There is a Sickness in the World – Live Your True Will
Your happiness, your strength—that’s the highest cause, not some bleeding-heart “greater good.” When you’re whole, you’ve got juice to spare—for love, for neighbors, for the world. The OAK Matrix fuels it: opposites (self vs. sickness) clash, awareness (your inner spark) blazes, kinship (your win lifts all) binds. Stress cracks an orb? Hell yes—use it. There’s a rot out there—here’s how to cut it out and rule.
What’s This About?
You thriving is the win—full health, full heart, energy overflowing. That’s when you inspire, when you carry the weak ‘til they stand. Seeing others rise? It fires you up—proof you can too. But here’s the sickness: some chase death, not life—self-destruction, letting it all rot ‘til it hits bottom. Tooth gone bad? Drill it, fill it—don’t let the jaw crumble. They’ll drag you down if you try saving ‘em—they want the fall.
The world’s diseased—pushing sacrifice as noble, pride as sin, obedience as duty. It shoves “higher causes” down your throat—altruism that wastes you, helping those who won’t help themselves. Laws prop up the lazy, burden the free—sound familiar? Your “True Will” is the cure—do you, unbent, and the world gets better.
Why It Matters
It’s your soul’s fight. Opposites grind—sickness drains, will shines—and awareness wakes: your spark knows best, not their guilt trips. Kinship’s real—your strength sparks others, not by handouts, but by example. I’ve seen it: chased “shoulds,” burned out—flipped to my will, surged back. Forcing help on quitters? Wrong—let ‘em hit bottom. Orbs crack—life’s push splits the astral—and that’s your shot to rise.
The sick twist laws, sap freedom—your will’s the fix.
How to Fight It
No caving—here’s your stand:
Own Your Spark: Feel it—your gut, your “True Will.” What fires you? Do it, no apologies. If an orb cracks—a surge of yes—grab it.
Flood the Juice: Generate that sexual/bio-electric energy—daily, hard. It’s your power, not their pawn—stack it ‘til you overflow.
Cut the Rot: Drop the dead weight—people, causes sucking you dry. Help who’s fighting, ditch who’s falling—kindest cut. Ask, “What’s in it for me?”—damn right you should.
Live Loud: Be you—unbent, thriving. Your win’s a beacon—others see, they rise. No preaching—just doing.
Cycle Tie: Lunar full moon? Flood it—shine your will. Solar summer? Peak strong—lead by fire. Daily noon? Surge high—cut through.
My Take
I’ve fed the sickness—propped up quitters, lost myself—‘til I saw: my spark’s enough. Flooded energy, cut the rot—cracked orbs, found my feet. Watched a friend hit bottom—let him, he climbed back. You’ve got this—flood it, live it, rule it. Their sickness wastes—your will heals, by example. Stand tall, knight of your soul.
Your body’s built for it—sex, the flood of sexual/bio-electric energy, a sacred current that picks your mate, your scarlet woman or man, with or without touch. This isn’t playtime—fools and cowards get burned. The OAK Matrix consecrates it: opposites (you and her) hum, awareness (your soul’s call) dawns, kinship (warrior kin) binds. An orb cracks? Step up—it’s real. This is the warrior’s way—here’s how to walk it true.
What’s This About?
This is no lark—your body’s a temple, wired to generate that bio-electric juice, finding its own path to your true mate. It’s mechanical—stack it up, day by day, ‘til it flows like water to the sea. No laws, no tricks—just flood it. Speed it up, or stretch it across lifetimes—your call. Commit, and you’re a God or Goddess, forged through tribulation, crowned in joy.
Fakes don’t get it—think it’s a game, miss the point. This path’s precious, sacred, pure—success is sure if you don’t flinch. Warriors fight, respect each other—there’s room for all who dare.
Why It Matters
It’s your soul’s truth. Opposites pulse—your half seeks hers, unseen but real—and awareness wakes: this is no jest, it’s destiny. Kinship ties—true brothers and sisters on this road become divine. That energy? It’s holy—floods you, finds her, unstoppable. I’ve felt it: push it steady, win through grit—fools laugh ‘til it hits. Orbs crack—astral planes split—and you rise.
