Going With the Crowd or Alone by Rival Gates

Going With the Crowd or Alone by Rival Gates

Thomas Edison invented an electric pen early in his career. It was truly a wondrous invention and a great achievement only matched by the measure of its commercial failure. He vowed after that to only devote his efforts to inventing things with a market need in place. Many hail this decision as a revelation on his part. I see it as an opportunity he missed. There is a trend in the arts, whether it be literary, film, music or stage that is not new. The trend is essentially, “Hey, such and such sold well.  We want you to produce something like that.” How many bands do you think were played Beatles albums and told to play that way or writers shown “Cats” and told to produce something like that or given a Harry Potter book and told to write something along those lines?  

Edison caved to the pressure and to his credit, went on to become one of the greatest inventors of all time. But what if he had worked on the projects he was passionate about instead? Who is to say he would not have made an item that created a market and he still would be a great inventor? The man did not follow his passion.  

How do I know? In no interview on film or picture in a book do you ever see him smile. His rival, Nikola Tesla, knew he was right and chased his dreams at the expense of financial gain. When you see pictures of him performing his experiments, however, he is smiling and displaying his enthusiasm to the crowds even as electricity flowed through his body.  

It’s a hard choice. You dream your whole life of becoming a certain profession. Then you get your big chance. Do you want to play the better odds and follow the crowd, or follow your heart and possibly end up as another failed writer? Even the editors try to change you. They rearrange your work to make it fit their mold better. These are the gatekeepers of your profession and you can only dig in your heels so many times so you had better make them count.  

For me, it is not a matter of choice. I have a style and a type of story about which I have passion. I could no more change them than the hand I write with. I have tried to mimic some of the great writer’s styles and in the end, it sounds terrible. The only person I sound right being is me. You see, there is a difference between science and art. Science is based on what your brain tells you and art is based on what your heart tells you. You can change your way of thinking with enough effort, but your heart is an organ that listens to no reason and follows the path it chooses regardless of any suggestions, orders, warnings or advice from your brain. Have you ever fallen in love but your brain told you not to? Your brain was probably right, but the heart will still do as it chooses. 

My heart tells me to write epic fantasy or high fantasy books, if you prefer. My mind screams at me to add sex and love triangles and all the stuff of the big hits, but that is not in my heart. I can count on one hand the number of writers who have had success in my field and most of them were dead before they achieved their status. 

This is my electric pen. I’m not writing it to feed the masses more of the same. I want to write what I believe and love. My books are gaining ground with two out and a third about to be published. I will promote my work, but in the end I would rather sink or swim being myself than tread water as a shadowy copy.   

Thank you, Rival, for this interesting take on being yourself as a writer!

And readers, Rival is running a special 99 cents offer for the Kindle version of his fantasy novel, Quest for the Red Sapphire, book one of the Sapphire Chronicles. Get your copy today!  :)

 

Author Bio

I was born in Port Huron, MI and was the youngest of four surviving children.  At the age of five my father took a position as a magazine editor in Toronto, Ontario Canada.  We moved to a large city just outside Toronto called Mississauga.  The different cultures and demographics to which I was exposed formed many of the ideas for my story.  

When I was thirteen, my father’s declining health forced him out of work and our family struggled.  It was at that time that I decided to channel my negative energy into a constructive purpose.  I set out to write a short story about a magical gem called the Red Sapphire.  My brothers teased me that such a stone was simply a ruby.  That irony was part of the attraction for me.  After all, who would be writing about a Red Sapphire?  Years went by and we moved down to my Father’s home town of Harrow, Ontario on the shores of Lake Erie.  It was a drastic change from city life and I found myself retreating more and more into my ever growing story.  By age fifteen I had a two-hundred page hand written manuscript.   

Advancing from high school to college at Michigan State University there was little time for writing and the project sat in a drawer in my parent’s home.  In spite of my lack of attention to writing, every night I would fall asleep working out details of the book and the series to follow. I met a wonderful woman at Michigan State who agreed after graduation to become my wife.  As we started our family I began a career in retail management and sales.  For over twenty years I excelled in the field and even incorporated some of my knowledge into the book.  I hold my position in the greatest esteem. While I rewrote the story several times on my computer, I did not attempt to publish it until the longest supporter of my writing, my mother, became terminally ill.  She told me the last time I saw her how proud she was of the story I had created and made me promise to publish it and share it with the world.  With the loving support of my wife, our three children and the help of the good people at Solstice Publishing, I am fulfilling that promise.   

