The entertainment industry lost three greats last week: singer Michael Jackson, actress Farrah Fawcett, and emcee Ed McMahon. Everyone remembers people, even celebrities, differently; I choose to do so through writing. This week's prompt is actually a combination of three prompts, one for each celebrity. Maybe one will speak to you, much as they did in real life.
For MJ, the prompt is Thriller. Everyone's seen the classic music video, heard it on the radio, or know of the album of the same name. You could use the video or its lyrics as inspiration, or use the word "thriller" itself to spark your creativity. It's up to you; I chose it because it's my favorite of all his videos.
For the lovely Miss Fawcett, the prompt is swimsuit. We all know the iconic picture of Farrah, head tilted back, blond hair falling waves, that graced every teenage boy's wall in the 1970s and beyond. Let this image be your inspiration - in a creative way, of course. I see miles of shoreline and a trio of girls saying, "Hello, Charlie!" in the background.
For Ed McMahon, the prompt is sidekick. Ed's great claim to fame was working with Johnny Carson on the "Tonight Show," introducing him each night with a rousing, "Heeeeere's Johnny!" Watch some old clips - I'm sure there's some on YouTube, everything is on YouTube - and see if any of the jokes get your brain working.
The way I see it, I want to remember these people for the good things they did - not the scandals, the cancer, the financial woes. And the best way I know to honor their memory is through my writing. Maybe this will work for you, maybe it won't. I'll be back on Friday with something I hope lives up to what I have in mind.
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Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 26, 2009
This one was harder to finish than I thought it would be, including a couple false starts. The first image I came up with for the "I remember..." prompt ended up being the one I used, though I tried others first. I think it has to do with the proximity of the event in question, the one year anniversary of Steve's death coming up. The prompt I used was: "I remember Steve ordering his caramel macchiatos, wanting them 'hot, hot, hot,' the look on Kim's face when she told me he passed away."
---
Pat and Steve used to come to our store two or three times a week. They'd been married for forever and a day, and whenever we hired a new barista, Pat made sure to ask what his or her name was, how they liked the store, what was new that day. Every time we would go out and clean the condiment bar, one of them would strike up a conversation, and if the store was slow, I would stand there and talk for a few minutes.
When they came in, every one of us knew what Pat and Steve drank: caramel macchiatos, no foam, light caramel, nonfat milk, "hot, hot, hot," Steve would tell us as he pulled out his money. I always remember him smiling as he got their drinks, bring them to their table by the window. After their morning drinks, they would walk a few laps around the mall, hand in hand.
They were like the store's grandparents. When mine were three states away, I felt like I could confide in them if I ever needed someone to talk to. When I opened the store during the week, I always knew I'd get to see them.
Then, a few weeks passed, and Pat and Steve didn't come in. Steve had cancer, I learned, something he'd been fighting for a long time. No one ever mentioned a thing and he was always smiling, never mentioning that anything was wrong. Their absence from our store was something we noticed.
We signed get well cards. A few of my co-workers visited him in the hospital; I wasn't able to go. The last I knew, the doctors said Steve was getting better, and he should get to come home.
He didn't. Pat and her sister came in to tell Kim and Steph, who had worked there the longest, the closest to them. And it was Kim who told me as I walked in for my shift. "Steve's dead."
I stared at her, mouth slack, trying to let the words sink in. Steve's dead. I didn't realize I'd started crying until the tears had reached my chin and Kim was pulling me against her, my head pressed against her shoulder. "I've been thinking about how to tell you and it just came out," she said. "We cried too. I sent Steph home. She's never lost someone so close before."
Later that night, I would send Kim home too; though she tried to act like she was okay, her heart and mind were elsewhere. I would be the strong one, who would take care of the store and do my job for all of us.
All I remember is getting home and finally letting it out, curling up with my new kitten, only four months old at the time, still young enough to want to be held. That was how my parents found me, balled up on the couch, clutching my cat and unable to stop crying.
The part that hurt the most was explaining who Steve was and what he meant to us. That was almost a year ago, now. Steph mentioned it a couple weeks ago and though Pat still comes in, still talks about Steve, none of us have mentioned the anniversary to her.
