Stream of Conscious Writing Exercise

[Breaker]

The other night I was chatting with the Manda on the topic of writer's block. We were both grappling with it at the time (her case being significantly worse than mine, I believe), and as an exercise to try to get us back in the "zone" I suggested we do a special thread together.

The premise was basically a modification on an exercise my Writer's Craft teacher in high school used to have us do. About four and a half hours later, we completed The Good Olde Days (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=15540).

The premise for that thread was "a story about baking bread", and each post was written in exactly ten minutes. We discussed it very little over AIM, mostly just taking breaks to say "times up, good post, my turn, and go." This was the first hardcore stream of conscious writing I'd done in awhile, and it felt really good. The next day, I finished a solo quest and a battle I had been putting off forever, re-wrote the outline for an upcoming quest, and judged a few threads. The exercise really helped me clear my head, so I thought I'd share it with you.

The Exercise: Every so often, I'll make a post in this thread with a topic or tagline, and some basic guidelines. Anyone who feels like it can post a reply, but there are some rules.

Rule 1: Ten minutes, no more, no less. Set an away status on IMs or sign off completely, if you have to. For the ten minutes you are writing this post, your fingers should literally not stop typing. If you can't think of what to write, break off on a random tangent. There is no wrong way to do this, unless you stop and think.

Rule 2: Do not edit. Once you've finished, hit "post reply", then read what you wrote. Oftentimes you'll be surprised at how good some of it is. Most of the time, it will make you laugh at yourself, which is good.

Rule 3: It must be in character, and the setting must be somewhere on Althanas. I'm imposing this rule because the idea is to fan the flames of your Althanas writing.

Rule 4: Focus on quantity, not quality. By that I mean keep writing the entire ten minutes without stopping, and don't worry about whether it's your best work or not. Worrying about how "good" your writing is not only counter productive, it ruins the exercise.

Other than that, stick to the general rules of Althanas RP, for the same reason as rule 3. Without further rambling on, here's the first tagline:


An external influence frightens your character.
Guidelines: Try to make this a narrative hook. It should draw the reader in, and make them itch to know what happens next. Set your timer or tell a friend to IM you in ten minutes, and GO!

[Logan]

Logan laughed loudly. It had been the first time in ages that he'd allowed himself to laugh, truly laugh. It had been forever since he had and it definitely felt relieving to do so. Perhaps that was why he kept laughing. Or maybe it was the clown who fell on his ass only moments before. Either way, he was relieved and finally at ease.

The clown proceeded to get up from his backside and Logan stretched out his hand. "I'm sorry man, I didn't mean to start laughing like that, but I really hope you're ok," he said with an air of humor in his tone. The clown shook his head, sighed, and then proceeded to accept the outstretched hand of Logan's.

"It's ok. It happens all the time. Don't tell anyone, but this is part of the act," the clown said very clearly and with a nudge in the psion's general direction. "After all, I am the best damn clown in all of Althanas." Logan's eyes welled up as he began laughing once more. He hadn't felt that good in a long, long time.

Just then Logan felt a headache coming on. He knew the sensation. It wasn't normal and it wasn't his fault, but he knew it nonetheless. Damn that Philantross, the psion cursed silently to himself as he fell to his knees. The entire time he felt the headache, the clown had somehow transformed from something humorous and approachable to the demon Logan had cursed moments before. Philantross now stood before the downed psion.

Reaching down with his clawed hand the demon pulled Logan's chin up to look at him, WEAK! You are nothing more than a weak human, Logan, the demon paraded Logan's current case of uncontrollable pain about. I mean, really, Logan, did you really think you had beaten me for good? Did you really think WE were through? Oh no, son, we have only just BEGUN, Philantross' last words came roaring out at an almost feverish scream.

The psion stood from his knees. He hadn't ever expected the demon to be alive; let alone be here. He'd thought he'd beaten him, destroyed him. Hell, at the very least he thought he'd gotten rid of him. But low and behold, the damned demon managed to survive. Logan cursed under his breath as he unsheathed his swords.

The demon had spun himself around his back to Logan to show all those who'd gathered who was in charge, Do you see children of the light? This bastard of the dark thought he could rid himself of the great Philantross, demon of the mind! The demon laughed haughtily as the sounds of Logan's blade coursing through the air pierced his laughter.