When my father (ever the editor) read the book, he told me how proud he was and that somewhere he knew my mother was equally proud.  I present to you the first part of the saga which is my life’s work, Quest for the Red Sapphire.  May it bring you as much joy to read as it has brought me to write.

Author Links: 

Website:  http://www.rivalgates.com/
Blog:  http://www.rivalgates.com/blog
http://rivalgates.tumblr.com/ 

Facebook:  http://on.fb.me/1qqrjiB

https://www.facebook.com/thesapphirechronicles 

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/rivalgates1
Amazon Author Central:  http://www.amazon.com/Rival-Gates/e/B00I3Q5YIG/

Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7252024.Rival_Gates
Google+:  https://plus.google.com/u/0/+RivalGates/posts

Books: 

POETRY SPOTLIGHT: J. Rose Alexander

Hi, readers!  In these poetry spotlights today and in the future, we will be showcasing poetry by some very talented poets.  These poets have graced us with their presence.  

With us today is poet and author J. Rose Alexander. 
Here is a little taste of her poetry.

CANDLES

In the darkness, a candle burns

teaching those who'll never learn

They see the light and watch it grow

And I learn from those who do not know

As the light grows slowly brighter

It makes the darkest shadows slighter

My lesson, now, I know what 'tis

To teach the truth as truth is

The light rides upon the black

And at morrow's night it shall come back

Without the dark, the light is not

Nor is all for which we fought

And in the dark, my lesson's learned

And as thus, my candle burned.

 Silence Screams

Silence screams

A deadly sound

No earthly ears can hear

They bring forth tears

In angels' ears

A single note resounds

A discordant note

Just slightly out of tune

Sour to a listening ear

A hateful note, flat and sharp

As silence screams inside

The angels' cry of silence

Resounds in blinding dark

What pain does inside the heart

Scars the silent souls forever

Silence sounds never quite right

Soul

sometimes, you can't see the sun

it is blocked by the clouds

or perhaps blocked out by you

and then there is night

you sit and you wonder

if you will ever see day

the moon sheds no light

the stars seem dull

the trees stand too tall in their

naked Glory

the grass is too brown in its

winter slumber

and you are left to think

will I ever see the spring?

 "Fast Enough"

If I wake up Fast Enough

Will I see myself standing?

If I run Fast Enough

Will I see myself standing?

If I scream Loud Enough

Will I hear myself whisper?

What will I feel

If my hate is Strong Enough?

What will I know

If I learn Long Enough?

How much will I have

If I work Hard Enough?

Can you Hear what I say?

Can you See what I've seen?

Can you Learn what I know?

If I dream Hard Enough

Will I see reality?

And if I die Fast Enough

Will I see myself live?

Have you thought of Death

Have you thought of death?

How dare you? How dare you?

To think of descending into black

to never come back or return

Cheating yourself out of life

While we struggle through?

Have you thought of death?

Don't dare you! Don't dare you!

Black swallows you whole

But you don't escape, not yet.

You come to the surface

and gasp for air once more.

You have thought of death----

You dare you will! Then go---

Let the black swallow you away

from the world you tried to escape

Then go--- I want never to see you again

You think of death---

Oh How I hate you---

Ihateyou! Ihateyou! Ihateyou!

You run away, a scared little child

So, have you thought of death?

And how dare you do so?

The Black opens its arms

As you descend down and down

Try again-- one more time

And so this time you do

Success and demise at once

You thought of death---

And went------

Realization

I feel my importance amid New York crowds.

I am one among millions who shall be preserved.

I fear nothing on the deadly New York streets.

I am! I exist! See me! here, and now!

I feel taller than the buildings by which I am awed

And nothing, NOTHING could make me feel small.

But when I stand in a fallow field,

Not 200 miles away,

I my importance dwindle amid the grasses

I am one among millions whose reason to be is not clear.

I fear every rustle of wind in the trees.

Who am I? Do I exist? Can you see me? where, and how?

I feel less than the dirt on which I stand,

And realize everything is larger than I am.

Fade

Could it be?

All this is over?

Shall I say amen?

I remember

morning

Waking up before the sun

to help with your lunch

riding

We went all over

to deliver cake and cookies

There were a hundred rooms

it seemed, to a little girl.

But I could always find you

no matter how many rooms.