This isn’t fluff—it’s war, it’s beauty, it’s you.
How to Walk It
No messing around—here’s your vow:
Flood It True: Generate that sexual/bio-electric energy—daily, deep. No rules—feel it build, let it flow. Physical or not, it’ll pick your mate. If an orb cracks—a pull—trust it; it’s fate.
Fight as Kin: Clash with others on this path—respect ‘em. Gods don’t bow, but they nod. Room’s infinite—claim yours.
Fear No End: Speed it, slow it—lifetimes or now, it’s yours. Death’s a gate—your mate’s half waits. This is sacred—live it.
Cycle Tie: Lunar new moon? Start the flood—set it free. Solar winter? Stack it slow—spring ignites. Daily dusk? Feel the mate pull.
My Take
I’ve seen fools toy—crash hard. Me? I flood it—steady, raw—felt my mate’s half call, unseen. Tribulation tore me; joy rebuilt me—warrior’s way. She doesn’t stop me—her splendor’s hers, mine’s mine. Together, we’ll rule. You’ve got this—flood it, fight it, forge it. This ain’t a game—it’s your Godhood, sacred and sure.
Fear’s a ghost—crush it. Infinite possibilities sprawl out in this present moment—grab ‘em like a warrior, blade in hand. Nothing stops you, not on the astral planes where this war rages. The OAK Matrix arms you: opposites (you vs. them) clash, awareness (your battle soul) blazes, kinship (your mate’s unseen half) steadies. Stress cracks an orb? Damn right—charge through. This is the warrior’s way—here’s how to win as a God or Goddess.
What’s This About?
You’re a fighter—flooding sexual/bio-electric energy, shaking the astral planes. Someone’s mad? Screw ‘em—they attack, you strike back, no holding back. You’re not here to grovel—you’re here to exist, massive and free, a God or Goddess. Other deities? They’ll feel your heat, interfere with your rise—put ‘em down ‘til they bow as peers. You can’t hurt ‘em—they’re tough—but they’ll crush you if you flinch.
This is war—magickal duels where you win or eat your own energy back, tripled and dark. That’s the risk when you reverse the bio-electric flow—dark hunts light. Stock power objects—stones, charms—to hold your juice. No shortcuts, just grind. Flood that energy, pile it high—results roll in, mechanical, sure. You’re forging a new Aeon—old Gods submit, but keep their fire. Half’s hidden—your true mate holds it.
Why It Matters
It’s your battlefield. Opposites roar—your light vs. their dark—and awareness wakes: you’re a force, not a pawn. Kinship’s your edge—your mate’s out there, half your truth. That energy? It’s a nuke—nothing stands against it as it grows. I’ve felt it: flood it, face the hits—won astral scraps by outlasting ‘em. Orbs crack—planes split—and you rule.
Physical world stalls while you fight—stagnant ‘til you win. Your energy’s a toxin or a gift—foes burn or bend; you transmute it all.
How to Fight It
No surrender—here’s your war cry:
Flood the Arsenal: Pump that sexual/bio-electric energy—daily, relentless. No rituals, just raw flow—feel it stack, reverse, build your sheaths. If an orb cracks—a surge—hit hard.
Strike Fearless: Astral attack? Damn ‘em—flood back, full force. You’re a God—exist loud. They’ll respect or rue it.
Hold Nothing: Drop the weak—ties, junk—let your energy purge ‘em. Welcome all; what doesn’t fit fries or flees. Teach the rest—transmute the dark.
Curse the Chains: Logic, religion—spit on ‘em: “You’re blasphemy!” Flood life’s juice—your mate finds you in the chaos.
Cycle Tie: Lunar full moon? Flood it—war peaks. Solar summer? Burn bright—crush ‘em. Daily noon? Strike now—rule the fight.