---
Pat and Steve used to come to our store two or three times a week. They'd been married for forever and a day, and whenever we hired a new barista, Pat made sure to ask what his or her name was, how they liked the store, what was new that day. Every time we would go out and clean the condiment bar, one of them would strike up a conversation, and if the store was slow, I would stand there and talk for a few minutes.
When they came in, every one of us knew what Pat and Steve drank: caramel macchiatos, no foam, light caramel, nonfat milk, "hot, hot, hot," Steve would tell us as he pulled out his money. I always remember him smiling as he got their drinks, bring them to their table by the window. After their morning drinks, they would walk a few laps around the mall, hand in hand.
They were like the store's grandparents. When mine were three states away, I felt like I could confide in them if I ever needed someone to talk to. When I opened the store during the week, I always knew I'd get to see them.
Then, a few weeks passed, and Pat and Steve didn't come in. Steve had cancer, I learned, something he'd been fighting for a long time. No one ever mentioned a thing and he was always smiling, never mentioning that anything was wrong. Their absence from our store was something we noticed.
We signed get well cards. A few of my co-workers visited him in the hospital; I wasn't able to go. The last I knew, the doctors said Steve was getting better, and he should get to come home.
He didn't. Pat and her sister came in to tell Kim and Steph, who had worked there the longest, the closest to them. And it was Kim who told me as I walked in for my shift. "Steve's dead."
I stared at her, mouth slack, trying to let the words sink in. Steve's dead. I didn't realize I'd started crying until the tears had reached my chin and Kim was pulling me against her, my head pressed against her shoulder. "I've been thinking about how to tell you and it just came out," she said. "We cried too. I sent Steph home. She's never lost someone so close before."
Later that night, I would send Kim home too; though she tried to act like she was okay, her heart and mind were elsewhere. I would be the strong one, who would take care of the store and do my job for all of us.
All I remember is getting home and finally letting it out, curling up with my new kitten, only four months old at the time, still young enough to want to be held. That was how my parents found me, balled up on the couch, clutching my cat and unable to stop crying.
The part that hurt the most was explaining who Steve was and what he meant to us. That was almost a year ago, now. Steph mentioned it a couple weeks ago and though Pat still comes in, still talks about Steve, none of us have mentioned the anniversary to her.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: The Struggle With Memory
Having written the first draft of a creative nonfiction book and a handful of short stories in the genre, I'll be the first to admit, writing the truth is hard. The stories you don't want to remember but you just can't forget are often the ones that need to be written, no matter how hard it is to put the words on paper. My biggest problem I run into is that I think I remember everything perfectly - until I sit down to write.
I noticed this especially while drafting my thesis, American Studies. I had been sharing stories about the AS crew - Derek, Dave, Barton, et. al. - all through college, so of course I knew what the stories were. When I sat down to start outlining and selecting scenes, I realized how much I had forgotten, and how much wasn't applicable to the plot I had in my head. Yes, the sock joke, a line I knew from start to finish, was hilarious, but it was just an anecdote; it didn't represent what and who this class was about. It was the intangible moments in between I was trying to capture.
I did have a few resources to fall back on: the diary I kept that year and a handful of papers and assignments from the class. One of our projects had been to keep a daily journal, so I have consecutive entries for most of November and all of December 2001. I have the entries from Sept. 11th and my reactions, its impact on my classmates and I. I have the 100 word essays Mrs. Sihvonen decorated with red pen and a rewrite stamp, the current event assignments dotted with Mrs. Kowal's opinion.
Some of it made me giggle. Some of it, especially the Sept. 11th entries, make me reflect on everything that tragedy set into motion, how our world changed. And when I read about Tonya, our classmate who died because of a car accident, I remembered. I was back in Mrs. Kowal's room again, Barton's foot tapping and his hands folded against his chin, stone-faced, jaw clenched. Kristin was crying softly and I was dabbing at my eyes with a school tissue; I might as well have scraped my eyes with sandpaper.
