This week's writing went a bit easier than most, because I wasn't trying to fit it in with everything else I had going on. Instead I just sat outside on my day off, on my front porch, propped my feet up and wrote. The sun was shining, the bugs were leaving me alone (for the most part) and I got a scene done.
For the Imperial Story, as most of my writing has been lately, and using the prompt from the Fray: I'm losing you and it's effortless. Told from Anitra's point of view, set after her and Briyant rescue the Lambazzias.
---
[Rosaria] paused for a moment. "There's still room for you to travel with us, you know. Wakka will never ask for it, but he could use Briyant's help. Your help."
Concentrating on the bedsheets, I found it hard to meet my mother's eyes. "Our place is here, in the Underground. You know that."
She took the top blanket from me, spreading it on top. Her bed always looked crisp and sharp, from the years she had spent working in our village's hospital. "It wouldn't be permanent. Just one mission, like we used to."
I wasn't the only one trying to hang onto the past. As much as I wanted my family to come back together, the way we were before the Great Raid, it was a fool's dream. The kids we were then were only shadows of the adults we'd become. "Briyant and Wakka will never work together again," I reminded her softly, tugging the pillowcase onto the pillow. "Both are too stubborn, wanting to lead."
"I'm sure they can find a way to work something out."
"Not for Briyant." I gave Rosaria a small, sad smile. In her heart I knew she'd done what she thought was best, caring for the lost little boy she'd found. It wasn't her fault, what Wakka had raised him to become. "He's handling this better than I thought he would - at first, he only agreed to the rescue because I wanted to do it. He's accepted it, now."
"He's still that angry with us?" With the bed made, there was nothing left to do with her hands, and Rosaria sank into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "I only tried to do what I thought was right. To give him a home."
Sitting next to her, I took Rosaria's hands in both of my own. It killed me to see her like this, the woman who had always been our beacon of hope and light when the world seemed like it was coming to an end. "He doesn't blame you, just Dad, mostly. Because you never told him the truth about who he was, and how we discovered what happened. In one night, he learned his entire life had been a lie. That's not something you just get over."
Her eyes glanced up to mine. "And what about you? You were angry enough with us to leave too?"
"It wasn't like that." Not for the first time, the guilt welled in my stomach, but I forced it down. "He wouldn't stay. And I couldn't be without him again." I didn't regret my choice, but that didn't make it any easier to live with.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: Writing Times
Every writing book I've read has said it - every writer has a certain time of day when writing works best for them. Some like to be up at the crack of dawn, others up until the wee hours of the night. My own writing schedule tends to be sporatic, writing during my breaks at work or between classes when I was in college. Then, I decided I was going to do daily writing practice, 20 minutes a day, every day.
I've been following my writing practice routine for over two months; it's how I've been creating scenes for the Imperial Story, by answering prompts. I work in retail, with open availability, so my schedule varies from week to week. What I've found is that I'm happier and more inclined to show up at the page when I write at the beginning of my day, rather than waiting until after work. I manage this most days, since I work a lot of nights, but opens are brutal. It's hard enough to get myself to work on time, much less factor in writing practice too, which means it usually gets left until the day is done. The excuses not to write come to mind so much easier: I'm tired. I'll do it after dinner. I just want to check my email first.
But, at the end of the day, I still drag myself to the desk, promising myself that it's only 20 minutes and I can shut the notebook the moment timer on my phone goes off. Or that I can have ice cream or a cup of tea once I'm finished. It's straight-up bribery, but it works. I've shown up and done the work, every day, since May 15. And I'm proud of that.
They say you can't schedule creativity, that it just happens. But I do know it doesn't happen if you don't take the time and put in the effort to make something beautiful. For me, that means figuring another 20 minutes into my morning routine, when I'm still energized from coffee, using writing to help start my day.
I've been following my writing practice routine for over two months; it's how I've been creating scenes for the Imperial Story, by answering prompts. I work in retail, with open availability, so my schedule varies from week to week. What I've found is that I'm happier and more inclined to show up at the page when I write at the beginning of my day, rather than waiting until after work. I manage this most days, since I work a lot of nights, but opens are brutal. It's hard enough to get myself to work on time, much less factor in writing practice too, which means it usually gets left until the day is done. The excuses not to write come to mind so much easier: I'm tired. I'll do it after dinner. I just want to check my email first.
But, at the end of the day, I still drag myself to the desk, promising myself that it's only 20 minutes and I can shut the notebook the moment timer on my phone goes off. Or that I can have ice cream or a cup of tea once I'm finished. It's straight-up bribery, but it works. I've shown up and done the work, every day, since May 15. And I'm proud of that.
They say you can't schedule creativity, that it just happens. But I do know it doesn't happen if you don't take the time and put in the effort to make something beautiful. For me, that means figuring another 20 minutes into my morning routine, when I'm still energized from coffee, using writing to help start my day.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday Writing Prompt: Song Lyrics 2
I'm going back to the tried and true standard of my writing prompts: song lyrics. For some reason, these always seem to spark something really interesting in me. I know it's time to return to this type of prompt when lyrics from different songs stick wtih me for more than a day or two. Without further ado, this week's lyrics are:
- I'm losing you and it's effortless. (The Fray, "Over My Head (Cable Car)" - A Day to Remember does an awesome cover of this)
- I'm trying to let you hear me as I am. (Sara Bareilles, "Love Song")
- Truth be told, I miss you. And truth be told, I'm lying. (The All-American Rejects, "Gives You Hell")
- Our hope is all we bring back in our jars, empty though they seem to be. (Treaty of Paris, "Why Am I Still Broke?" - you should be listening to this band)
- I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said. (Matt Nathanson, "Come On Get Higher")
No Jack's Mannequin or Something Corporate this time around, but don't worry - I'll probably have a week with only their lyrics sometime soon.