The car was green,

the driveway narrow

the car-port home-built

in your enormous yard.

I remember

coloring.

The books I have

were as big as me!

Sitting

The bench at the front door

welcoming company

A little girl’s imagination

went wild on those benches,

on those back porches

in that huge yard

I remember

driving

It seemed like hours

to a sandy barren place

wondering

Live there? But how?

There’s no roof, no walls.

At first, it was a cement block

Then a collection of wood

I don’t remember walls

There were no trees.

I wanted you to stay

not to move so far away

Retirement was a blessing

“Idle hands....”

I remember

playing

The lawn was plush, green

carefully trimmed.

getting wet

We’d bring our bathing suits

and run through the sprinklers

There was always something

for us to do there.

A garage full of things

of memories, of junk

The bicycle with a skipping chain

The taped-up jump rope

The ball-bearing balanced rope

The harmonica

I remember

searching

You always went out to hide

out Easter Eggs to find

singing

Out came your harmonica

and the songs we knew

There were Christmases spent

at my house

You slept on the pull-our bed

Or were supposed

You left that night

We didn’t know why.

Memory made you go

Pride forced you home.

 I remember

waking

There was no one downstairs

to sneak around

wondering

How come you left?

Did we make you angry?

If only we had realized....

Many more times would you go

Memory forcing you to go

Pride forcing you to keep going

It was the first time you asked,

“Who was that?”

For someone you had known

all your life

I remember

watching

Your hair grew greyer

Your gadgets less original.

wondering

This was the third time

you had taught me that problem....

More and more you watched

Less and less you moved

The chair was a sanctuary.

A safe haven for retreat.

You no longer remembered

Who I was, who you were.

The stories became jumbled

The memories crowded.

“I’m Jennifer, your granddaughter”

“I’m Stephanie, your wife”

“I’m Christine, your daughter”

“I’m Paul, your son”

“I’m Chester, your brother”

For just one moment she turned

Just a moment, there was no eye to watch

And the next moment, you were gone.

The eyes had nothing to watch.

The forest--

cold, dark

The memory--

cold, dark

No one is around to tell you

where you live

who you are.

A bed of pine needles,

ten miles from a place you do not recognize

as home

serves as a bed

It was on that bed you died.

Stubborn body lived on.

No one could say you had

not been healthy

Your body clung to life.

I remember

hearing

They had found you,

cold, alone, half dead

seeing

A shriveled and drawn man

cold, alone, half dead.

Trapped in a body which wouldn’t die

Trapped in a mind that couldn’t remember

Were you aware?

Did you know?

You walked for a while.

You rode in a wheelchair for a while

You stayed in a bed for a while

You stayed in that bed.

I remember

smelling

Your flesh rotted before

your heart stopped beating

looking.

A shriveled, dying man lay there

this was not you

Sicknesses they could not name

ate you inside out.

You would not eat anymore

except for yogurt

The first call was a nurse

“Should I call a priest?”

“Has it come to this?”

I went back to sleep.

I remember

wishing

I was seeing you die

and I wished it sped along

wanting.

This should be over

no one needs to suffer

It was quick and quiet.

The way it should have been

on that bed of pine

so long ago.

You hung on stubbornly

every day forgetting

another piece of yourself

‘til there was nothing there

I remember

crying

How I would miss you!

How unfair--

thinking.

Peaceful and dignified

you lay there

Perhaps it looked like wax

But it was peaceful there

And finally, you were given

your dignity back

As much as we will miss you

it is better this way.

The grandfather I once knew

died on a bed of pine

and pined away on a bed

A slow

agonizing

Fade.

Amen

I remember mourning.

Poet Bio

Author of a few poems here and there, co-author of "The Faction Stories", "Penumbra:Equinox", and contributor to "Heroes & Villains" Anthology, she lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and three cats. Chatter box, compulsive writer, bon vivant, stunt commuter, and a ninja in her dreams, J. Rose enjoys losing herself in the capes and masks of her superheroes, finding new trouble for her witches and werewolves-- and is always on the look out for a new adventure, on the page or in real life.

 

Links:

jrosealexander.com

www.facebook.com/jrosealexander

twitter.com/jrosealexander

https://plus.google.com/+JenniferStevens/posts

http://instagram.com/thekittylover

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6862903.J_Rose_Alexander

http://www.amazon.com/J.-Rose-Alexander/e/B00E0CL5BM/

Book: