If only I could harness that gift again...
Excerpt from Dagon by H.P. Lovecraft
It was the pictorial carving, however, that did most to hold me spellbound.
Plainly visible across the intervening water on account of their enormous size was an array of bas-reliefs whose subjects would have excited the envy of a Dore. I think that these things were supposed to depict men -- at least, a certain sort of men; though the creatures were shown disporting like fishes in the waters of some marine grotto, or paying homage at some monolithic shrine which appeared to be under the waves as well. Of their faces and forms I dare not speak in detail, for the mere remembrance makes me grow faint. Grotesque beyond the imagination of a Poe or a Bulwer, they were damnably human in general outline despite webbed hands and feet, shockingly wide and flabby lips, glassy, bulging eyes, and other features less pleasant to recall. Curiously enough, they seemed to have been chiselled badly out of proportion with their scenic background; for one of the creatures was shown in the act of killing a whale represented as but little larger than himself. I remarked, as I say, their grotesqueness and strange size; but in a moment decided that they were merely the imaginary gods of some primitive fishing or seafaring tribe; some tribe whose last descendant had perished eras before the first ancestor of the Piltdown or Neanderthal Man was born.
Awestruck at this unexpected glimpse into a past beyond the conception of the most daring anthropologist, I stood musing whilst the moon cast queer reflections on the silent channel before me. Then suddenly I saw it. With only a slight churning to mark its rise to the surface, the thing slid into view above the dark waters. Vast, Polyphemus-like, and loathsome, it darted like a stupendous monster of nightmares to the monolith, about which it flung its gigantic scaly arms, the while it bowed its hideous head and gave vent to certain measured sounds. I think I went mad then.
Of my frantic ascent of the slope and cliff, and of my delirious journey back to the stranded boat, I remember little. I believe I sang a great deal, and laughed oddly when I was unable to sing. I have indistinct recollections of a great storm some time after I reached the boat; at any rate, I knew that I heard peals of thunder and other tones which Nature utters only in her wildest moods.
After reading his stories I really began to get into writing. I wrote well over 100 short stories from 1993-1997. Most of them weren't worth the time wasted reading them, but I had such a dedication to the art of writing that I just couldn't stop. With each story I wrote I was able to hone my writing skills, fix my past mistakes, and let my creativity come out more and more. In late 1996 I started to work on actual stories, sometimes making it to 90+ pages before getting stuck and starting on another. Around mid 1997 though, I lost it. I lost it all. I did not lose the talent, I had merely lost every single bit of writing I had done up to that point. It was around this time that family problems were really starting to get ugly, and my aunt had kicked us out of my Grandmother's house. We were not able to collect everything we owned there all at once, but rather just a little at a time. After a while, my aunt took a bold step and either threw out everything we had not yet collected, or burned it. All of my writings, every piece of paper I had put a pen to, were turned to ash in a matter of minutes. I didn't just lose my all of my work on that day though; I also lost my passion for the art. Since then I've only written rarely, and even then I've been known to give up rather early. The last thing I worked on, I mean actually worked on, was a story that I had endless ideas for, bit only wrote ten pages of. That was last touched over a year and a half ago, and since then it has been a whole bunch of nothing.
Sometimes I become deeply depressed about my inability to create stories anymore and I sulk and refuse to write anything, even something as simple as a list of what I did throughout the day.
I always try to have substance in what I write and what I say, but for about the past two weeks or so "substance" has been all but attainable. Believe me when I tell you that I talk much differently than I write. When I write, I try to come off as "sophisticated", but when I talk, my truly idiotic side comes out for all to hear. A lot of my writing has fallen flat, much like a piano with broken keys, you can still create music…it is just that none of it is worth listening to. I suddenly just run out of things to talk about lately as well, during that time I can produce nothing but awkward silence. It is very unsettling to me, and I would imagine, it has a similar effect on the person(s) I'm talking to. Needless to say, this is the reason updates have been sparse.
What always brings me back, though, is a good H.P. Lovecraft story, and Dagon worked just fine tonight. I know how strange that must sound, a horror tale reviving my hopes in writing, but it works for me.
