A Whiny Rant

I'm desperately trying the think of something clever to write about, pertaining to my book somehow. It really is too early to amp up my book stuff, but it would be fun to do something. Character sketches? Nah. Excerpts? Maybe, but I'm not sure what the purpose would be. I just want something to help people get to know my book without advertising or "teasing". I don't know.

I somewhat object to the idea of blogging about myself, although I've heard that is what authors should do. I read something that said "Your book is not the brand, you are." Meaning I should advertise myself rather than my book. I find that slightly vomit inducing, but such is the way of the market. I know I am the odd one here, but I have almost no author loyalty. I like books that I like. I know that if you like a book by a certain author, say, Corin McKenney, then you will be likely to enjoy his other books as well. But I really don't have authors I feel a particular fondness for. I have little to less then none interest in them as people. I loved The Book Thief, however I have no desire to know anything about Markus Zusak's personal life (Although apparently I'll give him free advertising). If an author places more importance on themselves than their characters something is wrong. Yet that is what the market wants, so authors acquiesce. Some even love it, get carried away, trick themselves into thinking they're famous. Privacy is for sale, the article said. Why do people care about the artist merely because they appreciate the art. It never shocks me when I find out that an author, actor, or sports figure is a scumbag, because it doesn't change anything (Of course, it might be because I assume they're all scumbags anyway, until shown differently.)

I really do know I am an exception when I say these things. I and I daresay I would compromise my stance if it meant getting published. If it really makes a difference to the reader to know that haven't robbed any seven elevens recently and that I like dogs, enjoy snow sports that involve gravity doing the work, my private vice is sweettarts, and that I broke my arm on a four-wheeler once, then they should be allowed to know. I'll put, what, a thousand hours into my book? More? So people can pry and pretend they know me after checking it out from the library. So what do I get out of it? Oh yeah, artists aren't supposed to be concerned with such low matters as that. My satisfaction comes from knowing that my art was appreciate. I thank you, Dear readers, for appreciating my feeble efforts. One smile from you is worth it all. Feel free to intrude in my life. After all, where would I be without you?

Now that this little blog has accidentally died, I have been trying to remember how to do this with the design. So far I have failed miserably. I can't even find the color changing thing, and for some reason, this new format won't let me give titles to individual posts. Basically, I hate blogs. I want to turn Ilyarynburg in a new direction, mainly more about my writing. But I cannot do anything I want to do. It's very frustrating. Oh well, I'll keep trying.

Uh-oh. My blog died. I'll see if i can renovate it, but my interest in blogging has waned of late anyway, so the effort will be small.

Seven Comments

On my last post I received seven comments (or rejoinders) of varying helpfulness and coherence. For your future reference (okay fine, I admit it just sounded fun) I have decided to score each comment on a scale of 1-10. And the judgement commences.

the snyders said...

I enjoyed it! It drew me in and made me wanting to read more. I think the descriptions were well thought out, and it gave me a good idea of the time period. Looking forward to the final product!

While there is nothing specific in this comment, it does give me impressions, which is nice. And it made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, which is always a worthy endeavor. 7 Points

MLS said...

Look Fhgwhgads, I'm sorry to say I don't like it. Mainly because it's a long freaking opening. I mean in the time it took me to read it I could have done all kinds of stuff. Like paint a picture of a guy, with a big knife...whoa, in fact I'm gonna get started on that right away

Um...right. This one scores very low on coherence and helpfulness, but high on me recognizing the quote. As far as I know, most first pages are about a page long. However, you spelled fhqwgads wrong, so get -3 points and 7 points. Some may question the logic of this, to those I say...Trogdor the Burninator.

the snyders said...

p.s. Mason love your music on here. He keeps dancing around and laughing at himself.

Irrelevant, but awesome. 11 points.

Courtney said...

I ALMOST like it...a couple of things I would polish, which I will talk to you about when I'm not at work....I do like both of the "speech" pieces.

This one gets two scores as well. 5 points for the comment. So low for the vaguery and so high for the compliment of my dialogue. And 9 points for the actual helpfulness after work, which included finding whether or not they had steel in 1016 and pointing out specific problems with paragraph 2.

Blogger's interjection: You do not add points, they are simply two different scores.

Anonymous said...

The first paragraph is confusing. I didnt know if Raban was the strange knight riding on or if it was someone else. Need to establish that Raban is NOT the knight somehow.

Maybe put Raban on his old moldy horse in the first para and use it to juxtapose against the knight's hores. Use their differences as the basis for his unwarranted hatred of the knight.

"Haughty" and "lofty" are trite descriptions. Are there any warhorses that arent "lofty"? How do we know he is haughty if he hasnt done anything?

Raban's attitude is effecting what he sees. Somehow make it come from his perspective. -- Uncle David

Very helpful and specific. I could have sworn I already edited out "lofty". Man, man. I've actually put a lot of thought into how to make the reader understand the angle of narration, the narrator does say things that are Raban's 'opinions' or biased views, and I don't know how to establish that early on. I won't examine everything said in this comment, and it gets 10 points for helpfulness.

MLS said...

I see what he means about the first paragraph not making it clear that Raban is not the knight. Also, it needs to be clear whether Raban thinks the knight is haughty and lofty or whether the narrator is calling him that. I think that is what Uncle David means by making it come from Raban's perspective, because right now it is merely the narrator saying it. The same applies to the word "strange" in the first paragraph I think.
I do think it gave a good introduction to the time period and to Raban's position in society. I agree with Courtney that the dialogue is good.

More on the narrator, which is, as I said, difficult. I'm hoping that a ways into the book it will be clearer that when the narrator says things it comes from Raban, but maybe I can't sell it and will have to change that style a bit. Another dialogue compliment, which is funny because there is so little on the page. 10 points for clarity and helpfulness.

MLS said...

p.s. I left the comment above. Not that you would actually think that was Matt, but I meant to sign it. I have something to add anyway. I really like the third paragraph, and the whole rest of the passage actually. In my opinion, your only major problems are in the first two paragraphs. Of course that is no surprise. If openings are hard the openings of openings are the hardest. Carrie

Yeah, no. I could tell it wasn't Matt somehow. I give this one 10 points, but really that is the score of the last two together.

And there we have it. The seven comments judged and commented upon. And now it is time to announce the winner.

And the winner is...

Me, because I wrote the book.

If anyone has any complaints of the judging methods used in this competition, please contact the blog administrator. The easiest way to do that, is to leave a comment (Rejoinder).

First Page

I have now commenced the revision process, and I have begun to discover just how bad my first draft is. I've spent ages fiddling with the first page and have come up with a semblance of a good opener. First pages are exceedingly difficult, especially in historical fiction, because I need to establish so much setting as well as character, and I must get the plot going and not linger around. I write in a fairly sparse style anyway, so the first pages must establish a template of the world, as it were, for the reader to draw on later. So I will post the first page here and I would love it if you could give me some thoughts on it, pertaining to what I said above. Anywhere that leaves you feeling confused, unsure, rushed, bored, etc. Really I'd like to here any thoughts on it at all.

Chapter One

“May the devil gnaw your bones,” Raban said under his breath. “And dredge out the marrow with his tongue.” The strange knight rode on, unaware of the disgust that he provoked.

Raban watched the haughty figure high upon its lofty warhorse. He did not know the man and yet he loathed him and all those like him. The armor and great helm glinted in the sun, giving a pompous warlike appearance. The shield was emblazoned with a passant bear, sable of color, with a dark green cross splayed on the polished steel. Two Squires rode behind, groomed perfectly as another piece of the man’s affectation.

Raban’s old workhorse strained at the harness, and Raban put all his strength into the plough. The earth crumbled free and they moved again. Raban cast a smoldering glance at the horsed figures. There was no respect in the look, as no doubt the knight assumed, but pure contempt. The three horses bore their riders out of sight and Raban fought the earth alone.

Another figure approached, on foot and whistling.

“What kept you, Orry?” called Raban, stopping his horse and smiling. “A pretty maid catch your eye and draw you off your course?”

First Draft Complete

For reals and for true, I reached the end. I feel so excited about it, yet I feel a little lost, not having any story left to tell. There is still plenty of work, but its not the same as the storytelling. I think I'll be fine with the revision process, but it will take time to shift my brain. It is still kind of unreal, and a bit sad. I've been writing Rooks of Burgundy for 2 1/2 years, and now I can't make any more stuff up. But I'm happy to. Its a great feeling of accomplishment.

120,000 words

Almost done. I feel like I'm on the final kick of a race. I can see the finish line so I have to try so much harder and time seems to have vacuumed, so the misery is extended. Yet the sight of the finish line brings so much relief that even misery isn't so miserable. But really, I am almost done. There will likely not be a 130,000 word post and my goal is to finish this month. When I finish I think I might take a day off from writing and do something. Maybe nothing. I don't know yet. Depends on the day. Hopefully I'll be posting that the first draft is complete sometime soon.

110,000 Words

Sometimes I think that I should try and make an actual blog post again, bu then I think I would rather spend my writing time on Rooks of Burgundy. Thus 110,000 words.

100,000 Words

No lie. One hundred thousand words. And the end is near, in the good sense. I can't believe it. Rooks of Burgundy is truly long enough to be a legitimate book, it just hasn't ended yet. This is considered a general goal by many authors. 100,000 is kind of a general mark to aim for, though it obviously various from genre to genre and book to book. Many historical fiction books are longer while romance and YA tends to be shorter. To give you a general idea of how long a hundred thousand words is, here are a few examples of books you might have read.

The count of Monte Cristo: 464,218 (I'd figure I'd start some ridiculous beast of a book.)

The Hunger Games: 99,750 (I'm already longer than that. I can't believe it.)

The Lord of the Rings : 320,000-454,000 (I couldn't find an exact number, which is pathetic. The only stuff I found was people guessing. This is word count people. It's way more accurate than page count, but I could find that for every book ever published. Geez)

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe: 37,492

I was planning on doing some more, but it is way harder than it should be to find out word count. This is one of my personal hatreds; that everyone goes by page count. Rooks of Burgundy is now over 100,000. And no, I will not tell you how many pages that is.

90,000 words

I'm up to 90,000 thousand and I can hardly believe it. I no longer feel like I will never finish the book. Ever since college ended I've been able to get some real work done. Its been just a little more than two months for this ten thousand word chunk, and that is including a very unproductive three weeks in California. At this rate I'll be done with the first draft hopefully by October or November. Of course, I have no idea how long it will take me to revise. And if I take any classes, that will really slow me down.

Mexico Journal Entries

While rummaging through my closet the other day, I came across some pages torn from a notebook. I began to read and recognized that they were from a journal that the leaders had us keep on my very first mexico trip to Juarez. Most of the kids never even started the journal, and I was the only one to do more than one day. I usually hate journaling, but it was slightly relaxing at the time. The pages I found contained four days of entries, but I will post only the final two, complete with spelling and grammatical errors.

4/27/06

We mixed and poured concrete today, and then built the walls as it dried. Simon said he has never driven away from the worksite at 2:15 before. But we went so fast that there was nothing to do until the slab dried.

4/28/06

After cleaning the delicatly balanced

And that was it. Not another entry the entire trip. And I have no memory of what we were cleaning, nor what happened afterward. After cleaning the delicately balanced concrete slab? I hope not. That was pretty much just sitting on the ground if I recall. The delicately balanced walls? Um, no. Why would we clean the walls. And they better not be very delicate. There wasn't really anything else around, except the family's old house, which, granted, was delicately balanced, but I know for a fact we didn't clean it. I'm afraid I'll never know. And another thing. Why did I stop writing. I have an absolute blank. This will go down as one of history's great mysteries, along with The Mary Celeste and Jack the Ripper.

Exerpt 3: Action

While searching for an example of action to post, I discovered two things. I don't have as much action in my book as I thought I did, and action out of context is really weird and often lame. Action itself relies on context and the reader caring about what's going on to work. A scene of action isolated from the rest of the book comes across like a fight scene in a movie with no film around it (And seriously, who does that? Oh, wait). And so, after all that, I have actually found a scene that might do. It's not very long and not especially dynamic, but it makes the most sense out of context of any of the scenes I looked at. Oh, and there is a bit violence. Nothing too bad, just thought I should warn, this is the internet for dang's sake.

As they marched out of Nuon Raban’s mind was racing. They strode in single file and he was kept in the middle. All the while time Charlemagne kept pace with them, flitting from branch to branch, and Raban saw the men keeping a wary eye on the rook. The soldier in front of Raban was a gritty and degraded looking fellow, but more importantly, Raban saw he had a dagger at his belt, loose in the sheath. He edged as close as possible but could not reach it with his bound wrists. Every time he got his fingers near, it his feet tangled with the soldiers and there was a bout of curses.

In desperation he reached hastily forward, but just as he touched the handle, the man stopped dead still. Raban crashed into him and they tumbled to the ground in a tangle.

“Get off, maggot,” the soldier yelled, heaving Raban away. After bouncing roughly across the dirt, for his hands could not ease the fall, Raban scrambled to his feet and did his best to appear lowly. With a few more muttered curses, the man-at-arms got back in line and they all proceeded again. Raban glanced at the man behind him and then to the front. As subtle as he could, he began working the dagger into the rope between his wrists. It was difficult and awkward, and he was terrified of dropping the dagger, but he succeeded in cutting through the last thread of the rope. He hid the dagger up his sleeve and continued on. On they walked and he bided his time, waiting the opportune moment.

“What was that?” said Raban, jerking to a stop and peering off into the trees. “There’s a wolf or two in that stand of trees.”

“There never was a wolf around here in the daytime,” the captain said, but they all gazed into the thicket nonetheless. Raban crouched and snatched up a stone, dropped his bonds, and belted the nearest man over the head. Pulling out the dagger, he turned and wedged it into another’s thigh. Before the rest could see what happened or heed their fellow’s scream, he took off at a dead sprint. At a full run Raban ducked and dodged the branches and trunks. Vaguely, he heard the soldiers clamoring along behind. He looked back and saw a black shape streaking low through the branches. Charlemagne was keeping up with of him, executing his own maneuvers to dodge through the thicket trees while flying so fast.

But Raban had no time to think on his rook. One of the men was also keeping pace with him. They tore through the brush at full speed, the man unable to stop and string his bow or he would fall behind. Still they ran, neither gaining nor losing on the other. The rest of the company was left far behind and still they streaked through the wood, jumping logs and ducking branches. Something grabbed at Raban’s foot and he rolled in the moss. He was up again before he even slowed from his fall and bolted on. Then the archer was closer than he had been. After a moment more he was closer still, and Raban’s speed began to flag. Up ahead he saw Ragno’s hill, then Ragno himself sitting before his fire. Gasping for breath, Raban sped toward him and saw Ragno leap up, drawing a short sword. Raban tripped again and tumbled wildly. In the middle of his fall, as he as he stood on his head, he saw the archer leap into the clearing and Ragno strike him through the body. Raban finished his fall and a shriek froze the air as he slid to a halt. He rose to his knees and retched.

“Why so white? Haven’t you ever killed a man before?” Ragno was grinning at the dead man twitching gently at his feet.

Raban opened his mouth but found he could not say no and turned away without speaking. Charlemagne swooped down and landed heavily on Raban’s shoulder.

By the way, I just thought I'd mention that I'm open to any criticism anyone feels like giving. I'm not just here for the praise, you know. But I'm more interested in impressions that people receive when they read my stuff, not so much craft advice or things like, "You used the word 'on' twice in row". Though I wouldn't mind that kind of thing, I'm more interested in impressions right now.

Excerpt 2: Dialogue

Okay, because I had just an enthusiastic response to my last excerpt I have decided to post another one. Oh, wait. Actually only one person besides me even visited the blog since the last post. It doesn't matter, I'm doing it anyway. You think this blog is for you, the reader? It's a creative outlet for me, the writer, who is too high brow to care if anyone reads or likes what I write. Oh, and please leave some feedback this time, sheesh.

Anyway, I have decided I will post three excerpts. An example of my description (already posted), an example of my dialogue (this post), and an example of action (yet to come). The following scene may come across as strange out of context and is still the unedited first draft, but take my word for it, it's one of my better scenes. It is the first two pages of chapter 31.

“We must capture some knights,” said Raban.