The task this week is to take one of these prompts and see if a scene comes out of it. The last time I did this, I eneded up with the first scene I wrote for the Imperial Story. You don't have to come up with something epic, but remember, all things are possible.
I'm not sure where these lyrics are going to take me, but I'll let you know how everything goes on Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
- I'm losing you and it's effortless. (The Fray, "Over My Head (Cable Car)" - A Day to Remember does an awesome cover of this)
- I'm trying to let you hear me as I am. (Sara Bareilles, "Love Song")
- Truth be told, I miss you. And truth be told, I'm lying. (The All-American Rejects, "Gives You Hell")
- Our hope is all we bring back in our jars, empty though they seem to be. (Treaty of Paris, "Why Am I Still Broke?" - you should be listening to this band)
- I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said. (Matt Nathanson, "Come On Get Higher")
No Jack's Mannequin or Something Corporate this time around, but don't worry - I'll probably have a week with only their lyrics sometime soon.
The task this week is to take one of these prompts and see if a scene comes out of it. The last time I did this, I eneded up with the first scene I wrote for the Imperial Story. You don't have to come up with something epic, but remember, all things are possible.
I'm not sure where these lyrics are going to take me, but I'll let you know how everything goes on Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 24, 2009
So. I tried this week's prompt. Twice, as a matter of fact. I had one scene in my head - Briyant and Anitra stuck in an Imperial city for a few days with nothing to do but wait, and I wanted to send them to a "movie theater" of some kind. This idea didn't work, I think because I was trying too hard to force it to.
This leaves me without a response to this week's prompt, however, but that's okay. I'll put up a snippet from writing practice instead. I've been focusing a lot on the "Andros' return" scenes this week, taking place after this snippet from a while back. Told from Anitra's point of view, taking a friend's advice and it seems to be working out so far.
---
Gingerly, I laid Andros down on the bed, my bed. I hadn't actually slept here in weeks, so he could use it for however long his recovery turned out to be. Behind me, Rosaria carried the tray full of medical supplies, setting it down on the small table by the bed. "You said he talked to you? On the boat?"
"Yes. Whatever happened damaged his vocal chords." I could still remember the rasp in his voice, a shadow of what he used to sound like. I'd fix his voice, his face, his eyes, everything. I had to. He was my Warrior. "He's awake, though, and responding."
Andros reached out, hand hitting my arm first, then working upward, until it rested against the side of my neck. It was warm and rough, the way I remembered him. "You can hear us still?" I whispered, since my face was close to his.
His hand stroked my cheek once. Yes.
"Is anything else hurt? Anywhere I should check?"
Two strokes. No. Just the face, then.
"We're going to have to sedate you, in order to get the mask off." I paused, closing my eyes and wishing, not for the first time, that I'd been there when this happened. "There's a chance that there could be more damage if it wasn't used properly. The removal will hurt."
He hesitated. Andros, I knew, didn't want pain medication of any kind. "A Warrior's duty is to fight through it," he explained to me once, "to be stronger than the pain, to carry out the mission. You'll have to force the meds down my throat." This was an exception. I knew already that we didn't have the equipment here to treat a wound this bad, especially a burn. And he wouldn't want to be awake when I removed the mask.
"Please, Andros," I whispered. "For me. So I can help you."
Finally, he stroked my cheek again. Andros would take the medicine. "Thank you," I breathed, turning to Rosaria, holding out my hand. "Is it ready?"
This leaves me without a response to this week's prompt, however, but that's okay. I'll put up a snippet from writing practice instead. I've been focusing a lot on the "Andros' return" scenes this week, taking place after this snippet from a while back. Told from Anitra's point of view, taking a friend's advice and it seems to be working out so far.
---
Gingerly, I laid Andros down on the bed, my bed. I hadn't actually slept here in weeks, so he could use it for however long his recovery turned out to be. Behind me, Rosaria carried the tray full of medical supplies, setting it down on the small table by the bed. "You said he talked to you? On the boat?"
"Yes. Whatever happened damaged his vocal chords." I could still remember the rasp in his voice, a shadow of what he used to sound like. I'd fix his voice, his face, his eyes, everything. I had to. He was my Warrior. "He's awake, though, and responding."
Andros reached out, hand hitting my arm first, then working upward, until it rested against the side of my neck. It was warm and rough, the way I remembered him. "You can hear us still?" I whispered, since my face was close to his.
His hand stroked my cheek once. Yes.
"Is anything else hurt? Anywhere I should check?"
Two strokes. No. Just the face, then.
"We're going to have to sedate you, in order to get the mask off." I paused, closing my eyes and wishing, not for the first time, that I'd been there when this happened. "There's a chance that there could be more damage if it wasn't used properly. The removal will hurt."