Do I remember the exact words said? No; I don't have a tape of the event, and 16-year-old me didn't write it down. But I remember Mrs. Kowal asking us if we wanted to have class, and someone - I'm pretty sure it was Dave - spoke for all of us, saying we wanted to continue. Rereading all the material I kept jogged my memory, brought me back to the people and the feelings I wanted, needed to capture in words. Writing this now still brings it back, every worry and fear and laugh and bit of happines..
The key here is to stay true to who these people are and convey their personalities onto the page. Even if the dialogue isn't exact, it probably won't be, it should still sound like something they would have said. Cross reference what you can and remember, you can always talk to other people who were there. This is one step I didn't take with the first draft of American Studies, though I probably will for the second draft, whenever I decide to start it.
Bicky was the only one who knew I was writing it. "Are you going to use our real names?" he asked. "Because I think that you should."
I did. And I hope that, when the project is complete, it is an accurate reflection of not only my memories, but of the people who made those days mean so much to me.
I noticed this especially while drafting my thesis, American Studies. I had been sharing stories about the AS crew - Derek, Dave, Barton, et. al. - all through college, so of course I knew what the stories were. When I sat down to start outlining and selecting scenes, I realized how much I had forgotten, and how much wasn't applicable to the plot I had in my head. Yes, the sock joke, a line I knew from start to finish, was hilarious, but it was just an anecdote; it didn't represent what and who this class was about. It was the intangible moments in between I was trying to capture.
I did have a few resources to fall back on: the diary I kept that year and a handful of papers and assignments from the class. One of our projects had been to keep a daily journal, so I have consecutive entries for most of November and all of December 2001. I have the entries from Sept. 11th and my reactions, its impact on my classmates and I. I have the 100 word essays Mrs. Sihvonen decorated with red pen and a rewrite stamp, the current event assignments dotted with Mrs. Kowal's opinion.
Some of it made me giggle. Some of it, especially the Sept. 11th entries, make me reflect on everything that tragedy set into motion, how our world changed. And when I read about Tonya, our classmate who died because of a car accident, I remembered. I was back in Mrs. Kowal's room again, Barton's foot tapping and his hands folded against his chin, stone-faced, jaw clenched. Kristin was crying softly and I was dabbing at my eyes with a school tissue; I might as well have scraped my eyes with sandpaper.
Do I remember the exact words said? No; I don't have a tape of the event, and 16-year-old me didn't write it down. But I remember Mrs. Kowal asking us if we wanted to have class, and someone - I'm pretty sure it was Dave - spoke for all of us, saying we wanted to continue. Rereading all the material I kept jogged my memory, brought me back to the people and the feelings I wanted, needed to capture in words. Writing this now still brings it back, every worry and fear and laugh and bit of happines..
The key here is to stay true to who these people are and convey their personalities onto the page. Even if the dialogue isn't exact, it probably won't be, it should still sound like something they would have said. Cross reference what you can and remember, you can always talk to other people who were there. This is one step I didn't take with the first draft of American Studies, though I probably will for the second draft, whenever I decide to start it.
Bicky was the only one who knew I was writing it. "Are you going to use our real names?" he asked. "Because I think that you should."
I did. And I hope that, when the project is complete, it is an accurate reflection of not only my memories, but of the people who made those days mean so much to me.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday Writing Prompt: I Remember
Sometimes, during my daily writing practice, I find myself writing more autobiography than fiction. I describe places I've lived in and where I used to play, people I used to know, events that pop up in that moment in time. Over the weekend, the prompt was, "Someone was playing the piano," and I spent 20 minutes writing about Andrew McMahon and the impact his music has had on me. It's not that these short bursts of rewritten memories are part of any one story, but the details I find in my writing later on never cease to amaze me.
This week, see what memories first come to your mind when you let the flood gates open. Take the beginning, "I remember..." and finish the line in a sentence or two. For example:
I remember... picnics at my grandparents' house, the wooden picnic table that may or may not have been painted red, the pallet by the driveway we used to claim as first base in kickball.
Do this four or five times and choose one to use in a longer exercise. Don't force yourself to remember one particular place or event or person, but rather grab the first thought that comes to mind and go with that. The goal here is not necessarily about telling a story, but to let your mind work on recalling details, seeing the scene that way. What you come up with, and the form these memories take, will likely surprise you.