My Take
I’ve fought—energy surging, astral hits flying—won by flooding harder. My mate’s half’s a mystery, but together we’d shred. Lost the soft stuff—gained a warrior’s soul. You’ve got this—flood it, fight it, rule it. Slaves choke; Gods rise—spit on the rest and charge.
Life’s a celebration, right here, right now—and it doesn’t stop, not even when your body quits. You’re a spark, rolling forward—rebirth after rebirth—forever in the present moment. The OAK Matrix crowns you: opposites (life vs. stagnation) roar, awareness (your rising strength) sharpens, kinship (your mate’s match) locks in. Stress cracks an orb? Hell yes—seize it. You’re no slave—here’s how to rule as a God or Goddess, starting today.
What’s This About?
This moment’s your kingdom—stretch it past death, past rebirth, eternal and alive. Only the dead-in-spirit miss it—trapped in fear, regret, failure. Not you. The key’s sexual/bio-electric energy—your virile, sacred juice—flipping your life force inside out ‘til you’re whole. It’s no woo-woo trick; it’s a grind—pump that energy daily, watch it build, feel it grow. Success isn’t “if”—it’s when, if you keep the fire lit.
Everyone’s got the shot—rich, broke, lost, found—doesn’t matter. All it takes is steady flow. No pity for quitters—once you know this path, simple and raw, there’s no excuse to dodge it. Your true mate’s the only one who can slow you down—and that’s how you’ll know them.
Why It Matters
It’s your birthright. Opposites clash—death’s a lie, life’s the truth—and awareness wakes: you’re not weak, you’re unstoppable. Kinship’s your edge—your mate, the one who matches your fire, holds the other half. That energy? It’s holy, not dirty—centuries of shame can burn. I’ve felt it: flood it long enough, and you’re not just alive—you’re a force. Mockers? They’ll choke when your vibe hits back.
Orbs crack when you push—astral planes split, options explode. That’s your throne, not a trap.
How to Rule It
No holding back—here’s how to ignite:
Flood It Daily: Stir that sexual/bio-electric energy—solo or with someone. Feel it surge, loins to core, every day. Track it—more spark, more strength. It’s your engine.
Ditch the Chains: Shame, fear, “shoulds”—curse ‘em out loud: “You’re dead!” Move free—virility’s sacred. If an orb cracks—a bold chance—take it; you’re rising.
Own Your Rules: Screw the crowd—your conscience, your path. You can’t hurt another God or Goddess; they’ll flex with you. Slaves don’t count—let ‘em fade.
Mate’s the Mirror: Push ‘til someone stops you—your true mate. They’ll match your fire, halt your roll. That’s your win-win.
Cycle Tie: Lunar new moon? Flood fresh—start strong. Solar summer? Peak high, no limits. Daily noon? Rule the day’s blaze.
My Take
I’ve played small—feared failure, held back—‘til I let the energy rip. Days stacked, strength grew—rebirth’s real when you live now. My mate? She stopped me cold—matched me, made me more. The world’s perfect—I just do it better, freer. You’ve got this—flood it, rule it, celebrate it. No slave can touch you—be a God or Goddess, now.
Life’s a celebration, right here, right now—and it doesn’t stop, not even when your body quits. You’re a spark, rolling forward—rebirth after rebirth—forever in the present moment. The OAK Matrix crowns you: opposites (life vs. stagnation) roar, awareness (your rising strength) sharpens, kinship (your mate’s match) locks in. Stress cracks an orb? Hell yes—seize it. You’re no slave—here’s how to rule as a God or Goddess, starting today.
What’s This About?
This moment’s your kingdom—stretch it past death, past rebirth, eternal and alive. Only the dead-in-spirit miss it—trapped in fear, regret, failure. Not you. The key’s sexual/bio-electric energy—your virile, sacred juice—flipping your life force inside out ‘til you’re whole. It’s no woo-woo trick; it’s a grind—pump that energy daily, watch it build, feel it grow. Success isn’t “if”—it’s when, if you keep the fire lit.