He hesitated. Andros, I knew, didn't want pain medication of any kind. "A Warrior's duty is to fight through it," he explained to me once, "to be stronger than the pain, to carry out the mission. You'll have to force the meds down my throat." This was an exception. I knew already that we didn't have the equipment here to treat a wound this bad, especially a burn. And he wouldn't want to be awake when I removed the mask.
"Please, Andros," I whispered. "For me. So I can help you."
Finally, he stroked my cheek again. Andros would take the medicine. "Thank you," I breathed, turning to Rosaria, holding out my hand. "Is it ready?"
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: The Index Card Experiment
I'm trying something new, in regards to outlining the Imperial Story. I've been writing bits and pieces of scenes in my daily writing practice, sometimes inspired by that day's prompt, sometimes continuing the scene from the day before, sometimes I can't get them out of my head. Timeline-wise, these scenes run from the very beginning to the beginning of the end. To try and organize what I've already written, I'm writing out each scene on index cards.
Each card has the basic details of the scene: who's in it, where it takes place, what's going on, who's telling the story. I'm finding that, by writing out these skeleton versions, I'm writing a lot about the middle of the story - Andros discovering his identity, the creation of Briyant and Anitra's Underground. I've also written a lot more than I thought I had; I have cards for 20 scenes and I'm not finished going over everything I have on paper. And to my surprise, some of it, down to the individual lines, is work I'm really proud of.
My idea is to lay all these cards out, group them together by events, and see what I have. What scenes have to come first in order for the later ones to make sense? What scenes are missing from what I've already written? What I'm looking to find is the overall arch of the story and start planning it from start to finish. And, seeing how little I've been wanting to write the actual beginning of the story, maybe that means I'm starting in the wrong place. Writing books recommend starting in the thick of things, so perhaps that's advice I'll take.
I don't know if this is a project to tackle in my daily writing practice and then type up later, or if I devote a couple days a week to it. I do know that I need a structure of some kind before I get anywhere. With my last drafted novel, I used a gigantic mind map to plot out scenes, but for some reason, that doesn't seem to be working with this one.
Has anyone used index cards to help with plotting before? If so, what was your experience? Right now, I'm just entralled to get to spend hours rereading what I've written, wincing at the cliches, but finding the gems too. I'm calling this an "experiment" - we'll see if it creates anything special.
Each card has the basic details of the scene: who's in it, where it takes place, what's going on, who's telling the story. I'm finding that, by writing out these skeleton versions, I'm writing a lot about the middle of the story - Andros discovering his identity, the creation of Briyant and Anitra's Underground. I've also written a lot more than I thought I had; I have cards for 20 scenes and I'm not finished going over everything I have on paper. And to my surprise, some of it, down to the individual lines, is work I'm really proud of.
My idea is to lay all these cards out, group them together by events, and see what I have. What scenes have to come first in order for the later ones to make sense? What scenes are missing from what I've already written? What I'm looking to find is the overall arch of the story and start planning it from start to finish. And, seeing how little I've been wanting to write the actual beginning of the story, maybe that means I'm starting in the wrong place. Writing books recommend starting in the thick of things, so perhaps that's advice I'll take.
I don't know if this is a project to tackle in my daily writing practice and then type up later, or if I devote a couple days a week to it. I do know that I need a structure of some kind before I get anywhere. With my last drafted novel, I used a gigantic mind map to plot out scenes, but for some reason, that doesn't seem to be working with this one.
Has anyone used index cards to help with plotting before? If so, what was your experience? Right now, I'm just entralled to get to spend hours rereading what I've written, wincing at the cliches, but finding the gems too. I'm calling this an "experiment" - we'll see if it creates anything special.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Monday Writing Prompt: Picture Prompt 1
Sometimes, you see something you just need a picture of - a street sign, interesting bird formations, you name it. Since I finally have a phone with a camera in it, these moments no longer pass me by. This picture was one of them:
I took this while walking out of the midnight showing of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince last week. The theater had four midnight showings, all getting out around the same time. This was the first trash can we passed on the way out; the one by the exit was empty, because no one could wait to find another trash can.
I could see a few different ways one could interpret this image and write about it - abundance of trash, the movie theater, the art of building towers out of inanimate objects. The choice is up to you - I just couldn't resist taking the picture.
I'll let you know where my imagination takes me when I post on Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
I took this while walking out of the midnight showing of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince last week. The theater had four midnight showings, all getting out around the same time. This was the first trash can we passed on the way out; the one by the exit was empty, because no one could wait to find another trash can.
I could see a few different ways one could interpret this image and write about it - abundance of trash, the movie theater, the art of building towers out of inanimate objects. The choice is up to you - I just couldn't resist taking the picture.
I'll let you know where my imagination takes me when I post on Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 17, 2009
Not my best response ever, but not my worst. It was harder to get into my characters' heads on demand than I remembered; I think I've let this project go too long, which I'll have to remedy soon.
A quick side note to my best friend Meg - I'm sure this scene will make you hate Leigh that much more, but I like her. I needed someone to be the antithesis to Emma, all collected and rational and without a spontaneous bone in her body, and Leigh fits that to a tee.
Timeline wise, this takes place after the end of the novel, so minor spoilers, I suppose? Just assume the novel has a happy ending, and you should be all set. This is a snippet, as I have most of the scene finished, but not entirely. Email me if you want to read the rest.