The bandits stared at him. “Pardon my hearing, but could you repeat that please?” Falk was wide eyed, something Raban had never seen before.

“We must capture some…”

“I heard you the first time,” Falk roared. “Have you gone mad? Did your stint in the dungeon loosen your brain?”

“We just rescued you at the expense of two of our friends,” said Cyr. “And the first thing you want us to do is go prancing back into Saint Bellamy and politely ask some knights to join us for a walk in the country.”

Raban absorbed the bitterness. Something inside him knew that he was to blame and he deserved whatever his men were bold enough to say.

“Since when is it well that we slur our leader?” said Odger.

“Since he proved unfit,” Emmeran mumbled, just loud enough to be heard.

“Fool,” Odger growled. “Raban has always led us well, to be sure. And to betray him is to betray Bero, for he is the chosen replacement.”

“Bero did not act foolishly and get his men killed,” Martin said, then silenced himself and glanced at Raban, a soundless apology.

“Neither has Raban,” Turpin said quietly. “Even if we were all here we cannot know that we would have escaped. Perhaps the man on watch would have been killed by stealth. We know they had large numbers. They may have taken us in a charge. We will not know what would have happened, so it is fruitless to lay blame. Raban acted foolishly, no doubt. But perchance he acted foolishly and saved eleven of his men, rather than killed two.”

They were silent, thinking on what Turpin had said. Raban loathed being talked about as though he was not there, but he knew he must let his men speak their minds.

“May I ask a query?” said Walaric, clearly uncomfortable joining in the dispute.

Raban nodded.

“Why are we to capture a number of knights?”

“I’m pleased you have asked,” Raban smiled. “To judge them.”

“You’re not serious,” Emmeran sulked. “You still think you are God’s own sheriff?”

Raban thought a moment. “You know, I believe you’ve put words to it nicely.”

All were silent for a moment, then Falk let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s only fair for God to have a finger in the world. The devil’s got enough.”

“When I was in The Court,” said Allowin, “we played a game with little figures on a board to imitate battle. Now, the lucifer may have more pieces left, but our father in heaven has the better strategy, that’s sure.”

“So…we are the pieces,” Walaric was puzzled.

Raban smiled. He had seen the game that Allowin spoke of. Though most the others did not follow their friend, Raban understood.

“How are you planning on capturing these blessed knights?” asked Cyr, returning to the matter.

“On a hunt,” said Raban. Charlemagne beat his wings and screamed. The sound echoed through the forest, glancing off trunks and darting through the laden limbs. A bough released its load nearby and the cascade of snow struck the ground with a muffled thud. The high wavering cry ebbed away slowly.

“That bird is going be our deaths,” growled Falk. “If not from giving us away, then giving us fits.”

Raban exhaled, realizing that he had been holding his breath.

“Do you really think that they will continue the hunts in this bitter cold?” Turpin asked.

“Yes,” Allowin interrupted. “In a castle full of knights someone will always find sometime to hunt something, even if it is only the serfs’ livestock or the street curs.”

This is bordering on giving too much away, and it pains me to post it. But knowing the traffic on this blog, I'm not too worried. If three people in the world have a little spoiler I can live with that.

Excerpt

I have decided, rather than post the entire first chapter, to put up an excerpt or two in order to best portray the essence of Rooks of Burgundy without giving too much. Now I have to go find an excerpt.

Okay, I'm back. I chose the following excerpt mainly just for the heck of it. I have a very strong aversion to giving anything away and so couldn't bring myself to post anything with plot in it. It's a little early for teasers anyway. This is from the very end of chapter 2.

Dusk approached and the light splashed longways through the trees, igniting the leaves and turning the forest to flame. Raban watched as the light changed in hue and angle. He felt as though he was walking amid the sunset. A lone needle tree caught his eye, for it remained dark and solemn even in the blaze around it. It looked as though it might provide some shelter and he approached to see better in the strange light. A slight color variation in the tree’s branches caught his eye and he halted. Grass and rope had been weaved into the branches of the huge pine tree, binding them together tightly. Pitch had then been slathered over all to seal out the weather. The lower branches brushed the forest floor, forming what looked like an upside down basket.