Everyone’s got the shot—rich, broke, lost, found—doesn’t matter. All it takes is steady flow. No pity for quitters—once you know this path, simple and raw, there’s no excuse to dodge it. Your true mate’s the only one who can slow you down—and that’s how you’ll know them.
Why It Matters
It’s your birthright. Opposites clash—death’s a lie, life’s the truth—and awareness wakes: you’re not weak, you’re unstoppable. Kinship’s your edge—your mate, the one who matches your fire, holds the other half. That energy? It’s holy, not dirty—centuries of shame can burn. I’ve felt it: flood it long enough, and you’re not just alive—you’re a force. Mockers? They’ll choke when your vibe hits back.
Orbs crack when you push—astral planes split, options explode. That’s your throne, not a trap.
How to Rule It
No holding back—here’s how to ignite:
Flood It Daily: Stir that sexual/bio-electric energy—solo or with someone. Feel it surge, loins to core, every day. Track it—more spark, more strength. It’s your engine.
Ditch the Chains: Shame, fear, “shoulds”—curse ‘em out loud: “You’re dead!” Move free—virility’s sacred. If an orb cracks—a bold chance—take it; you’re rising.
Own Your Rules: Screw the crowd—your conscience, your path. You can’t hurt another God or Goddess; they’ll flex with you. Slaves don’t count—let ‘em fade.
Mate’s the Mirror: Push ‘til someone stops you—your true mate. They’ll match your fire, halt your roll. That’s your win-win.
Cycle Tie: Lunar new moon? Flood fresh—start strong. Solar summer? Peak high, no limits. Daily noon? Rule the day’s blaze.
My Take
I’ve played small—feared failure, held back—‘til I let the energy rip. Days stacked, strength grew—rebirth’s real when you live now. My mate? She stopped me cold—matched me, made me more. The world’s perfect—I just do it better, freer. You’ve got this—flood it, rule it, celebrate it. No slave can touch you—be a God or Goddess, now.
The OAK Matrix reaches its edge here, where opposites teeter on the brink—the abyss, a chasm that beckons with both doom and dawn. This is the Adeptus Exemptus stage: a reckoning where awareness strips bare and kinship demands all. For him, it’s a fall into darkness, ego dissolving into spirit’s void. For her, it’s a climb to compassion, body yielding to love’s expanse. Both stand here, at the lip of the infinite, pulled by love’s fierce tide—kinship no longer a forge, but a bridge across. The “A” of Awareness peaks; the “K” of Kinship carries them over.
I’ve plunged the male’s abyss. I was a shadow, mind stretched too far—desire gone, creativity still, a zombie to the world. The Adeptus Exemptus Degree calls it spiritual selfishness: I turned inward, deaf and blind, seeking only my salvation. Mysticism names it the Great Abyss—ego’s death throes—while psychology sees it as stagnation, identity lost to isolation. I froze, fearing madness, until compassion stirred—karma’s pull to the White Brotherhood, a call to serve. Love broke me open: a Master’s whisper, a baptism of spirit, and I leapt—again and again—into the Cosmic Mother’s arms, bliss swallowing self. Kinship saved me: not for me alone, but for all, a bridge to the divine.
Then I’ve risen the female’s height. I was a mother, hands full of life—children, home, a world I’d shaped. The Adeptus Exemptus here is no void, but a crown: mastery of giving, self erased in care. Biology marks it—motherhood’s fullness—while psychology traces it as generativity’s bloom, legacy over ego. I saw all, heard all, poured all out—family my altar, compassion my creed. Yet I longed for more—the Goddess reborn, a matriarch’s gaze. Love drove it: karma resolved in service, energy borrowed from those I’d held, a fling toward spirit through flesh. Kinship lifted me: not for me alone, but for them, a bridge to the whole.