---
Emma managed a smile at her new boyfriend as she climbed into the front passenger seat. Boyfriend - it was still something she was getting used to, looking over at Zeke and knowing he was hers and she was his, no questions asked. Novels talked about rainbows and butterflies and warm fuzzy feelings, and while Emma didn't feel any of those, she knew this was right. They were where they belonged.
And, if the road trip turned disasterous, her AAA card was tucked in her wallet. She even made sure to double check the night before. No side of the highway for Emma Jean Wilson, no sir.
Zeke turned on the car, the radio station blaring loud, from when he'd been the car last. Emma reached out and turned down the volume, rubbing at one of her ears. "No wonder why you're going deaf," she murmured, shaking her head.
He just shrugged. "I'm going to call it an occupational hazard. Any music suggestions?"
"Something easy for all of us to listen to," Corey suggested. He'd returned from his honeymoon tanned, well rested, and more relaxed than Emma had ever seen him. "Classic rock, maybe."
"Fiona Apple! No, some old No Doubt! I think my iPod's in here somewhere, there's plenty of good stuff on that." Most of Leigh's words were muffled as she was going through her bag, pulling out various items and giving them to Corey as she found them. So far he was holding two pairs of sunglasses, three books, a journal, and a handful of pens.
Zeke looked up at Emma, who just shook her head. "I agree with Corey. Nothing too loud - something for background noise. Classic rock would work."
From behind her bag, Leigh stuck her tongue out, just a spot of pink behind a can of Pringles. "I swear, you wouldn't know what fun was if it came up and smacked you in the face. Come on, Zeke, you agree with me, right?"
"I don't know, Leigh." Throughout the conversation, Zeke had been searching his iPod, scrolling through lists of artists. "My car, so I cast the deciding vote." He set down the music player, AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" starting to play. "Sorry. You know how much I enjoy the rock."
A quick side note to my best friend Meg - I'm sure this scene will make you hate Leigh that much more, but I like her. I needed someone to be the antithesis to Emma, all collected and rational and without a spontaneous bone in her body, and Leigh fits that to a tee.
Timeline wise, this takes place after the end of the novel, so minor spoilers, I suppose? Just assume the novel has a happy ending, and you should be all set. This is a snippet, as I have most of the scene finished, but not entirely. Email me if you want to read the rest.
---
Emma managed a smile at her new boyfriend as she climbed into the front passenger seat. Boyfriend - it was still something she was getting used to, looking over at Zeke and knowing he was hers and she was his, no questions asked. Novels talked about rainbows and butterflies and warm fuzzy feelings, and while Emma didn't feel any of those, she knew this was right. They were where they belonged.
And, if the road trip turned disasterous, her AAA card was tucked in her wallet. She even made sure to double check the night before. No side of the highway for Emma Jean Wilson, no sir.
Zeke turned on the car, the radio station blaring loud, from when he'd been the car last. Emma reached out and turned down the volume, rubbing at one of her ears. "No wonder why you're going deaf," she murmured, shaking her head.
He just shrugged. "I'm going to call it an occupational hazard. Any music suggestions?"
"Something easy for all of us to listen to," Corey suggested. He'd returned from his honeymoon tanned, well rested, and more relaxed than Emma had ever seen him. "Classic rock, maybe."
"Fiona Apple! No, some old No Doubt! I think my iPod's in here somewhere, there's plenty of good stuff on that." Most of Leigh's words were muffled as she was going through her bag, pulling out various items and giving them to Corey as she found them. So far he was holding two pairs of sunglasses, three books, a journal, and a handful of pens.
Zeke looked up at Emma, who just shook her head. "I agree with Corey. Nothing too loud - something for background noise. Classic rock would work."
From behind her bag, Leigh stuck her tongue out, just a spot of pink behind a can of Pringles. "I swear, you wouldn't know what fun was if it came up and smacked you in the face. Come on, Zeke, you agree with me, right?"
"I don't know, Leigh." Throughout the conversation, Zeke had been searching his iPod, scrolling through lists of artists. "My car, so I cast the deciding vote." He set down the music player, AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" starting to play. "Sorry. You know how much I enjoy the rock."
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: On Selecting POV
Point of view has always been a hard decision for me. In my creative nonfiction stories, the choice was obvious. First person works best becuase I'm the one telling the story, based on my own experiences, thoughts and feelings. With fiction, I never know if the character I use is the best one for the story.
I've been working on the "Imperial Story" in my daily writing practice, trying out scenes, sticking with the ideas that work and abandoning the ones that don't. For the most part, I've stuck with Andros' (Briyant's) point of view, as he became the dominant character in the story so far. I'm not sure why I chose him, though - keeping his perspective, in first person, makes me aware of how much he doesn't know about what's going on. A large part of the storyline rests on the knowledge that Andros doesn't know who he really is, but the reader has to know something's not right in the Lambazzia family.
This is the part I'm having trouble with: revealing that information in such a way that doesn't come out of nowhere but doesn't give too much away either. I've tried some scenes from Anitra's point of view, but for some reason, I haven't been able to get into her head; the voice still doesn't sound right to me. Maybe this is something I'll try in the first draft, telling the story from Andros' POV, and switch it in revisions if need be. I still feel like there is so much I don't know about this story, about the world I'm trying to create, so I need to be willing to change as I progress through an actual draft.
I'm curious to see how other writers would handle a similar point of view question. How would you decide to tell the story? I've used third person to switch between characters before - And You Tell Me I Am Home switches between Emma and Zeke - but to me, it doesn't have the same sense of urgency, of immediacy, that first person does. In a novel about a rebellion fighting an empire (cue Star Wars music here), I think that tension is needed.