It was the pictorial carving, however, that did most to hold me spellbound.
Plainly visible across the intervening water on account of their enormous size was an array of bas-reliefs whose subjects would have excited the envy of a Dore. I think that these things were supposed to depict men -- at least, a certain sort of men; though the creatures were shown disporting like fishes in the waters of some marine grotto, or paying homage at some monolithic shrine which appeared to be under the waves as well. Of their faces and forms I dare not speak in detail, for the mere remembrance makes me grow faint. Grotesque beyond the imagination of a Poe or a Bulwer, they were damnably human in general outline despite webbed hands and feet, shockingly wide and flabby lips, glassy, bulging eyes, and other features less pleasant to recall. Curiously enough, they seemed to have been chiselled badly out of proportion with their scenic background; for one of the creatures was shown in the act of killing a whale represented as but little larger than himself. I remarked, as I say, their grotesqueness and strange size; but in a moment decided that they were merely the imaginary gods of some primitive fishing or seafaring tribe; some tribe whose last descendant had perished eras before the first ancestor of the Piltdown or Neanderthal Man was born.
Awestruck at this unexpected glimpse into a past beyond the conception of the most daring anthropologist, I stood musing whilst the moon cast queer reflections on the silent channel before me. Then suddenly I saw it. With only a slight churning to mark its rise to the surface, the thing slid into view above the dark waters. Vast, Polyphemus-like, and loathsome, it darted like a stupendous monster of nightmares to the monolith, about which it flung its gigantic scaly arms, the while it bowed its hideous head and gave vent to certain measured sounds. I think I went mad then.
Of my frantic ascent of the slope and cliff, and of my delirious journey back to the stranded boat, I remember little. I believe I sang a great deal, and laughed oddly when I was unable to sing. I have indistinct recollections of a great storm some time after I reached the boat; at any rate, I knew that I heard peals of thunder and other tones which Nature utters only in her wildest moods.
After reading his stories I really began to get into writing. I wrote well over 100 short stories from 1993-1997. Most of them weren't worth the time wasted reading them, but I had such a dedication to the art of writing that I just couldn't stop. With each story I wrote I was able to hone my writing skills, fix my past mistakes, and let my creativity come out more and more. In late 1996 I started to work on actual stories, sometimes making it to 90+ pages before getting stuck and starting on another. Around mid 1997 though, I lost it. I lost it all. I did not lose the talent, I had merely lost every single bit of writing I had done up to that point. It was around this time that family problems were really starting to get ugly, and my aunt had kicked us out of my Grandmother's house. We were not able to collect everything we owned there all at once, but rather just a little at a time. After a while, my aunt took a bold step and either threw out everything we had not yet collected, or burned it. All of my writings, every piece of paper I had put a pen to, were turned to ash in a matter of minutes. I didn't just lose my all of my work on that day though; I also lost my passion for the art. Since then I've only written rarely, and even then I've been known to give up rather early. The last thing I worked on, I mean actually worked on, was a story that I had endless ideas for, bit only wrote ten pages of. That was last touched over a year and a half ago, and since then it has been a whole bunch of nothing.
Sometimes I become deeply depressed about my inability to create stories anymore and I sulk and refuse to write anything, even something as simple as a list of what I did throughout the day.
I always try to have substance in what I write and what I say, but for about the past two weeks or so "substance" has been all but attainable. Believe me when I tell you that I talk much differently than I write. When I write, I try to come off as "sophisticated", but when I talk, my truly idiotic side comes out for all to hear. A lot of my writing has fallen flat, much like a piano with broken keys, you can still create music…it is just that none of it is worth listening to. I suddenly just run out of things to talk about lately as well, during that time I can produce nothing but awkward silence. It is very unsettling to me, and I would imagine, it has a similar effect on the person(s) I'm talking to. Needless to say, this is the reason updates have been sparse.
What always brings me back, though, is a good H.P. Lovecraft story, and Dagon worked just fine tonight. I know how strange that must sound, a horror tale reviving my hopes in writing, but it works for me.