371. The Start Against the Dark – Again

I finally started the story I wrote about in the last blog-post, although without drawing anything. I’ve posted it on alternative-history.com, in their fiction section. I wonder if I will get any response.

I might not deserve it, since I will hardly have time to respond to or comment on other people’s writings, myself. Just as it was when I tried to write that short novel in spring …

But it is okay. It is public as a testament to my commitment, and I have already described in the last post, how I intend to go about this. Now for the important question, even though I did not – as mentioned – get time to draw something for this first bit … but was it fun?

Yes. It feels so.

But also a bit frightening, because the story is written into the dark. I have only a vague idea about where to take it from here, despite a scenario I like. So there is a risk of this story of becoming a ghost-story like so many others, unfinished. And now in a public space.

But maybe that is the risk you have to take in order to finish stories, with art or not. You don’t necessarily have to show them while drafting; some writers recommend not to. But you have to find some form of commitment that works for you.

And for me it is to tell others that I am doing it.

Otherwise it become too easy not to do it. Even if I have promised myself it is okay to only do it very little time each day, which WILL be reality from now on. Especially with the drawings I plan …

So maybe this is stupid. Another false start. Another hope that won’t really come to anything. Another groping in the dark.

But I have to keep this search up, after a story with art that I can do, at this point in my life, because I need to do such creativity.

I have to keep up the search.

Otherwise, what is there but to sit in the dark and wait for it to become all there is?

Prologue: Stranger Talk

The Winter Palace
7 November 1917

Alexander Kerensky heard the shot from the warship – probably Aurora – and instinctively ducked.

But no shell came hurling through the window of his office or anywhere else at the Palace, so after a brief moment to regain composure he continued the frenzied collection of his papers.

It had been a warning shot. A miss … or even a blank – this time.

“They are massing again out in the yard”, the female guard muttered near the window where she had been watching the spectacle outside the palace.

She was Anya, one of the few loyals. She was part of a motley bunch of cadets, officers, cossacks and – yes, soldiers from the special woman’s battalion, who were still nominally defending Kerensky’s regime.

But most had been drifting away in the early evening hours, before the inevitable Bolshevik assault.

Just like my ministers, Kerensky mused while packing yet another stack of paper in a his briefcase … and now, just like me …

Read the collected story here, as it progresses.