For now, I'll turn back to my writing books for advice, and see where the story ends up going. I won't know until I actually start writing.
I've been working on the "Imperial Story" in my daily writing practice, trying out scenes, sticking with the ideas that work and abandoning the ones that don't. For the most part, I've stuck with Andros' (Briyant's) point of view, as he became the dominant character in the story so far. I'm not sure why I chose him, though - keeping his perspective, in first person, makes me aware of how much he doesn't know about what's going on. A large part of the storyline rests on the knowledge that Andros doesn't know who he really is, but the reader has to know something's not right in the Lambazzia family.
This is the part I'm having trouble with: revealing that information in such a way that doesn't come out of nowhere but doesn't give too much away either. I've tried some scenes from Anitra's point of view, but for some reason, I haven't been able to get into her head; the voice still doesn't sound right to me. Maybe this is something I'll try in the first draft, telling the story from Andros' POV, and switch it in revisions if need be. I still feel like there is so much I don't know about this story, about the world I'm trying to create, so I need to be willing to change as I progress through an actual draft.
I'm curious to see how other writers would handle a similar point of view question. How would you decide to tell the story? I've used third person to switch between characters before - And You Tell Me I Am Home switches between Emma and Zeke - but to me, it doesn't have the same sense of urgency, of immediacy, that first person does. In a novel about a rebellion fighting an empire (cue Star Wars music here), I think that tension is needed.
For now, I'll turn back to my writing books for advice, and see where the story ends up going. I won't know until I actually start writing.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Monday Writing Prompt: Road Trips
Everyone's done it, or at least talked about it: taking off on the quintessential road trip. Windows down, the road stretching in front of you, no destination in mind, just enjoying the sights. I've taken a few of these in the last month and a half or so, including a day trip to New Hampshire last week to see my old college roommate and her fiance. You forget how good it feels to get away, even just for a few hours, until you finally do so.
Give your characters the same freedom. Put them in a car - or a bus, a train, a van, a flying saucer - and let them explore their new environment. Maybe this will breathe some life into a story that currently feels stale, stuck in a rut. Even if they never reach their destination, perhaps you can discover something new and exciting about your characters.
I'm hoping this works for me, as I plan on using this prompt with my novel, And You Tell Me I Am Home. I've been having trouble getting through the first round of revisions, so new ideas are always appreciated. If the scene goes well, perhaps it'll give me the encouragement I need to blow through those last 50 pages or so and get the draft out to my readers - so the real revision can begin.
Let me know if this works out for you, either by dropping a comment here or sending an email. With any luck, Emma, Zeke, Leigh and Jay will have surprised me by Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Give your characters the same freedom. Put them in a car - or a bus, a train, a van, a flying saucer - and let them explore their new environment. Maybe this will breathe some life into a story that currently feels stale, stuck in a rut. Even if they never reach their destination, perhaps you can discover something new and exciting about your characters.
I'm hoping this works for me, as I plan on using this prompt with my novel, And You Tell Me I Am Home. I've been having trouble getting through the first round of revisions, so new ideas are always appreciated. If the scene goes well, perhaps it'll give me the encouragement I need to blow through those last 50 pages or so and get the draft out to my readers - so the real revision can begin.
Let me know if this works out for you, either by dropping a comment here or sending an email. With any luck, Emma, Zeke, Leigh and Jay will have surprised me by Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Friday Prompt Response for July 10, 2009
So this week didn't go exactly as planned, writing wise. While I did manage to get my writing practice and my blog post done, i found myself without a lot of time to work on the prompt for this week. I still love the idea for it - "Sunday night crappy hour," it's a great line - but I found it hard to keep an idea for it in my head. It didn't inspire me like I'd hoped, but that's okay - some prompts work better than others, and at different times.
For now I'm going to hold on to this week's prompt and post a snippet from my writing practice instead. I've been working a lot on different parts of the "Imperial story," and I think I may be at a point where I can start plotting out scenes and seeing what goes with which part of the story. It looks like this will need to be a full, written epic after all.
Thoughts, comments - they're always appreciated. This is unedited, so whenever these scenes become part of the overall story, I expect a lot of changes to be made.
---
...Wakka looked over at me again and behind him, I watched Rosaria flinch and look away. "You never answered my question earlier. Who are you, and why don't you talk?"
"And where's Andros?" Rosaria's voice was soft, pleading. Of all the Lambazzias, it was hardest to be mad at her. She'd always acted from the heart, doing what she thought was right, like Anitra did. "We know he was with you, when you left us. Is he all right?"
Biting her bottom lip, Anitra shot a glance over at me. "We'll discuss it later," she said. "Dad, you're limping. Our Healers should take a look at it, or Mom can, if you'd prefer-"
This time, instead of me, Wakka grabbed Anitra, holding her by the shoulders as if to shake her. "Answer the question, girl."
I was done. Hoisting Wakka by the shoulders, I threw him to the ground, uncaring if I injured him further. "Her name is Anitra," I snarled behind my helmet, "and you should be able to remember what you named your own daughter."
"Please, there's no need to fight." Rosaria hovered behind me, Anitra taking hold of her, to protect her or to keep her from joining in, I wasn't sure. "He's just trying to understand what's going on."