Raban backed quickly away into the woods and he circled the strange tree, looking for an entrance. A brown cloth hung from inside the basket, covering a small gap in the limbs. Raban settled where he could keep watch on it. It would be foolish to approach this tree, he knew. Any kind of man could live out here, a kindly hermit as easily as a blood mongering bandit. Raban was almost sure no one was inside, but he would wait first to find out.

Darkness fell completely and ears were more use than eyes on moonless nights such as this. Raban lay down and wrapped himself in his blanket. Nothing stirred for hours and he felt the weight of fatigue press down upon him. His eyelids closed even as he tried to hold them open. The thick moss, despite its dampness, provided none too uncomfortable a bed and Raban fell asleep on his vigil.

Well, there it is. Not the best snippet, I realize, but hey, it's something. I'll post another soon. Maybe something a bit more...exciting.

First Chapter

I have finished editing my first chapter to my satisfaction at this point. Of course, that doesn't mean it will never change again, but it does mean that I can say that it is my first chapter and not have to amend the statement when I show it to people. I was thinking about putting it up on the blog, but I'm not sure yet. I'm not worried about copyright or anything, but my blog is not the best format for reading stories. I wish I could post it as a word document so it could be read more easily. Also, I'm not sure if anyone actually care to read the full first chapter. Any suggestions?

80,000 words

I finally reached 80,000 words. This last year has been really slow for me, but I am just starting to pick up again and hope to write a lot over the summer. I would love to reach a hundred thousand by fall but so far every time I have expressed a hope I have fallen extremely short.

Blog Music

During my blog's six months hiatus I never was there to check and censor things. And so, now that I have been looking at the blog again, I have noticed that some of music has mysteriously changed to some random techno songs. They're pretty hilarious, but I want everyone to know that I didn't put them here. Some of the links must have changed, which is a shame, because the two songs I have already deleted were two of the awesomest. If you notice anymore, please inform me, as I have not gone through and checked every song.

Hi

Hi, I'm Cory McKenney and today I thought I'd make blog. Then I realized I already had one, and so after rousing it from its cyber coma, I have determined to post the story I turned in for my writing class this week. It was nature writing assignment, but I kind of stretched the definition of nature writing. However, my teacher liked it quite a bit, and I feel pretty good about it. So here it is.

It was quiet as I climbed to the top of the little hill. I walked through the trees that covered the slope, their spreading branches sheltering the hill from the sun, creating a dimmed gray and green world under the canopy. Their was no sound save the essential forest noises; the shuffling of leaves, the rustling of squirrels and chipmunks, perhaps the beating tiny wings as bird traverses from tree to tree. All the sounds my brain filters out unless I remember to listen. Who knows how many thousands of years it had been like that on the hillside, silent and slow. The forest is always doing something; growing, eating, reproducing, and dying, yet nothing ever happens at fast. The forest takes its time going about its business, even if some of its dwellers are more impatient. Yet after all the years of its steady life, the slow molding of the hill by time, it is famous for one day. The antithesis of silent, the antithesis of slow. This hill, called Little Round Top, is famous for July 2^nd, 1863.

I reached the summit and emerged from the cover of the trees. It was nearly bare on top, and a small rim of rock three feet high stood along one edge of the hill. It was as though a war god had built it specifically for the union soldiers to crouch behind, but it only served this purpose for one day, and for the rest of its millennia, it just was. I leaned against the stone barrier and looked down the slope to Devil’s Den. The jumbled pile of huge rocks and boulders looked strange at the base of the hill. Trees grew on and in between the rocks, giving it a wild look. I imagined confederate soldiers swarming through the rocks while the union soldiers crouched beside me poured down lead from Little Round Top. I could barely see the boulders for the powder smoke. The little stream that ran beside Devil’s Den flowed and babbled pleasantly. It was as amiable as any other stream, and ran much as other streams run for longer than anyone knows. But it is famous, or infamous, for day its water turned red.

I turned and made my way to the other side of the hill. Moss and lichen splotched the stone underfoot, for nothing else could grow on the bare summit. I dropped down into the woods and looked down the slope. It wasn’t so steep here, and was lightly wooded. I stood exactly where the 20^th Maine had been positioned, the very flank of the entire union line. The Confederates charged up through the trees, their awful shriek piercing the silence.

