tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12051756291392555622024-03-08T14:11:23.325-08:00BEYOND THE WINDSJAMES WHITEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06546895917713033205noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1205175629139255562.post-9168627902106043532023-10-21T05:43:00.002-07:002023-10-21T06:04:24.391-07:00SHADOW OF THE BLACK BOOK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFy7h8ZNODn8y8VjoEL9XgJEk5IuLyyJwSCaLoD7B5ZHfvcYLDY-SVj36Xn5PEdltE5G9X4JBITtJZTPymEapTUf65BG7km9tqDLqR7SCsTiYp7p9BH9_qTTNMsj2CcqWvyiub3O-sSdCbxxNHF0yPdZqAipDMfLD6cAs7mOKH2pYiEQ95V0SaBOCP2qg/s2201/BEYOND%20THE%20WINDS%20-%20POSTER%2002%20-%20LOW%20RES.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2201" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFy7h8ZNODn8y8VjoEL9XgJEk5IuLyyJwSCaLoD7B5ZHfvcYLDY-SVj36Xn5PEdltE5G9X4JBITtJZTPymEapTUf65BG7km9tqDLqR7SCsTiYp7p9BH9_qTTNMsj2CcqWvyiub3O-sSdCbxxNHF0yPdZqAipDMfLD6cAs7mOKH2pYiEQ95V0SaBOCP2qg/w466-h640/BEYOND%20THE%20WINDS%20-%20POSTER%2002%20-%20LOW%20RES.jpg" width="466" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div><div style="text-align: justify;">BEYOND THE WINDS - SHADOW OF THE BLACK BOOK - BOOK ONE IS NOW ON SALE!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">PLEASE CHECK THE LINK BELOW OR SCAN THE QR CODE TO BUY THE BOOK. KINDLE eBOOK - PAPERBACK AND HARDCOVER VERSIONS ARE ALL AVILABLE. <br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0CKGSF3HL">BEYOND THE WINDS - SHADOW OF THE BLACK BOOK: 1 : Akyurek, Cem: Amazon.com.au: Books</a></div></div>JAMES WHITEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06546895917713033205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1205175629139255562.post-37968107690451692262023-10-19T20:02:00.001-07:002023-10-24T20:13:10.325-07:002002 TO 2023<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHi-8p4YCAsNHhZ6KMYw2fOzMAIDrNf2neRKa_5S945NMqad2ptuTLSIpWxAafh4UAI3kMBUl67Ib7uAe6O-yUF2gVWMLTfE230YD-Lv5r-zkI7cE3KTLyYanZogOiJCZrNJ7FWGizoZHB32Dj_nQdUnDsH774RA9Z5SHEO8FlS5quu_r5O7pTZQ_krs/s1920/2002-2023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHi-8p4YCAsNHhZ6KMYw2fOzMAIDrNf2neRKa_5S945NMqad2ptuTLSIpWxAafh4UAI3kMBUl67Ib7uAe6O-yUF2gVWMLTfE230YD-Lv5r-zkI7cE3KTLyYanZogOiJCZrNJ7FWGizoZHB32Dj_nQdUnDsH774RA9Z5SHEO8FlS5quu_r5O7pTZQ_krs/w426-h640/2002-2023.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b>2002 TO 2023</b></p><p>In the heart of an uncharted realm, where the winds themselves whispered secrets and ancient mysteries beckoned to those with courage in their veins, the Beyond the Winds project was ignited. It began as a mere spark, a flicker of destiny, and over the span of two decades, it transformed into an inferno that would forever etch its tale in the annals of time.</p><p></p><p>For twenty-one years, this enigmatic land has been the crucible of heroes and the spawning grounds of villains, where legends were born and destinies were tested. With each passing season, the land beyond the winds revealed its awe-inspiring beauty and its treacherous secrets. Now, in the fading twilight of this era, there emerges a tale that shall resonate through the ages, a tale of the uncharted, the unexplored—the story of the land beyond the winds, destined to be passed down through the generations for centuries to come.</p><p></p>JAMES WHITEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06546895917713033205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1205175629139255562.post-19372561863296125722023-10-19T05:32:00.000-07:002023-10-24T20:13:45.747-07:00BEGINNING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7RIUNCemr0z-xS3ewoXe-0o-OxmhIZWRaFL0NoqT17FgDoJIzqdKopSehHGaNuIEu-q1NBM8huFkMIGP02H8YcQhiLRHyc0dy0EHjJAW9xWuDsiFQoTIWvi27sgwjWrTgsAGleow7dML_PrP87WuFSRz1Q8dJTcHh034FIu1-J1RxZlhQJtOpu4hXcrA/s1544/BLOG%20IMAGE%2001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1168" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7RIUNCemr0z-xS3ewoXe-0o-OxmhIZWRaFL0NoqT17FgDoJIzqdKopSehHGaNuIEu-q1NBM8huFkMIGP02H8YcQhiLRHyc0dy0EHjJAW9xWuDsiFQoTIWvi27sgwjWrTgsAGleow7dML_PrP87WuFSRz1Q8dJTcHh034FIu1-J1RxZlhQJtOpu4hXcrA/w484-h640/BLOG%20IMAGE%2001.jpg" width="484" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>THE BEGINNING</b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal">It was a bitterly cold winter in 2001 in Ankara, Turkey. Not just the city center, but the surrounding towns were blanketed in snow. I