"Then understand this." Planting a knee in Wakka's chest, hand on his throat, I used my other hand to pry off my helmet, throwing it to the floor. Rosaria gasped as she recognized me, like I knew she would. "Andros Lambazzia is dead. And as far as I'm concerned, the two of you are as well."
For now I'm going to hold on to this week's prompt and post a snippet from my writing practice instead. I've been working a lot on different parts of the "Imperial story," and I think I may be at a point where I can start plotting out scenes and seeing what goes with which part of the story. It looks like this will need to be a full, written epic after all.
Thoughts, comments - they're always appreciated. This is unedited, so whenever these scenes become part of the overall story, I expect a lot of changes to be made.
---
...Wakka looked over at me again and behind him, I watched Rosaria flinch and look away. "You never answered my question earlier. Who are you, and why don't you talk?"
"And where's Andros?" Rosaria's voice was soft, pleading. Of all the Lambazzias, it was hardest to be mad at her. She'd always acted from the heart, doing what she thought was right, like Anitra did. "We know he was with you, when you left us. Is he all right?"
Biting her bottom lip, Anitra shot a glance over at me. "We'll discuss it later," she said. "Dad, you're limping. Our Healers should take a look at it, or Mom can, if you'd prefer-"
This time, instead of me, Wakka grabbed Anitra, holding her by the shoulders as if to shake her. "Answer the question, girl."
I was done. Hoisting Wakka by the shoulders, I threw him to the ground, uncaring if I injured him further. "Her name is Anitra," I snarled behind my helmet, "and you should be able to remember what you named your own daughter."
"Please, there's no need to fight." Rosaria hovered behind me, Anitra taking hold of her, to protect her or to keep her from joining in, I wasn't sure. "He's just trying to understand what's going on."
"Then understand this." Planting a knee in Wakka's chest, hand on his throat, I used my other hand to pry off my helmet, throwing it to the floor. Rosaria gasped as she recognized me, like I knew she would. "Andros Lambazzia is dead. And as far as I'm concerned, the two of you are as well."
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: The Craft of Quoting
One of the hardest journalism classes I ever took - one of my hardest classes period - was Journalism 201 with Professor Harris, Reporting and Writing. While other classes required an essay every once in a while, this was an article a week, 750 words, with revisions due the class after you got your paper back. It was intense - never mind the actual writing and interviewing, but just coming up with story ideas each week stressed me out. On top of tat, Harris assigned us exercises from The Craft of "Quoting," a thin white book he had written and had become an SCSU Journalism Department staple. Even our weekly articles included the patterns, underlined and numbered on the drafts we turned in.
Back then, trying to work the patterns into my articles awas difficult. "I don't want to write like this," I remember thinking. "Who cares if the attribution goes before or after the quote? Who cares if I paraphrase?" Harris cared. And while I'd been baptized in red pen during American Studies, Harris killed pens on our articles. Thank god for rewrites, or else some of us might not have passed.
There was one good thing about having such a regimented schedule of first drafts and rewrites: you're always practicing. And being forced to include quote patterns burns them into your memory. I no longer remember the patterns themselves, but I see them, every time I write dialogue. Writing books often recommend varying your sentence structure to liven up your writing, and I already do that - thanks to JRN 201. I find myself glancing back up every few paragraphs, looking to see how my dialogue is structured and how I should change it up. And I never, ever have two characters - sources - quoted in the same paragraph.
The old adage is true: You never realize how much you've learned until you look back on it, years later. And that is why The Craft of "Quoting" still retains a place on my writing bookshelf.
(If you're interested, Amazon has a listing for the book, though it looks like they're only selling used copies.)
Back then, trying to work the patterns into my articles awas difficult. "I don't want to write like this," I remember thinking. "Who cares if the attribution goes before or after the quote? Who cares if I paraphrase?" Harris cared. And while I'd been baptized in red pen during American Studies, Harris killed pens on our articles. Thank god for rewrites, or else some of us might not have passed.
There was one good thing about having such a regimented schedule of first drafts and rewrites: you're always practicing. And being forced to include quote patterns burns them into your memory. I no longer remember the patterns themselves, but I see them, every time I write dialogue. Writing books often recommend varying your sentence structure to liven up your writing, and I already do that - thanks to JRN 201. I find myself glancing back up every few paragraphs, looking to see how my dialogue is structured and how I should change it up. And I never, ever have two characters - sources - quoted in the same paragraph.
The old adage is true: You never realize how much you've learned until you look back on it, years later. And that is why The Craft of "Quoting" still retains a place on my writing bookshelf.
(If you're interested, Amazon has a listing for the book, though it looks like they're only selling used copies.)
Monday, July 6, 2009
Monday Writing Prompt: A Road Sign
Every day on the way to work, I drive past the local strip club. While I have never gone inside, nor do I plan to, they always have the best messages on their sign - the kind that make you blink, turn around, and read it again.
For example, when my friend Josh came up to visit, Platinum Plus was advertising "Bridget the Midget" and "Foxy Boxing." Josh was so amused, he still mentions them to this day. If they ever come back, I think he may drag me down there, just to see what all the fuss is all about.
