I Know How to Make a Story Easier to Remember Than to Forget

When you look at a beautiful hand embroidery, you see cross-stitching and think if you had patience enough, you could do that. The multitude of colors may scare you at first, but you know that to master the skill itself you just need a little training. The reverse side of it, though, looks eerily tangled. And that may add the fear of new and unknown to your feelings.

Life is a custom masterpiece, and the beauty of it is inspiring. The confusing opposite side is a mere bunch of knots that are made along the way. Many or a few - they keep the picture in place - when a thread is over, you make a knot, get a different shade, and keep going.

I write about the beauty of life and about the mysteriously confusing opposite side of it.

Let me share with you how I find my inspiration.

I unite the intrinsic and the extrinsic while building the net of my story.

It will be in the highest degree engaging and attaching if I play it in my mind (intrinsic) and aloud to an attentive listener (extrinsic). I keep my narrative in admirable order, constantly improving it till it becomes full of light and incapable of blunders.

I can read my story to a friend or, what often is the case, to a friendly reflection in the mirror. There is such a thing as listening through my story with a detached attitude. I learn more of the height, and breadth, and depth of a character in one reading than it might take me a handful of friends to discover. I am a harsh critic of my work. I sense false notes. Lack of logic is painful and creates a moment of inward conflict, which I strive to resolve.

The narrative should sound like a blithesome music of the summer birds. It should gift freedom to my protagonists, or tell about the things that deprived them of the ability to see the joyousness in all. My writing is constructive, it is eager to build and fanatical to heal.

I describe every object with love, every location with glad excitement.

Something old and stale and faded can be of more beauty than the latest fashionable adornment. Some object in the cupboard - the quiet, dusky cupboard where there's an odor of stale spices - can add to the story the infinite good nature. I cherish and love that inanimate object, and it also becomes affectionate towards me. And when it does, I feel kind protectiveness it irradiates. The connection to such an object is very gentle and gracious. I write about this relationship.

I find it necessary to be extremely careful when I depict any scenery. There is no better mediator in a story like a location with a suitable mood. It is ever ready to cement divided parts, to melt the ice of narrative, and overthrow the walls of formality, bring the story home to every reader. I take the wiser part of devoting as much time to a place as to a person.

I find enough encouragement in my true essence.

It is not easy to enter the backside of my reality and find enough power to push my true essence out, to drink portions of refreshing inspiration from my own inner place. I find little encouragement from my family and friends. I tell myself, "That just means that they care about me but see a lot of pitfalls on my writing way and want to protect me." It serves as a feeble consolation.

I cleverly mend my wounded pride. I need not prove anything to anybody. I save my emotional energy for grander deeds. No one, save my infinite good nature, can encourage my creative process. I find a powerful push in fears, hopes, wild emotions that jostle and chase each other through my mind. These feelings drive my creativity.

When I am in an advanced stage of inspiration, if I can help it, I try not to be disturbed.

Our world is overflowing with information. I escape to the peaceful embrace of the natural world to recharge my inner batteries. I isolate myself from unnecessary intrusion and allow myself to be politely absent from social life for a few productive hours. This behavior imputes ample worth to the writing I do.

I find a dash of the divine in the lonely time, in the perfect innocence of silence, in the purity of solitude. The simplicity of this atmosphere stirs me and words come out, conversations start, then the concert of life metamorphoses, feelings grow steadily louder - the story emerges and lives its own life.

I surround myself with people who are smarter than I am in areas I want to learn about.

Time is irrelevant unless I not only feel the outside changes, but the inside alterations that only experience can cause. When I have enough inherent strength to get in with a person whose virtues of the heart serve as an example for me, my personality will muster depth and complexity. This inner change is a precious and welcome sign of the passage of time.

To boost this magical transformation, I need to surround myself with people who are wiser than I am. If no such people are present in my life at the moment, even self-conversation with an imagined opponent can be a great beginning. It is not insane; it is very normal.

I always remind myself that words that were said mean something, even if I didn't mean anything.

My intellectual standing in the eyes of the people around me can be proved by the thoughts I share with them. My story is a product of my mind. I do my best to make every word in it worth to be said. The printed page should feel like handwriting, a personal letter; bring a confused mingling of the personal past.

I have the power to grant eternal life by a simple touch of a pen to a paper. I make this gentle connection between them worth the effort. My idea should shine with profound meaning. I see how my character looks at me from a page and walks away to the depth of the narrative to suffer and love, struggle and succeed. I want the whole mystery of this world to rush upon my reader. I want my story to be read away as if this minute is the last, the only chance to reach 'the end'.

I write about the beauty of life and about the mysteriously confusing opposite side of it.

My eBooks: Traveling With Fate, World In-Between, Amulet, Obvious Deception, Cipherman