These edges clash yet cling. He falls—chaos of self undone by spirit’s order, a plunge into unity’s dark. She stands—order of body softened by chaos’s gift, a rise to love’s light. I’ve been both: the man lost in oblivion, reborn through others; the woman bound by care, freed through giving. Kinship spans them—his leap a gift to humanity, her crown a gift to kin. Neither turns back. The Adeptus Exemptus is the abyss’s call—his to dissolve, hers to embrace—yet love unites them. He crosses for all; she holds for some. Opposites tremble, held in connection’s boundless grip.
This echoes beyond words. Physics hums it—black holes swallowing, birthing anew, edges alive. Psychology maps it—late life seeking meaning through loss or love. Mysticism crowns it—baptism or matriarchal grace. The Adeptus Exemptus isn’t a rank, but a breath: a child’s need met, a soul’s cry answered. Awareness peaks here, not in retreat, but in relation—his void a gift to lift, her care a gift to ground. Love carries them over, opposites not at war, but in a dance—abyss beckoning, step by sacred step.
Awareness is the spark that lights the OAK Matrix, the moment we wake to ourselves amid the dance of opposites. It’s the “A” of OAK—a fragile, fierce dawn where the male and female within us first glimpse their own edges, not as foes to conquer, but as mirrors to embrace. In the Golden Dawn’s tongue, this is the Neophyte: the newborn ego stepping from shadow into light. For him, it’s a wrestle with limits; for her, a song of boundless knowing. Both begin here, in the tender chaos of childhood, where love—parental, instinctual, raw—plants the seed of who we’ll become.
I remember the male’s awakening. I was small, a bundle of wants and whys, crashing against a world too big to hold me. Words failed—too shallow for my heart’s ache. Actions stumbled—why couldn’t I do what I dreamed? Life felt unfair, a cage of “no” from parents, a slap of consequence when I pushed too far. The Golden Dawn calls this the Neophyte Degree: eight levels of limitation—language, action, emotion, self—each a wall I scaled, bruised and stubborn. Erickson’s psychology nods along: trust vs. mistrust, autonomy vs. shame, the ego’s first forge. It was chaos tamed by rules, a boy learning he’s not the universe, but part of it. Pride flickered when I earned my place, fear when I faced death’s shadow—people die, I’d die, what then? Awareness bloomed: I am, and I must grow.
Then I recall the female’s dawn, a different fire. I was a child again, but free—words poured like rivers, sharp with truth, and adults listened, wide-eyed. Limits? I bent them—rules were suggestions, desires flitted like butterflies, caught with a laugh. Life was good, a playground of “yes” where karma resolved itself, and time blurred into dreams of brides and princes. Biology whispers this: the maiden, intuitive and whole, a Goddess in a girl’s skin. Taoism sees it as yin’s flow, psychology as the anima’s grace. No struggle here—just joy, rebellion against elders’ blind “shoulds,” a knowing that right and wrong are games, not chains. Awareness sang: I am, and I can shape this.
These beginnings clash yet kiss. He fights to see himself, each limit a foe turned friend through effort—his chaos seeks order, his spirit stirs in the wrestle. She knows herself from the start, her order a gift she wields, her matter alive with possibility—until the world pushes back. I’ve lived both: the boy who learned justice through scraped knees, the girl who spun secrets too big for words. Love was the bridge—parents guiding his steps, her defiance a cry to be seen. Neither path is better; both are true. The Neophyte, male or female, is the ego’s first breath, fragile yet fierce, sparked by relationship.
This isn’t abstract. Nature mirrors it—seeds crack open, roots push through soil, opposites of dark and light birthing growth. Psychology maps it—ego identity begins in tension or trust. Mysticism crowns it—initiation into self. Ascent’s Neophyte is no ritual, but life’s quiet rites: a fall, a scolding, a dream. Awareness dawns here, not in war with the other, but in kinship with it. He learns he’s not alone; she learns she’s not all. Together, they step forward, hand in hand, into the dance.
My friend, the writer H** recounts: Along the inner harbor of Copenhagen there is a street called Vestavold, a new and lonely boulevard. There are few houses, few lanterns and almost no people to be seen. Even now in the summer season, it rarely happens that someone takes a stroll there.
