The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of the Origin (4|1)

(№4.1)

The beginning of a story is always the hardest part, as there is only so much to write and create and to be inspired for. You need to be kissed, embraced by a beguiling muse, who caresses these little roots of inspiration to begin with. To let ideas sprout, characters arouse from nothing. Born adventurers, a dystopian world painted in darkness or catching the sombre, macabre aura, the ambiance of a childish lullaby teaching with the lent aid of monsters to eat their vegetables procured on tables without protest and do their chores most efficiently.

You might have the hunch of an idea, what to type, what to write or how to start your epic and glorious story, storming the world in a heartbeat, magical as in a fairy tale.

Of course, it's never so easy.

Let's pretend you worked it out, have your idea, your plot totally placed out, indicated to the last decorated facet, maybe invented some quite interesting persons on the way with the most different physical or ethnical attribution you'd die to meet in reality. Let his eyes be blue! Or, as red as dawn in January. Let her hair have the colour of curated honey you battled a storm of a thousand wild ired bees, skin tanned and as soft as silk. And so on. 

You write and write and lose yourself in the story, feel the fictional persons, in fact you are delved, indulged, dipped in with your eager toes, until the muse stops singing and your flood, the ride of the tale is over in result of lacking inspiration. Terrible headaches follow with the slightest inclination to gather pen and ink again, to continue seemingly impossible. The blockage is in some cases so serious, so beyond reach that a mere dozen die. Ideas, not people, never people, sadly. That would be too easy. Never say never though. Separated from your most earnest friends by mere declining mental capacity due to writing a novel and a wall of pure, untouched canvas hence the possible output of your misery may turn the one or other fellow mad. And madness allows the door of death to swing ajar.

Well, a lot of sparking concepts for stories are ended even before touching your consciousness, reaching with dampened fingers even never paper or stone, so in total the number might be incalculable for even the most gifted mathematicians.

I'm going to tell you somewhat of a secret; Decide what you do with the knowledge.

In order to craft stories, spinning them like cobwebs are by witted spiders awaiting crusty flies alike your desire to attract daring readers in your boost of over confidence, foolishly believing to achieve that by laying out unanticipated, cunning traps of entangled paragraphs and loving description fine and with a fragility to end borderline tragic, excel in conniving motions to trick them, loving and fearing for the characters you admire exactly as they do, only to kill them on the very last page, beyond retribution. Cruel, but graspable. You don't need to be delighted every then and now, you don't have to figure it out all at once in a hushed, rainy afternoon of conspiring clouds because you have nothing better to do, invest your pathetic life in something efficient, maybe. Perhaps it'll work. Rather it won't.

That couldn't be further from the truth.

Of course, some do it, some don't. But you have to agree with me, this "technique" might not bear the passionate-amazing-wonderfulness you'd expect, yet still can guarantee some high-quality in wording and thinking.

Let's be real, folks; A lot of tales are baloney these days, written by authors who should pull quite literally the trigger to conclude their life, ashamed as rightfully as they should. Before this liberated gesture perhaps be inflamed by the pricking audacity to set their scriptures and notes on fire, so their beloved might not resume to scratch their eyes out after reading this abomination of a farewell note.