If all goes well, I'll have a memory or two to share with you on Friday.
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
This week, see what memories first come to your mind when you let the flood gates open. Take the beginning, "I remember..." and finish the line in a sentence or two. For example:
I remember... picnics at my grandparents' house, the wooden picnic table that may or may not have been painted red, the pallet by the driveway we used to claim as first base in kickball.
Do this four or five times and choose one to use in a longer exercise. Don't force yourself to remember one particular place or event or person, but rather grab the first thought that comes to mind and go with that. The goal here is not necessarily about telling a story, but to let your mind work on recalling details, seeing the scene that way. What you come up with, and the form these memories take, will likely surprise you.
If all goes well, I'll have a memory or two to share with you on Friday.
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 19, 2009
Again, I find I didn't follow this week's prompt exactly, but that's the beauty of prompts: You don't have to. I'm working with the "Imperial Story" again, jumping around in the plotline, figuring out different pieces of the society as I go. This is the first scene I've written with Andros in his new identity, as Briyant Correleon, and already he seems a little bitter, harder. And I like that, that his character changes over the arc of this storyline.
The prompts I used, or pretended to use, were:
silver - dive bar - calm
This is a snippet of the completed scene; if you're interested to read the whole thing, drop me a line and I'd be glad to email it to you.
---
“Excuse me?” The man flagged Jackal down with a wave of his hand. The dialect was foreign for these parts, the vowels too rich – he had to come from money. What was he doing in a place like this? “What is the finest wine you carry?”
Jackal rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on his rag. Whoever this guy was, this was not the bar for him to hang out in. “Vetrian cabernet. Twenty years old.”
“I’ll have a glass, please.” He glanced sideways, “And two glasses for this young couple.”
Anitra tensed, hand on my arm, squeezing a little. “That’s a kind offer,” I said, “but we’ve already beat you to the drinks, I’m afraid.” I held up my glass, taking a long sip.
“I insist.” The man switched chairs, moving closer to me. “It’s not everyday I meet two legends in person.”
“Legends?” Anitra chuckled at that; I could hear the nervousness in her voice, but I doubted he could. “Surely you have confused with someone else.”
He leaned forward, and I caught a hint of vanilla and musk on his clothes. Old money, then; he’d probably never even held a gun, much less fired one. I still let my free hand drop to my lap, out of sight, fingering the gun on my hip.
“You’re Briyant Correleon,” he said, and my finger found the trigger. “Formerly Andros Lambazzia, trained to follow in Wakka’s footsteps until you’d discovered what he’d done. And you,” he turned to Anitra, “You’re his partner, the daughter Wakka lost. Your reputation precedes you.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic, a spy sent to take care of two thorns in the Empire’s side. Keeping my face neutral, not wanting to give anything away, I asked, “And who are you?”
Tilting his head, he held out a hand. On his finger was heavy gold signet ring, engraved with the axe and tree emblem of the House of Berryd, one of the noble families of the Old Empire. “My name is Lucard, representative of the House of Berryd. Our information said you might be found around these parts.”
The door to the bar swung open, and another group of patrons wandered inside, a little louder than the other people in the bar. Lucard’s hand dropped away, and Anitra’s hand slid down to mine, on the handle of my gun. “Perhaps we should take this to a table?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jackal grunted, returning with the wine. The glasses were made of the finest crystal, engraved with the logo of the tavern. Apparently Jackal thought us worthy of pulling out all the stops. “Corner’s free,” he said, gesturing towards the other end of the room.
“Thank you.” Anitra slid off her stool, her hand brushing over my leg as she moved. I was the strategist, planning out raids and battles, but she was the diplomat. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
I made sure to keep myself between Lucard and Anitra as we sat down. The booth Jackal pointed out offered a good view of the empty stage, but also of the bar and the tables around us. “First things first,” I began, tapping my fingers against the wine glass, “How do you know of us?”
