May 28, 2013 by Kira Lyn Blue
I sat down last night with the intention of writing some internal dialogue for my character who is a chaos class sorcerer. I wanted to see if I could compose something that shows how her thought processes are different than normal people.
It didn’t quite go as planned.
I thought I’d share it with you, though, because I’m curious what thoughts and ideas it sparks in your heads. As you read, keep in mind that this character, Jac, has a magical ability that makes her a walking disaster area.
I couldn’t sleep, so I just stared the textured surface above my bed. The scallop-shaped ripples in the drywall fascinated me. At first glance, it seemed patterned, as if there was a method to the madness of the person who had carved the shapes into the mud before it dried. Then you’d notice a fully circular shape of concentric rings in a sea of scallops. There were nine of them on my ceiling. I’d tried to determine if there was any pattern to those ten, but had yet to discover one. Ultimately, there was no pattern to the nine at all. Arcs of all sizes and lengths and starting from every which direction covered the surface over my bed. There was no rhyme or reason to them. They just were.
Such anarchy that no one ever noticed because no one looked up.
Had the ceiling not been textured, the seams where sections of plasterboard were joined together would stand out like jarring imperfections in the otherwise smooth surface. The human eye would note the imperfection even from the periphery. Your attention would be drawn to the lines because you couldn’t help but notice how they stood out from their surroundings. Your mind would label the ceiling imperfect.
Normal people were untextured ceilings. Bad events in their lives marred the surface of their smooth orderly lives. The death of a loved one, a tragic accident, the loss of a job, a massive failure; these events may only be a small portion of the overall surface of their lives, but they stood out. They were defining events, sometimes because that person couldn’t handle those events, sometimes because those viewing their “ceiling” could only see the imperfections and not the rest of the person’s smooth life.
My life was a textured ceiling. There was nothing smooth about my life. No pattern, no order, no rhyme, no reason. Just an endless series of unfortunate events. Like the nine perfect circles on my ceiling, I could count on both hands the number of times I’d had order in my life and things had gone according to plan.
But, I wasn’t defined by my outliers like others seemed to be. My entire life was outliers compared to the norm. For some reason, my overall lack of pattern defined me.
For the few short months I’d lived here with V and become an EMT, I had thought I might be able to have a somewhat normal life. That I could impose pattern and order on my chaos. That I could carve something meaningful into backdrop of all the very bad things by helping people. Instead, the anarchy of my life drove the outliers into the background.