was stationed at the Gendarmerie school on a high hill as a lieutenant in the army, and the snowfall here was unlike anything I had seen before. After my shift, the shuttle service resembled a slow-moving train, delayed by the heavy snowfall. I gazed out of the window from the officer's branch building, pencil poised above an open notebook on my lap. That evening, inspiration struck me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I closed the notebook without a single mark on its pages. The notebook's cover matched the uniform I wore, as was the style for officers. The army tailors had crafted this fabric notebook cover for me, and I cherished it like an accessory, carrying it everywhere. It was within these pages that I sketched numerous figures: dragons, warriors, and knights.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I looked out at the line of shuttles waiting in the snow, I reaffirmed my decision to stay at the garrison rather than renting a house in the city. I strode through the quiet refectory, passing tables on my way out, in search of some rest.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The harsh winter eventually gave way to spring, a season that promised outdoor work. I led fifty soldiers under my command and a truck filled with pine trees, along with a fellow lieutenant who was a forest engineer. We were tasked with planting these trees in areas designated by our superiors, and he marked the best spots for us. I directed the soldiers in the tree-planting efforts, and at the end of the day, the last tree on the truck became mine, a gesture from the soldiers who insisted, "This tree is yours."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">One day, I reopened my notebook and sketched a towering warrior surrounded by a group of mercenaries. Then, I began to write, narrating the scene in a one-page explanation. I named the characters with names that came to mind in that moment. A smile crept across my face as I closed the notebook.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The following day, I opened it again, attempting to draw once more, but my creative muse steered me in a different direction. I decided to write, creating a continuation of the previous day's page instead of drawing. "There isn't a specific topic," I reasoned, but I pressed on. Suddenly, ideas began to flow through my mind. I didn't start with the first sentence of the story; instead, I wrote a piece that seemed like it might be the first of many to come.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was dusk, and the sky was
painted dark blue and pink. Soon, it would be dark. Small snowflakes began falling,
and that was when Arates stood up on the hill where he was on watch.</span><span style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He began running towards the others, shouting. Then a
giant silhouette appeared between the rocks, at least four people tall. The
giant mentioned in Thrames’ story was standing in front of their eyes. Grunting
in incomprehensible language, the giant lunged towards them, his face still clear
in the light of dusk. He had hate-filled light blue eyes. He was wearing a helmet
with long horns and a fur that partially covered his body. It would have taken two
humans to lift the oxhead-sized mace in his hand. He was upon them in an
instant. He lifted his mace and swung it towards Arates. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This process continued for about a month, and by the end of it, the main story of the book had taken shape. It seemed that I had a book in the making. I wrote with excitement, occasionally interspersing drawings. When my army service concluded, I had two notebooks filled with my writings. After returning home, starting a new job, and getting married, those notebooks waited for me on a shelf for two years.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal">