Lucard was mid-sip, eyes closed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Always with the business, your kind. By the time you stop and enjoy life, it’ll be far too late.” Setting the glass down, he leaned forward, towards me. “Your Underground has earned quite the reputation, even reaching the upper echelons. The Nobles are amazed of it – a safe harbor for the refugees and fighters, a place to regroup, utterly brilliant. Not that we know where it is, you see,” he was quick to add, “but the existence of such a place – my, isn’t that a thorn in Cansolee’s side.”
“The way we see it,” Anitra said, “the nobility is part of the reason why Cansolee came into power to begin with. Signing the treaties to allow full military control over the government let him pull his coup.” She never raised her voice, never said anything in such a way that could be seen as demeaning or looking for a fight. But still Lucard recoiled as if she’d struck him, and it was the first hint of shame I saw on his face.
“Ah, yes, there is that.” He stuttered a little, trying to hide it behind a sip of wine. “But the House of Berryd has always been sympathetic to the rebellion’s cause, trying to right a wrong, as it were. We occasionally fund a few groups, provide rations, a place to stay.”
I tried the wine, sure Jackal hadn’t given us anything poisonous. It reminded me of the wine from the celebrations of the Trials, sweet, but richer, a better vintage. “That’s all well and good of you, very noble.” Anitra’s hand squeezed my leg under the table, but I ignored her. “And we figure into this how?”
He looked from me to Anitra. “One of the groups we’re funding is the Lambazzia faction.”
Anitra sucked in a breath. “We weren’t aware Wakka was actively fighting.” We kept what information we knew about the Lambazzias quiet; I knew they’d left the island sanctuary, but not much else.
“Indeed he is. I’m afraid he’s run into a bit of a snag, which is where you come in.”
My free hand balled into a fist. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t owe Wakka a thing. He lied to me, kept me away from my family, raising me to believe I was someone else. “We haven’t said we’d help you.”
“Of course, of course. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Finishing his drink, Lucard attempted to flag Jackal down for another round. If Jackal noticed his waving, he was dutifully ignoring the other man. “If it were just Wakka, I could understand your hesitation. But you haven’t heard the whole story.”
“Just what kind of trouble is he in?” Anitra started playing with the frayed edges of her gloves, a nervous tick she’d had since childhood. I needed to remember that the Lambazzias were her flesh and blood; she was more tied to them than I was.
From his jacket, Lucard pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. Inside were the floor plans to an Imperial holding facility, detailing the guards’ locations, entrances, the best times to get in. “They’ve been captured, and they’re being held here, about 20 kilometers north of this village.”
“They?” I was skeptical, though the plans bore Cansolee’s seal, they were as authentic as they come.”
“The family, him, his wife and children. Our informant says the boys put up a bit of a fight, but there were damages sustained.”
The color drained out of Anitra’s face, and this time it was me squeezing her hand. I needed to keep her focused, her mind on the present, not dwelling on possible injuries. “Damages?” she whispered. “Rosaria, even Salida – they should be able to do something to help.”
Lucard’s face softened, and he reached over to push Anitra’s wine glass towards her. “Take the drink, dear. It will help you relax.” He looked over to me. “The rumor says you two are the best at what you do: taking back what the Empire has stolen. I need you to get Wakka Lambazzia for me.”
The prompts I used, or pretended to use, were:
silver - dive bar - calm
This is a snippet of the completed scene; if you're interested to read the whole thing, drop me a line and I'd be glad to email it to you.
---
“Excuse me?” The man flagged Jackal down with a wave of his hand. The dialect was foreign for these parts, the vowels too rich – he had to come from money. What was he doing in a place like this? “What is the finest wine you carry?”
Jackal rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on his rag. Whoever this guy was, this was not the bar for him to hang out in. “Vetrian cabernet. Twenty years old.”
“I’ll have a glass, please.” He glanced sideways, “And two glasses for this young couple.”
Anitra tensed, hand on my arm, squeezing a little. “That’s a kind offer,” I said, “but we’ve already beat you to the drinks, I’m afraid.” I held up my glass, taking a long sip.
“I insist.” The man switched chairs, moving closer to me. “It’s not everyday I meet two legends in person.”