A chipmunk sat on a log twenty feet away. It twitched and jerked as it went about its business. It grabbed indistinguishable objects from the log and devoured them, keeping a wary eye on me. I wondered if it had an ancestor, countless generations back, that had been there that day, minding its business the same as the one before me, when suddenly, some kind of hell broke loose. Humans in grey, screaming their terrible scream, flooded up the hill toward the chipmunk. Humans in blue kneeled in a row and unleashed thunder and lightening. The Chipmunk sprinted for safety as unseen objects buzzed through the air, tearing limbs from trees and ripping shrubs to pulp. Perhaps the animals that survived the cross-fire told stories of the day the humans went berserk. Maybe they warned their children that when the human’s line up in rows, they had better get out of there. I pictured them sitting around planning what they would do next time. Some of the birds even made up a special berserk human warning call. But they never got to use it, for it would never happen again. I looked at the chipmunk and laughed at myself. My imagination was even more vivid than usual. I blamed the stillness of the woods.

Nothing around me gave any hint of what had happened, except a sprinkling of small monuments and plaques. Nature had healed itself, scarless like a clean slice. It must have taken it quite some time, but it fixed itself eventually. The one day that it chanced to be witness to the human conflict that sullied its natural state, it acquired infamy. While the events that happened where I was standing are some of the most well known of the American Civil War, the hill and the trees shaped them, caused them to play out as they did. The Confederates had to take the hill. The Union had to defend it. It was simple.

Not even a day, ninety minutes. The 15^th Alabama charged repeatedly and the 20^th Maine held them off. All the while the trees, rocks, shrubs; the forest, stood in the crossfire, taking the thrashing without a thought. I watched as the 20^th Maine ran out of ammunition and Chamberlain led his famous charge down the slope, through the trees and into the Confederate lines. I heard the cries of soldiers and the rattle of the musket. I saw them use the trees as cover and hill for momentum, and begin moving the captured 15^th Alabama regiment back up the hill, some with empty muskets. And though the animals fled, the trees didn’t flinch. They even remembered to sway in the wind and gather sunlight as their trunks were ravaged by bullets and musket balls.

The Chipmunk let out a series of loud squeaks then went silent. I looked around and saw that the woods were the same as any other hillside. I remembered to listen again and heard the leaves shuffle, and unseen creatures rustling on the forest floor. A tree near me groaned and popped as it leaned in the wind. It leaned back and snapped again. It sounded like musket fire. Or maybe my imagination was taking creative liberties again. The Chipmunk scampered up a tree and I began my descent down Little Round Top.

Things I Don't Understand

Here's a list of things I've never understood.

Confronting one's past-I've seen this on countless book teasers and other such things, and I still haven't a clue what it means.

"I'd just as soon you didn't do that"-What? Was that English?

Putting onions in the guacamole-Seriously, people used to get drawn and quartered for less than that.

College-Okay, that isn't entirely true. Since I've been going for a few months I'm starting to understand. It's because no one has anything else to do.

Why Christian music sucks-Every now and then I hear a good Christian song and it's a shock to the system. There has to be Christians with taste somewhere, Right?

"Pull yourself up by your bootstraps"-I recently tried this and I've come to the conclusion that when someone says this, they really mean rolling around on the floor like an idiot. Metaphorically of course.

Chick-lit-I'm going to gauge out my eyes and smash every glass in the house over my own head, if I don't pass out from over exposure to adverbs first.

Why people bother writing in a scale if 7/8 of the notes are accidentals anyway-I think music shouldn't be written in scales. Why not just do half steps and whole steps on the lines and spaces?

Why no one cares about the gas prices anymore-Just because they stopped going up doesn't mean they're not horrendous.

Why anyone would take the trouble to acquire a taste for live octopus-Don't tell me I need to expound.

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Why no one comes to my blog except through Crystal's-Except you, Matt. You win the "best blog reader" award.

And I'm done. I'm sure tons more will come to me in the middle of the night. Hey, that's another one. Why these things always come to me in the middle of the night-Because if they didn't, this post would be three miles long.

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