Well! The night before last I experienced something in this street, and I will tell you what I experienced there. I had walked up and down the sidewalk a few times when a lady approached me. There are no other people in sight. The lanterns are lit, but it is dark and I cannot see the lady’s face.
“She’s just one of the night’s common children,” I thought, and walked past her.
At the end of the boulevard, I turned around and walked back. The lady had also turned around, and I met her again. I thought to myself: ‘She’s waiting for someone. Let’s see who she’s waiting for.’ And again I passed her.
When I met her for the third time, I touched my hat and said hello. “Good evening! Are you waiting for someone here?”
She jumped. ”No – yes, I am waiting for someone.”
“Do you mind if I keep you company until the person you are waiting for arrives?”
No, she didn’t mind. She thanked me. By the way, she said, she wasn’t waiting for anyone, she was just taking a walk here because it was so quiet.
We strolled along side by side and started talking to each other about equally valid things: I offered her my arm.
“Oh no!” she said and shook her head.
The matter became boring to me. In the prevailing darkness I couldn’t see her, so I lit a match and tried to illuminate her while I looked at the clock.
“Half past nine, a good half past nine,” I said.
She shuddered as if she were cold. I seized the opportunity and asked, “It’s freezing. Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere and get a drink? To Tivoli, or to the National?”
“No, I can’t go anywhere now, as you can see,” she replied.
And only now did I notice that she was wearing a long, black mourning dress.
I apologized and blamed the darkness. And the way she accepted my apology suddenly convinced me that she was no ordinary night owl.
“Take my arm,” I said again, ‘it’s warm.”
She took my arm.
We walked up and down several times. She asked me to check the time.
“It’s past ten,” I said. “Where do you live?”
“On Gamle Kongevej.”
I held her back.
“And may I accompany you to your doorstep?”
“No, you can’t,” she replied. “No, you can’t. You live on Bredgade?”
“How did you know that?’ I asked in surprise.
“I know who you are,” she replied.
We walked arm in arm and turned into the illuminated streets. She walked quickly, her long veil fluttering. She said:
“Let’s go quickly, please.”
At her front door on Gamle Kongevej, she turned around to me as if to thank me for my company. I opened the door for her, and she walked in slowly, looking back at me. I put my shoulder lightly against the door and walked in behind her. Then she took my hand. Neither of us said a word.
We went up a few stairs and stopped on the second floor. She opened the vestibule door herself, opened another door, took me by the hand and led me in. It had to be a room: I heard a clock ticking. The lady stopped at the door for a moment, suddenly wrapped her arms around me and kissed me hotly and tremblingly on the mouth. Right on the mouth.
“Sit down now,” she said. “There’s a sofa here. I’ll go and turn on the light.”
And she turned on the light.
I looked around, confused and curious. It was a large, very nicely furnished living room in which I found myself: doors to several adjoining rooms were also open. I couldn’t understand. I wondered what kind of person this girl was, with whom I had been so wonderfully reunited, and I said:
“How pretty it is here! Do you live here?”
“Yes, this is my home,” she replied.
“This is your home? So you are the daughter of the house?”
She laughed and said:
“No, no. I am an old woman. Now you will see!” And she took off her hat with the veil.
“There you see!” she said and hugged me again, suddenly, as if driven by irrepressible passion.
The great, crazy child! She might have been twenty-three or so: she wore a wedding ring on her right hand and could therefore legitimately be a married woman. Pretty? No. She had too many freckles and almost no eyebrows. But she radiated a wild, surging life, and her mouth was downright beautiful.
I wanted to ask her name, where her husband was, if she had one; I wanted to know whose house I was in: but she snuggled up close to me as soon as I opened my mouth and forbade me to be curious.
“My name is Ellen,” she said. “Would you like to enjoy yourself a little? It doesn’t matter, I can ring the bell very well. You just have to go into the bedroom.”