“Legends?” Anitra chuckled at that; I could hear the nervousness in her voice, but I doubted he could. “Surely you have confused with someone else.”
He leaned forward, and I caught a hint of vanilla and musk on his clothes. Old money, then; he’d probably never even held a gun, much less fired one. I still let my free hand drop to my lap, out of sight, fingering the gun on my hip.
“You’re Briyant Correleon,” he said, and my finger found the trigger. “Formerly Andros Lambazzia, trained to follow in Wakka’s footsteps until you’d discovered what he’d done. And you,” he turned to Anitra, “You’re his partner, the daughter Wakka lost. Your reputation precedes you.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic, a spy sent to take care of two thorns in the Empire’s side. Keeping my face neutral, not wanting to give anything away, I asked, “And who are you?”
Tilting his head, he held out a hand. On his finger was heavy gold signet ring, engraved with the axe and tree emblem of the House of Berryd, one of the noble families of the Old Empire. “My name is Lucard, representative of the House of Berryd. Our information said you might be found around these parts.”
The door to the bar swung open, and another group of patrons wandered inside, a little louder than the other people in the bar. Lucard’s hand dropped away, and Anitra’s hand slid down to mine, on the handle of my gun. “Perhaps we should take this to a table?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jackal grunted, returning with the wine. The glasses were made of the finest crystal, engraved with the logo of the tavern. Apparently Jackal thought us worthy of pulling out all the stops. “Corner’s free,” he said, gesturing towards the other end of the room.
“Thank you.” Anitra slid off her stool, her hand brushing over my leg as she moved. I was the strategist, planning out raids and battles, but she was the diplomat. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
I made sure to keep myself between Lucard and Anitra as we sat down. The booth Jackal pointed out offered a good view of the empty stage, but also of the bar and the tables around us. “First things first,” I began, tapping my fingers against the wine glass, “How do you know of us?”
Lucard was mid-sip, eyes closed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Always with the business, your kind. By the time you stop and enjoy life, it’ll be far too late.” Setting the glass down, he leaned forward, towards me. “Your Underground has earned quite the reputation, even reaching the upper echelons. The Nobles are amazed of it – a safe harbor for the refugees and fighters, a place to regroup, utterly brilliant. Not that we know where it is, you see,” he was quick to add, “but the existence of such a place – my, isn’t that a thorn in Cansolee’s side.”
“The way we see it,” Anitra said, “the nobility is part of the reason why Cansolee came into power to begin with. Signing the treaties to allow full military control over the government let him pull his coup.” She never raised her voice, never said anything in such a way that could be seen as demeaning or looking for a fight. But still Lucard recoiled as if she’d struck him, and it was the first hint of shame I saw on his face.
“Ah, yes, there is that.” He stuttered a little, trying to hide it behind a sip of wine. “But the House of Berryd has always been sympathetic to the rebellion’s cause, trying to right a wrong, as it were. We occasionally fund a few groups, provide rations, a place to stay.”
I tried the wine, sure Jackal hadn’t given us anything poisonous. It reminded me of the wine from the celebrations of the Trials, sweet, but richer, a better vintage. “That’s all well and good of you, very noble.” Anitra’s hand squeezed my leg under the table, but I ignored her. “And we figure into this how?”
He looked from me to Anitra. “One of the groups we’re funding is the Lambazzia faction.”
Anitra sucked in a breath. “We weren’t aware Wakka was actively fighting.” We kept what information we knew about the Lambazzias quiet; I knew they’d left the island sanctuary, but not much else.
“Indeed he is. I’m afraid he’s run into a bit of a snag, which is where you come in.”
My free hand balled into a fist. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t owe Wakka a thing. He lied to me, kept me away from my family, raising me to believe I was someone else. “We haven’t said we’d help you.”
“Of course, of course. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Finishing his drink, Lucard attempted to flag Jackal down for another round. If Jackal noticed his waving, he was dutifully ignoring the other man. “If it were just Wakka, I could understand your hesitation. But you haven’t heard the whole story.”
