A blurb about the new series I’m directing for Rotoscopers.com:
Studios like Disney and DreamWorks get a lot of attention (and deservedly so, for the most part), but there is a whole world of animation outside of the main American studio system. With this series, we aim to introduce dozens of wonderful films that easily deserve a place next to classics like The Lion King or Toy Story.
Starting this Friday, we’ll be featuring a different independent animated film every weekend. Tune in and watch with us as we review and discuss independent animation, from Akira to Balto to 9 and even to the Barbie movies…
Read more on Rotoscopers.com!
Longtime MSM Pinterest followers will know that not all the prompts on Bits & Baubles or Bits and Baubles, Part 2, have a written blurb with them – not yet, anyway. I’m working through every one of the over 800 blurbs and regularly updating some with their own written blurbs.
Here are the most recent updates:
She stepped past the curtains, leaving her purse and coat backstage, and discovering an ingrained world on the old stage. When she looked back, there was nothing, nothing but more of the world she stepped into.
He contorted any and each way he could, the rock face scraping unforgivingly against his back and chest. He was cold, he was hungry, but he was determined not to get stuck.
“Maybe it’s because I’m so sweet.” Their soft wings fluttered over her face and gentle hand.
“Do lots of people say you’re sweet?”
She shook her head: “I just know I am.”
He didn’t trust the words. Too many people repeated them and believed them; his gut told him something was wrong. He would repeat them, but only while he tried to find out what they really meant.
She leaned out the door, checking that the coast was clear before stepping out at all. It was a risk, she knew, but she couldn’t go through with what her advisors wanted until she’d spoken to… The leaves crunches under her feet, her ears hypersensitive to the noise, and her heart pounding out of her chest as she hurried further away.
I wanted to scream and throw things and run out of the room. But I laughed instead. I couldn’t help it. Suddenly I could breathe enough to laugh, even though I was shaking, shaking with fear that it wasn’t true. He was dead. I was free. Could it really be?
“We know our fight.”
“All you’ve done is go out and kill people; that’s not our fight, that’s murder.”
She stepped tentatively into the water, its deep blue rippling around her ankles. Her skin shimmered as the water settled again. She thought to swim, but at that moment she dared not shatter the peace.
“I think you’re an ass.”
“Never mind, he’s fine.”
“Wow. So mature. And here I am trying to help you.”
“Yeah? Well, you can shove your help right up your…”
“Alright, alright, I’m going.”
Stay tuned for more at the My Storytelling Mind Pinterest!
“Through my kaleidoscope I can see next-door neighbors in next-door worlds and pretend they can see me, too. The next-door neighbors live like us and talk like us and feel like us, but they don’t act like us or look like us or think like us. If a grown-up saw my next-door neighbors in their next-door world, instead of a handshake held out, there’d be a nickname called out.”
“You can’t fan the heat of problems; they boil and bubble and burn. The only way to stop the pot from boiling over is to take away the fire.”
“When the stars have sparkled their last and the dance has come to its final note, will you love me enough to remind me what I’ve lost?”
“The mermaids murmur, the fairies flutter, the trees tell the tale of the princess who rides the Sun-laid path. She takes her rest upon the river bank, with naiad maids, and takes the Sun’s embrace. For when the Sun reminds you of dandelions and the rays leave stars in your eyes, is it not better to swim and be enveloped in the warmth than to walk upon it and forget the feeling beneath your toes?”
“Burst forth, new life, for I am the Sun and the Moon, the giver and the keeper of life, the beginning and ending of all things, she to whom the green of Earth bends to meet, and I command thee, burst forth!”
“The bouquet of the day, plucked from the fields before the woods, lay upon the wooden floor, its summer magic disappeared among the petals and fallen buds”
“Flower green upon the bank, why do your leaves grow gray? The sun above, it’s rays shine bright, and yet your petals fray.”
“Can you see the nymphs laughing? Can you see them as they smile? Can you see them, little groundling? Can you see their wit and guile?”
“Though she watches, and she smiles upon those who hope; though she watches from above, she cannot take part.”
“To pass through their world, the old man said, the curtain must be lifted from your eyes … The curtain, the curtain, it hides the magnificent truth that magic is always in front of you – hiding, waiting, watching. Are you worth lifting that heavy veil?”
“When the sun is high and the breeze is low, the trees can whisper and giggle and glow. If your quill is quick and your mind open, the stories will flutter onto the page through the ink onto the parchment.”
When the fog rolls in across the bay, and you can hardly see your hand in front of your face, the saddened and desperate multiply in the darkness. The bridge, scarlet arches of golden opportunity, is there to welcome those who have shut the doors to any other option. Once there, the air is suffocatingly fresh and the only reminder of the ocean below is the crashing of the waves. You can stand there all night, surrounded by fog and dark thoughts, as I once did, and you can even gaze around in the faint hope that someone will see you, ask you what you’re doing, try to stop you. But, rather than spotting a guardian angel, I saw only another man, a man whose face resembled my own in its desperation and hopelessness. Perhaps that is why I hesitated my own destruction; his somehow seemed so much more urgent to stop.
I was running before I knew that I had moved, and shouting before I wanted my mouth to open. He jumped with more conviction than I ever could have felt, staring into a whirling abyss below. The tail of his coat and the hat from his head were the last of him swallowed by the great cloud of white fog. In all probability, I was the only one who saw him that night, the only one who would know about the missing man that would be advertised for in the papers in the following week, and the only one who would know exactly why. I didn’t know the man. I had no idea who he was, and I hadn’t seen his face properly either. What I had seen of him would burn in my brain for the rest of my life, as it burned against the back of my eyelids then, a repeating scene.
I stood there for maybe another hour, glancing every few minutes at headlights speeding by, foolishly considering forcing one to stop. That wouldn’t do. Instead, I paced, hands in pockets, taking only a few steps before kicking something solid. It wasn’t part of the bridge – my foot would have known immediately. No, this was something smaller, sized conveniently for a gentleman’s coat pocket. A small notebook it was and it teetered dangerously at the edge of a similar doom to its presumed original owner. Taking a step back, I knelt down, picked it up, and turned it once over in my hand. Another glance into the white, billowing ravine below told me it was time to go home, no matter how much my curiosity bribed me to sit down then and there, and read a dead man’s notebook.
I have never been one for diaries or journals, despite the near-constant narration my mind supplies throughout my daily life. Whether I’m making a mental checklist, writing out a vignette from my day, or putting together little blurbs inspired by people, words, and scenes I witness in everyday life, words are my consistent companion.
I may not keep a diary, but you can bet I have a generous stock of notebooks. And I will probably buy more soon. Sometimes my train of thought switches track too quickly for a pencil; notebooks are my sidekick while I travel or while I’m drafting or while I’m writing lists. Even if your main writing medium is technological, as mine is, notebooks can serve as a fine outlet to scribble the mess of thoughts your mind keeps creating. Then you can digitize those scribbles as you decipher them.
There’s little doubt that we wordsmiths need a brain outlet, especially when between projects or struggling to start a new one. Here will be an amalgamation of writerly brain food – research, prompts, writing, creating, editing, little procrastinations, and many other creative stimuli. Most of all, My Storytelling Mind will be a writer’s resource, meant to both motivate and listen. Use the site purely for inspiration or information, or get involved in the conversation. Either way, MSM is here to support your creativity, your writing, and your imagination.
Stay tuned for daily prompts, world-building tips, inspirational posts, various research topics, and tricks to perfect your writing process.
Welcome to My Storytelling Mind!