with today’s Writober offering. More specifically, let’s talk writing visually. It wasn’t terribly long ago that I found myself running a panel at a convention on the topic of writing scripts for comics and animation. Both are visual mediums, but both share the same spine at conception when it comes to banging out a good script. I had a lot of experience in that vein, so I held court as it were, and divulged some of my tricks of that trade.

At the end of the panel a gentlemen came around to me and said, “You strike me more as an artist than a writer.” He said it in such an accusatory way that I was kind of put off. It was as if he was saying “How dare you present yourself as a writer?” My reply wouldn’t convince him otherwise.

To utilize a most succinct phrase from our collective meme consciousness: Dafuq?

c3eExhibit A: Yes.

The mediums being visual aside, and with all respect to that man, I’ve not only always considered myself in equal measure, but I fervently believe that the job of a story-teller in either type of work is interchangeable. I’ve always tried to tell the viewer a story through my art, and similarly I’ve always tried to put images into the heads of those that read my work.

So yeah. I think it’s paramount to think and create visually in one’s writing. There is so much visual information that can be packed into a single phrase, or even a single word, that to forego that is pretty much equal to one asking to be hog-tied at the starting line of a sprint. I mean, yeah, you could do that, but on the other hand what the hell is wrong with you?

And this goes beyond scene or character description. By couching things in descriptive terminology, you can get so much more mileage out of things that aren’t normally a visual cue. How someone says something, for instance. But it’s also crucial to matters of the rest of the senses, too.

Won’t someone think of the other senses?

my-spider-senses-p5yfzlEasy there, Spidey. Dial back the creep factor.

Yes. Yes we will. Because we’re awesome like that.

A good rule that was passed along to me is to try to engage all five of the reader’s senses when setting up a new scene or event. Give them the full upgraded theater experience. Go William Castle on that prose, and play with their entire experience.

Also, if you’re not in the know, go look up William Castle. You’re welcome.

To be a successful writer in fiction is by necessity to be an artist. Your canvas just happens to be the mind of your reader. Your storyboard or film reel plays out in the room of your reader’s brain case. To somehow think that artistry and writing are somehow disconnected is frankly insulting to both artists and writers alike.

To whit: That dog just don’t hunt, random antagonistic guy at a convention panel. But thanks for the article fodder. You’re swell.

fb_img_1417987576482-600x600So, so much more. I’ve got it on tap.

Be willing to think like an artist when you write, and be willing to craft like a writer when you create art, and I can promise you that the work in both areas will be improved by that open-mindedness.

But now, let’s leave ya with today’s Writober offering. It’s a little story about a boy, and a determined Bhoot. Enjoy!

Sounds Across the Veil

The boy stared quizzically at the apparition.

The Bhoot shrieked again, but the child only tilted his head, back and forth, with a small smile playing across his lips. The child sat cross-legged on the bare wood of the family room, watching the spirit closely, but without any fear. Nothing about the Bhoot’s appearance, from his backwards feet that would not dare touch the floorboards, to his total lack of shadow, seemed to faze this boy.

The Bhoot flowed in form, swelling and stretching into the appearance of a fierce tiger that roared with thunder from its mouth.


Tiger striped swirled and gathered like spilled ink, and the Bhoot spread arms already sprouting feathers, and a menacing bird of prey flapped angrily before the child. Its talons were sharp and ready to rend soft young flesh.

Still nothing.

The Bhoot let out an angry hiss, and its sound lengthened along with its form. A wide hood snapped out, and the coiled cobra lunged at the boy. That, at least, made the child flinch, but the Bhoot was alarmed as the startled expression of the boy turned into a wide smile.

The child started clapping in amusement.

Well. This was a fine mess, was it not? The Bhoot could not ascend or descend to either plane; he could not move on nor truly affect the physical world. And now, he could not even scare a boy-child who could not have been more than seven years old. The indignity of it was too much.

The Bhoot shrank in on himself, ghostly arms wrapping around himself in a sad embrace. The boy frowned at this, and he stood up to look into the Bhoot’s eyes. For that moment, only silence passed between the living and the dead. Would the boy openly mock him now? Would he run for iron, or a pitcher of water to drive him away in shame?

Instead, the boy’s hands began to move, and the Bhoot understood the gestures from old memory.

“My. Name. Is. A-R-J-U-N. What. Is. Yours?” the boy signed with a gleeful smile.


That’s all from me for now. See you on Friday.
Until next time, Horns Up.


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