[Deus di Eclave]

With a crack, the supple whip wrapped around the hilt of the sword, snapping against the massive fighter’s knuckles as it did. Drizaghar gave a mighty tug and the blade pulled free of his opponent’s grasp, flipping through the air to lodge itself in the earth several paces away. “You’re done,” the dark elf snarled to his enemy, reveling in the taste of victory as his whip lashed out once again.

However, the brute was far from done. As the leather whip cracked against his skin, leaving a sizeable welt and eliciting more than a small wince, he turned to his men and motioned for a new weapon. One of his captains tossed a spear into the ring and the fighter was once again on the offensive.

The wooden pole swirled through the air, beating aside the whip’s advances. Growling at his inability to land a blow, the drow curled the whip in one fluid motion and snapped it on his belt. He slender fingers worked through the motions of a spell and a word brought fire dancing across his hands. The orange flames crackled and popped, hungry for flesh to feast on. As the brutish general he fought closed in, Drizaghar cocked his arm back and let his fire fly. The flames splattered across his foe’s face, blinding him momentarily and allowing the necromancer a chance to end the battle.

His crossbow flew up to his hands, immediately training on the hulking fighter’s face. With a twang, the iron quarrel launched through the air with deadly accuracy. The bolt struck home, burying itself in the man’s cheek. A roar tore itself from his throat, threatening to send the undead gathered in a ring around the fighters back to their graves.

Smiling with evil delight, Drizaghar dropped the crossbow in favor of his whip once again. Lighting the length on fire with another word of power, the drow lashed out at his adversary, loathing written across his delicate features. The fiery weapon cracked against the man’s flesh, raising red patches from both the heat and the whiplash. Spots sprung up all over the massive fighter’s skin wherever the whip could find purchase. After only moments, the dark elf general’s enemy was curled on the ground whimpering in pain. He had defeated the brute.

Just as he turned to announce victory to his own troops, Drizaghar was startled to see the man rise again, a blue aura surrounding his body. The dark elf’s features twisted as rage once again took hold of him. The whip cracked forward, intent on sending the man back to his knees. But as the leather weapon launched through the air, the massive general’s meaty fist caught it mid-flight and wrenched it from the drow’s grasp. With unearthly strength, the brute grabbed a full-body shield from one of his warriors and launched it through the air like a discus headed straight for the necromancer.

It caught the dark elf square in the chest, his eyes still wide with surprise. As he flew back several yards before landing, all Drizaghar could think was, How on earth did that happen?

[Saxon]

The desert often hid mysteries from the public eye, and as Saxon found out, it was probably for the best. Upon the second evening at the fallienite bazaar, he watched as a hunchbacked patron known simple as Farqaw fled fleetfooted from the market carrying a pinch of saffron in his bag. The eldritch knew not how expensive the cooking ingredient was, but he knew that thief would be caught or pursued all the same. Running at a breakneck pace, Saxon chased after the small man who held saffron at his fingertips. The penalty for thievery in Fallien was steep, and an eye for an eye was often something that the eldritch agreed with, but losing a hand for such things was hardly sporting.

The weird made it into the narrow alley that was filled with shadows and blackguards, their identities secret as they walked calmly past him in capes and cowls that were made of a coarse linen. Saxon could hardly imagine how he couldn't gain any ground on the saffron-stealing bandit, because no matter how fast he ran, the little tyrant was able to keep his distance. Ducking and weaving, bobbing and zig-zagging, Farqaw made his way through the alley and into the bustling streets where Saxon followed him and was hit in the side of the head with a blackjack.

Awaking several hours later, the eldritch could hardly contain his anger as the dull thumping ache of the blow resonaded throughout his entire body. It must have been some hit, the eldritch realized. Standing on his feet, he began to walk towards the edge of the bazaar when he saw that a cowled figure was standing just ahead of him. Calling out to the man, Saxon watched as the figure backed slowly away into the darkness. Unable to contain his curiosity, Saxon followed after him and made his way into the darkness.

If Saxon hadn't been slouching, he would've had his head cut clean off by the scimitar that wooshed overhead. The sight of the creature before him caused the weird to gag as he encountered a Strange. The figure smelled of rotten eggs and his scaly physique made him look like he had rickets.