Welcome to Gaia! ::

He had brought a notebook and a pen. He knew he wasn't supposed to, but he couldn't seem to help himself. There was a thin sheen of sweat on Jason's face and he looked suspiciously red, but he was ignoring the fact that he had the worse sunburn in his life. Some things were more important. Although it seemed that sleep wasn't one of them.

"I've got to say," he said as he stepped into the area, "I mean, this is the most amazing, awesome, fantastic thing that's ever happened in my life. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baenare. A serious pleasure."

He held out his hand to the much older man, then stopped, wiping it off on his shorts a few times before offering it again. "Sorry, it was a bit clammy," he admitted, flushing beneath his sunburn.

The man laughed softly as he reached out to shake Jason's hand " It's fine it happens to everyone." Warm weather and nerves tended to have that affect on people. That and the hefty male was clearly sun-burnt causing the older man to not grip his hand too tightly and cause him more pain. He didn't want Jason distracted by pain when he should be writing later.

" I certainly hope things continue to meet your approval" he continued wryly. The real amazing, awesome and fantastic things were yet to come and Benjamin wondered just how the other would handle it? How any of them would.

When Jason moved to find a seat he nodded towards the young woman who'd saluted him before grabbing a cushion. She didn't quite look like she was interested in conversation yet. Perhaps he should have provided coffee.

Ian had been up since dawn. Something that was very unusual for a man like him. Under most circumstances he and the mornings didn't get along. Yet right at first light he'd been opened his eyes and felt completely awake. Like a kid on Christmas morning almost. It was a little sad to tell the truth. But at least it had given him time to settle his nerves about meeting Mr. Baenare. After a quick sit on the lawn with his guitar, he'd showered and taken the time to do his hair properly. For a moment Ian'd toyed with taking out some of his piercings... but it wasn't like it really mattered...

Dressing in his best black shirt (they were all the same), and pair of jeans, he tucked his feet into his black chuck taylors, he made his way down to Baenare's home. Brining himself, a pack of cigarettes, his zune, and a shining attitude, Ian walked up to the gathering of writers and waved happily. "Hey everyone, nice morning huh?" Being a lazy sort, he settled himself onto one of the cushions.

Honestly, he kind of felt like the new kid in class. He'd been the only one to arrive on the island by himself, and felt like he'd really missed out on an opportunity to get to know some of these interesting people. "So, how's it going?" He didn't actually ask anyone in particular.

Benjamin was pleased with the steady flow of writers making their way to him. At this rate they'd be able to get started soon. He smiled out at those already assembled. " Welcome and no one is late yet though I image there will be stragglers."

Peering down at Jason through his glasses Baenare smiled as he nodded. " There was but it's hard to explain, like why we buy a book even when the back of the jacket leaves us uncertain of what we're in for. I suppose you could say you peaked my curiosity and my hope to find something enjoyable within you and yet it's more than that." There was a slight shrug as he spoke the last words. Something in each of their applications had called out to him even when their writing styles in their samples weren't something that greatly interested him or didn't yet reach him. In a way he had chosen them and in others they had chosen themselves.

" I have them all on file but I didn't quite keep count." Baenare admitted " Suffice to say there were enough that it made choosing difficult and made me wish I still had stories left to tell." He had expected a reasonable turnout but not nearly as many applications as he'd got and especially not with such a wide age range. There had also been the odd accompanying note that tore him between wishing he was younger and being disturbed by the forwardness of some people today in such matters.

He cleared his throat a moment later and stood, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes as he did so. They were all gathered by then and it was time to start being serious. " I have a few things to say now and then I will answer more questions." Then when that was done the writing could begin.

" There is more to being a writer than positioning words onto paper in vain attempts to coin witty phrases. It is more than an occupation, more than a dream. It is an identity and a fluid art form that nestles within the deepest confines of the soul. You are here today because of this. You want to write; you feel the need to tell the stories that are ingrained within your mind. Some of you may like the challenge of novelistic writing; it's far more complex than the writing of a mere diary entry, or newspaper article, or poem, or idea. Writing is far more than the idea, and in order to be a successful writer, you need to take your expectations of it ... And rip them to shreds. Rip every idea you ever had about writing to shreds, char them within a fire, douse them with water, and feed them to whatever carnivorous animal happens to be closest to your location of residence. Expectation is a poison. "

Benjamin's face grew flush with colour as he spoke eagerly and with great passion. He paced up and down the row of writers before him hoping to see some spark in them at his words. Hoping for some sign that he had chosen right with them.

"Each and every one of you has a gift. What we are here to do today is unlock that gift. We are here to unlock the artist within your hearts and minds, to free them, and to create the beginnings of something new and beautiful. Still, writing is not a game; it is not just a fantasy you create on a whim. Literature is not merely entertainment for the audience to enjoy. It is an experience for them, and for the author, who traveled many miles through life to find that nook which generated their greatest of achievements: touching a reader. They walked upon nails, endured dead-end jobs, harassment, date rejections, and the betrayals of friends to get to where they are. " It was no easy life being a writer whether it was as a hobby or a career and far too many people romanticized what it was like.

"They struggled." he continued "It is the struggle, the experience, which makes a novel sincere. How many of us have picked up a book and instantly identified with its leading cast, or noted its villains as reminiscent of our own antagonists in life? "


" There is only one way to be a good writer: cast aside your ambitions, your hopes, and dig into your heart for the sincerity that rests there. Only when you set your heart in the right place, may you be a good writer. A lifeless idea is just that. A lifeless idea; and a frivolous attempt at originality is not more than that either. Originality itself is dead and you will never be original. But you can be successful. You can be convincing, and you can produce work like the many novels that may have touched you throughout your lives. As writers, it is our job to write what we know. "

Benjamin stopped there to catch his breath, his little speech over; he could only hope his words when spoken were as effective as when he wrote them.

Javaid's fingers had jittered slightly as they fell into his pocket. Anxiously, he had removed his cell phone, attempting in vain to check the time only to find that the contraption would not turn on. His brows had furrowed in a disgruntled manner, snapping to at once when a series of words had entered his brain. His cheeks had began to feel warm as he sheepishly stashed his phone within his pocket once more, straightening his back and peering at the man who stood before them for the first time since he had sat down.

The words uttered seemed plain-spoken and forward. Throw away everything. Expectation. Write what you know? He had felt something a of a fluster manifesting within his stomach. Why on earth would he want to write about his own life and experiences? Searching his own memory bank, he found himself at a loss, which had prompted him to scan the crowd. Someone had to be just as lost as he was ...

Like a school child, he had raised his hand up, eventually putting it down as if realizing the instinctive action were out of place.

"Sir. What if there's nothing to really write about ..." He had frowned somewhat. "Isn't the point of fiction to be fictitious, not semi-autobiographical?"