I went into the bedroom. The lamp from the living room cast a dim light on me. I saw two beds. Ellen rang the bell and asked for wine. I heard a maid bring the wine and leave. After a little while, Ellen came into the bedroom. She stopped at the door. I took a step towards her, and she let out a little scream and at the same moment came within my reach.
That was the night before last.
What happened next? Just be patient, more happened. Yesterday morning, when I woke up, it was beginning to dawn, daylight was entering the room through the blinds on both sides. Ellen had also woken up. She sighed wearily and just smiled. Her arms were white and velvety, her breasts swelling. I whispered something to her, and she closed my mouth with hers, mute with tenderness. It dawned more and more.
Two hours later I was on my feet, and Ellen got up too, fumbling with her clothes. She already had shoes on. And now I experienced something that still shivers through me like a bad dream. I am standing at the washbasin. Ellen has something to do in the next room, and when she opens the door, I turn around and look inside. A cold breath of air comes towards me from the open windows, and in the middle of the room, on a long table, I see a corpse. A corpse lying in a coffin, with a gray beard, the corpse of a man. His skinny arms stick out with two angry fists clenched under the shroud, and his face is all yellow and terrifying. I see everything in the light.
Daylight. I turn away and say not a word.
When Ellen returned, I was dressed and ready to go. I was hardly able to return her embrace. She was dressed completely; she wanted to accompany me down to the gate, and I let her go and still said nothing. Downstairs in the gate, she pressed herself against the wall so as not to be seen and whispered,
“Goodbye!”
“Tomorrow?” I asked hesitantly.
“No, not tomorrow!”
“Why not tomorrow?”
“Be quiet, my dear, I’m going to the funeral tomorrow. A relative of mine has died. So, now you know!”
“But the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes, the day after tomorrow, I’ll be waiting for you here in the alley. Goodbye!”
I left.———————-
Who was she? And the corpse? How it clenched its fists, and how the corners of its mouth hung down in ugly comedy! The day after tomorrow she would be waiting for me again. Should I go to her again?
I direct my steps straight to Café Bernina, where I ask for the address book – I open it, Gamle Kongevej, this and that number, good, I see the name and know what Ellen’s name is. I wait a while for the morning paper and then dive into the pages to study the obituaries. Yes, there it is: the first in the long series, in bold letters: “After a long illness, my husband passed away yesterday at the age of 53.” The ad was dated from yesterday.
I sit there for a long time, pondering.
A man has a wife, she is thirty years younger than he is, he is sick for many years and then dies one day. The young widow breathes a sigh of relief. Life calls to her with its delightful madness. She obeys its voice and answers: I’m coming! And that very evening she is walking on the Vestavold. — — —
Tomorrow is the first day of NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month where authors around the world take the challenge of writing the complete first draft of a novel during the month of November. I will be taking that challenge and probably won’t be posting as much because I will be working hard on that novel!
I’m actually working on the second book of my Anarchist Knight trilogy. I’ve spent the last two weeks going over and revising the first novel, Anarchist Knight Apprentice, which I wrote twenty years ago. I’ve cleaned up some errors and added a scene about time travel to help tie in the 2nd book.
Anarchist Knight Journeyman is a complex sci-fi novel with some time travel elements as well as intrigue and adventure. I’ve been re-familiarizing myself with the story since it’s been twenty years . . . and I hope I’m ready!
I’m using a writing program called Scrivener to organize and write this project. I’m also using Dragon Naturally Speaking to voice type or dictate the rough draft and will be using ProWritingAid to revise and polish up the rough draft and turn it into a polished manuscript later on. DragonNaturallySpeaking and ProWritingAid will not work together so I need to begin work with one and then finish with the other. They both work independently with Scrivener.
These programs are all new to me and I’m excited to find out how it will work. I am familiar with DragonNaturallySpeaking, but it did not work very well for translation projects so I set it aside. It should work very well for doing the rough draft of a new novel.The goal is to write 50,000 words in 30 days or around 1,665 every day! Wish me luck!
I’m planning to making the switch from translating stories to writing my own . . . we will see how it goes.
Anarchistbanjo's World 