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JAMES WHITEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06546895917713033205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1205175629139255562.post-56504650689060067352017-06-15T17:21:00.004-07:002023-10-22T16:34:48.813-07:00A LITTLE KID, CHASING DREAMS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYl6YN-6t6wjmrgBz7MY0Ffj6eNvD5EcwGYzwiXipPRQRHegYOqwXordWa0p2PHpLSIsmzANRZlmWIX0C_ZH26AgrOisAUxJM9xb2ervtx15y2wStn4fFHh6V40B7uaKkm4Vm-w1Rlrby9cpmWmbk_HhnEUYwAb6ZLsUP9Od1_H889GsKF_hT3kaIvGK8/s1544/BLOG%20IMAGE%2002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1168" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYl6YN-6t6wjmrgBz7MY0Ffj6eNvD5EcwGYzwiXipPRQRHegYOqwXordWa0p2PHpLSIsmzANRZlmWIX0C_ZH26AgrOisAUxJM9xb2ervtx15y2wStn4fFHh6V40B7uaKkm4Vm-w1Rlrby9cpmWmbk_HhnEUYwAb6ZLsUP9Od1_H889GsKF_hT3kaIvGK8/w485-h640/BLOG%20IMAGE%2002.jpg" width="485" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>A LITTLE KID, CHASING DREAMS</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">When I observe the children of my friends and family, it's evident that we inherit everything within us from our parents and build a new world upon those experiences. There's no doubt about that, but for me, rediscovering everything is quite an enjoyable experience. What your parents are is where you start, and from there, you shape your own character. I'm writing this on Father's Day in 2017, and without a doubt, I dedicate my writing to my father. He was a wonderful person, always crazy and bursting with a powerful energy rooted in good intentions, and he never learned to contain it. May he rest in peace.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In those lovely days of fourth grade, my father had already begun supporting the spirits of my brother and me with his great enthusiasm. As I mentioned, he had no control over his excitement, and one of the best examples of this was when he bought us Barbar Conan comic books. To be honest, both my brother and I were too young for these comic books, but Barbar Conan was quite magnificent. I was ten years old, and my imagination had already transcended far beyond the window of my dark little room. I would read each issue fifty times over, constantly looking at the drawings and recreating them. One day, my mother got her hands on these magazines. She opened one of them, and on the first page, there was an illustration of giant rats attacking a young woman chained to a marble column in a rectangular shape. The young woman was screaming, and undoubtedly, Conan would come to her rescue, but my mother was only interested in that horrifying panel she saw. My father would be in trouble when he came home that evening.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Let's go back a bit further. When I was in the second grade, at the age of eight, I started writing stories in a black notebook. When I read them today, they are such absurd stories that I can't help but laugh. They contain all kinds of weirdness - invading aliens, tigers emerging from blue-colored watches, and so much more. I showed what I had written to my father, and he read through the pages without showing any signs of disinterest. Then he said, "This effort shouldn't go to waste. We should send it to a publishing house and get it printed." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The next day, he took the notebook to work. I anxiously waited all day. My book was going to be published. This was a fantastic event. When evening came, my father returned with a file in his hand. All my writings had been meticulously typed onto paper. On the first page, my name, Cem Akyurek, was inscribed as the author. He handed me the file and said, "The officials at the publishing house loved what you wrote and decided to publish your book. They even sent you the first copy." I was so excited that the idea of those typed pages on paper not being an actual book didn't even cross my mind. My first book had been published. Nothing else mattered. This was a happiness beyond words.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Years passed, and I eventually learned that what I had written was transferred onto paper by the secretary in the office using a typewriter. Nevertheless, I didn't feel deceived. On the contrary, I felt proud of my father for the value he gave me, which had made me the person I am today. It's crucial to care for our children and prepare them to become future individuals, giving them a dream, they'll want to pursue.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">As Soner Canözer sings in one of his songs, "Even if we lose all the battles, we live as much as the tales we believe in." Happy Father's Day. How fortunate are those who can truly be fathers and carry the power to raise individuals within them.</span></p>JAMES WHITEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06546895917713033205noreply@blogger.com0