This week's writing prompt comes from a sign they had up a few weeks ago. I wish I had taken a picture, just to prove that this is actually what it said:
SUN NIGHT
CRAPPY HOUR 11-1AM
Write about what happens at "Sunday night crappy hour." Put your characters in a very unsavory bar on a bad night and let the scene play out. Better yet, put them in Platinum Plus (now known as PT's Showclub) and see what happens. The sign now reads "happy hour," but I like the previous incarnation better.
Hopefully this inspires you - I, at least, found it pretty amusing. I'll let you know how my work goes on Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
For example, when my friend Josh came up to visit, Platinum Plus was advertising "Bridget the Midget" and "Foxy Boxing." Josh was so amused, he still mentions them to this day. If they ever come back, I think he may drag me down there, just to see what all the fuss is all about.
This week's writing prompt comes from a sign they had up a few weeks ago. I wish I had taken a picture, just to prove that this is actually what it said:
CRAPPY HOUR 11-1AM
Write about what happens at "Sunday night crappy hour." Put your characters in a very unsavory bar on a bad night and let the scene play out. Better yet, put them in Platinum Plus (now known as PT's Showclub) and see what happens. The sign now reads "happy hour," but I like the previous incarnation better.
Hopefully this inspires you - I, at least, found it pretty amusing. I'll let you know how my work goes on Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Friday Writing Response for July 3, 2009
Not my best answer, but not the worst. Cut me some slack this week - today is the first day I'm finally starting to feel better. Next week's will be more extensive, I promise.
The prompt I used, as you'll figure out very early on, is Thriller. Emma and Zeke in this piece are from my novel, And You Tell Me I Am Home.
---
Emma found Zeke alone in his apartment, sitting on his bed, strumming his guitar while Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” played in the background. She’d gotten worried when he didn’t answer her phone calls – granted, she’d just called to say she was on her way over, but it wasn’t like him not to answer when she called.
“Hey.” Leaving her back on the couch, Emma sat next to him, reaching out run a hand over his hair. “Everything okay?”
He blinked, looking over at her. Though his fingers never left the strings, he wasn’t playing anymore. “Michael Jackson is dead.”
“I know.” She’d thought it was a joke at first – one of her customers mentioned it while paying for her drink. Then someone else brought it up. And so did the next customer in line.
“It’s just-” Zeke waved with his hand, as if trying to find the words. It was then that Emma realized the music came from his record player, not the computer; “Thriller” had to be one of his father’s old records. “I’ve listened to his music for years. Sure, the new stuff wasn’t any good but he was a genius, Em.”
Resting her head against his shoulder, Emma whispered, “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. While she hadn’t expected this reaction out of him, it made sense – Zeke had many musical idols and he loved 1980s pop music.
Zeke blew out a breath, shoulder slumping forward. “No, I’m sorry. It’s been on my mind ever since I found out.” He strummed the guitar. “I’ve been trying to play all night, but this is all that comes out.” He played for a second, the notes forming the bassline to “Thriller.”
“Maybe that’s all you need to play.” Sitting up, Emma crossed her legs, leaning forward. “Or maybe it’s because the record’s on.”
“It’s been on since I got home.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect it to hit so hard, you know? It’s not like I knew him personally. I just had a few albums.”
She reached for his hand, stilling his fingers as they brushed over the strings. “That’s not the point. Music, art – they touch you. You don’t have to know them to be affected by it.”
“You probably think I’m crazy.”
“I think you’re grieving. I’d be the same way if one of my idols passed away unexpectedly.” She couldn’t imagine if Neil Gaiman or Jim Butcher stopped writing; their works were the kind of books she hoped to write someday. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands – no, not his hands, but the instrument he held. “Distract me?”
As gently as she could, Emma took the guitar from him, setting it next to her on the bed. “We stick with the plan. Ice cream at Hank’s tonight, remember?”
His eyes brightened. “I haven’t been to Hank’s since I came home.”
“It’ll be just like old times.” She sat up, holding her hands out to him. “Come on. We’ll be standing in line forever if we don’t get there soon.”
Before they left, Zeke paused in front of the record playing, hand resting against the glass. The music still played, almost as if he was afraid to shut it off. After a minute or so, he lifted the lid and took the needle off the record. “When we come back,” he murmured.
“When we come back,” Emma agreed, taking his hand and leading him to the door.
The prompt I used, as you'll figure out very early on, is Thriller. Emma and Zeke in this piece are from my novel, And You Tell Me I Am Home.
---
Emma found Zeke alone in his apartment, sitting on his bed, strumming his guitar while Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” played in the background. She’d gotten worried when he didn’t answer her phone calls – granted, she’d just called to say she was on her way over, but it wasn’t like him not to answer when she called.
“Hey.” Leaving her back on the couch, Emma sat next to him, reaching out run a hand over his hair. “Everything okay?”
He blinked, looking over at her. Though his fingers never left the strings, he wasn’t playing anymore. “Michael Jackson is dead.”
“I know.” She’d thought it was a joke at first – one of her customers mentioned it while paying for her drink. Then someone else brought it up. And so did the next customer in line.
“It’s just-” Zeke waved with his hand, as if trying to find the words. It was then that Emma realized the music came from his record player, not the computer; “Thriller” had to be one of his father’s old records. “I’ve listened to his music for years. Sure, the new stuff wasn’t any good but he was a genius, Em.”
Resting her head against his shoulder, Emma whispered, “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. While she hadn’t expected this reaction out of him, it made sense – Zeke had many musical idols and he loved 1980s pop music.
Zeke blew out a breath, shoulder slumping forward. “No, I’m sorry. It’s been on my mind ever since I found out.” He strummed the guitar. “I’ve been trying to play all night, but this is all that comes out.” He played for a second, the notes forming the bassline to “Thriller.”
“Maybe that’s all you need to play.” Sitting up, Emma crossed her legs, leaning forward. “Or maybe it’s because the record’s on.”
“It’s been on since I got home.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect it to hit so hard, you know? It’s not like I knew him personally. I just had a few albums.”
She reached for his hand, stilling his fingers as they brushed over the strings. “That’s not the point. Music, art – they touch you. You don’t have to know them to be affected by it.”
“You probably think I’m crazy.”
“I think you’re grieving. I’d be the same way if one of my idols passed away unexpectedly.” She couldn’t imagine if Neil Gaiman or Jim Butcher stopped writing; their works were the kind of books she hoped to write someday. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands – no, not his hands, but the instrument he held. “Distract me?”
As gently as she could, Emma took the guitar from him, setting it next to her on the bed. “We stick with the plan. Ice cream at Hank’s tonight, remember?”
His eyes brightened. “I haven’t been to Hank’s since I came home.”
“It’ll be just like old times.” She sat up, holding her hands out to him. “Come on. We’ll be standing in line forever if we don’t get there soon.”
Before they left, Zeke paused in front of the record playing, hand resting against the glass. The music still played, almost as if he was afraid to shut it off. After a minute or so, he lifted the lid and took the needle off the record. “When we come back,” he murmured.
“When we come back,” Emma agreed, taking his hand and leading him to the door.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: This Week's Inspiration
It's no secret that I am a huge Star Wars fan. I've been collecting the books since I was 10 years old; even my till tags at work say "Lord Vader" on them. (No, I'm not making this up.) Say what you want about the prequels and the special editions - I've been in love the world the movies created since I was a little girl.
As I'm feeling under the weather this week, I spent my day off on my couch rewatching A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back. For as much as I was watching them for the fun of it, I found myself noticing details about how the story is put together, how these characters are revealed, how George Lucas created the Star Wars universe star by star, planet by planet, ship by ship. Working on a science-fiction based story myself, currently dubbed "the Imperial story," I tried to pay attention to the details I might overlook since I know the plot so well.
What struck me the most while watching was how much of the characterization went unsaid, though I knew what and who everyone and everything was. For example, some of the races are named - Chewbacca is a Wookiee (and he doesn't live on Endor) - but others aren't, like the Biths who play in the band in the Mos Eisley cantina. It's these tiny details that reveal the world this story takes place in, bit by bit, assembled together like the pieces of the Millenium Falcon.
Star Wars also shows reasons to be on the rebellion's side throughout the course of the films - the Empire is shown only as being evil, controlling, not paying much attention to the wishes of the people. Vader Force-chokes those who fail him. Tarkin blows up Alderaan just to show off what the Death Star can do, for crying out loud. This was a major point for me: While I know what I want the rebellion in my story to be about, I know little about the empire they're fighting. Watching the way Star Wars handles its villains, both big and small, started turning the wheels in my mind; I have a few ideas now, whereas I didn't have any before.
While I could watch these movies over and over again, yesterday's viewings struck home just because of what I'm currently working on. Both my story and the original Star Wars trilogy focus on the struggles of freedom fighters, and while I have no desire to copy a classic, I won't lie and say I'm not inspired by it. Yesterday, I banged out a rough draft of a completely scene for the Imperial Story in one sitting, which doesn't always happen for me. Who knows? Maybe I'll end up dedicating the finished novel to George Lucas after all.
As I'm feeling under the weather this week, I spent my day off on my couch rewatching A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back. For as much as I was watching them for the fun of it, I found myself noticing details about how the story is put together, how these characters are revealed, how George Lucas created the Star Wars universe star by star, planet by planet, ship by ship. Working on a science-fiction based story myself, currently dubbed "the Imperial story," I tried to pay attention to the details I might overlook since I know the plot so well.
What struck me the most while watching was how much of the characterization went unsaid, though I knew what and who everyone and everything was. For example, some of the races are named - Chewbacca is a Wookiee (and he doesn't live on Endor) - but others aren't, like the Biths who play in the band in the Mos Eisley cantina. It's these tiny details that reveal the world this story takes place in, bit by bit, assembled together like the pieces of the Millenium Falcon.
Star Wars also shows reasons to be on the rebellion's side throughout the course of the films - the Empire is shown only as being evil, controlling, not paying much attention to the wishes of the people. Vader Force-chokes those who fail him. Tarkin blows up Alderaan just to show off what the Death Star can do, for crying out loud. This was a major point for me: While I know what I want the rebellion in my story to be about, I know little about the empire they're fighting. Watching the way Star Wars handles its villains, both big and small, started turning the wheels in my mind; I have a few ideas now, whereas I didn't have any before.
While I could watch these movies over and over again, yesterday's viewings struck home just because of what I'm currently working on. Both my story and the original Star Wars trilogy focus on the struggles of freedom fighters, and while I have no desire to copy a classic, I won't lie and say I'm not inspired by it. Yesterday, I banged out a rough draft of a completely scene for the Imperial Story in one sitting, which doesn't always happen for me. Who knows? Maybe I'll end up dedicating the finished novel to George Lucas after all.
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