“Just what kind of trouble is he in?” Anitra started playing with the frayed edges of her gloves, a nervous tick she’d had since childhood. I needed to remember that the Lambazzias were her flesh and blood; she was more tied to them than I was.
From his jacket, Lucard pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. Inside were the floor plans to an Imperial holding facility, detailing the guards’ locations, entrances, the best times to get in. “They’ve been captured, and they’re being held here, about 20 kilometers north of this village.”
“They?” I was skeptical, though the plans bore Cansolee’s seal, they were as authentic as they come.”
“The family, him, his wife and children. Our informant says the boys put up a bit of a fight, but there were damages sustained.”
The color drained out of Anitra’s face, and this time it was me squeezing her hand. I needed to keep her focused, her mind on the present, not dwelling on possible injuries. “Damages?” she whispered. “Rosaria, even Salida – they should be able to do something to help.”
Lucard’s face softened, and he reached over to push Anitra’s wine glass towards her. “Take the drink, dear. It will help you relax.” He looked over to me. “The rumor says you two are the best at what you do: taking back what the Empire has stolen. I need you to get Wakka Lambazzia for me.”
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: Writing Adventures #1
As promised, to both myself and whoever reads this blog, I went out on Monday to take my first stab at writing in a new place. I ended up at my local Borders because 1) it was nearby and not a Starbucks and 2) I could get a drink at my store before I went over there.
While I got some work done, it wasn't as productive as I hoped. I think this was due to a lot of factors. Don't get me wrong, I love Borders. My checkbook cries every time I drive by it, though I've been better than I originally thought at resisting the urge to stop there every other day. The familiarity of it killed me, even though they moved all the bookshelves around - I was already there, of course I had to work.
My first spot was in the cafe, in one of the big leather chairs. Very comfy, like I could sink down into the seat and never get up again - but it didn't offer anywhere for me to prop up my notebook. Had I been home, I would have kicked off my shoes and curled my legs up, forming a table that way, but as it was, the guys next to me were giving me dirty looks. I was more comfortable at a table; my favorite is this really high, circular table in the middle of the cafe. My feet can't touch the floor, so I propped them up on the chair next to me and I could spread out my things: my cell phone, my notebook, my iPod.
Yes, I brought my iPod into Borders. It's usually in my purse, though I had thought about leaving it in the car for this excursion. I wanted to listen to the sounds of the people around me and draw inspiration from what was going on around me. There were two problems with this: First, there wasn't a whole lot going on Monday nights at Borders, and that the one group of people talking were loud. Add to this the blender from the cafe, which startled me out of a thought, and I thought I wasn't going to get anything done.
The cure? Music. I listened to Mae's The Everglow album, perfect to write to because the lyrics are deep but I don't know them so well, which keeps me from singing along with them. I gave myself a good hour to work and have a decent start to the scene, and hopefully I'll finish it up in the next day or so.
I'm not sure if writing in Borders had an impact on what came out, but I do know it gave me the time to do nothing but write, which I find is half the battle. Next time I'll pick a place that I don't know so well. Bard Coffee in downtown Portland looks like a winner. When I make the trip, I'll be sure to document how successful it goes.
While I got some work done, it wasn't as productive as I hoped. I think this was due to a lot of factors. Don't get me wrong, I love Borders. My checkbook cries every time I drive by it, though I've been better than I originally thought at resisting the urge to stop there every other day. The familiarity of it killed me, even though they moved all the bookshelves around - I was already there, of course I had to work.
My first spot was in the cafe, in one of the big leather chairs. Very comfy, like I could sink down into the seat and never get up again - but it didn't offer anywhere for me to prop up my notebook. Had I been home, I would have kicked off my shoes and curled my legs up, forming a table that way, but as it was, the guys next to me were giving me dirty looks. I was more comfortable at a table; my favorite is this really high, circular table in the middle of the cafe. My feet can't touch the floor, so I propped them up on the chair next to me and I could spread out my things: my cell phone, my notebook, my iPod.
Yes, I brought my iPod into Borders. It's usually in my purse, though I had thought about leaving it in the car for this excursion. I wanted to listen to the sounds of the people around me and draw inspiration from what was going on around me. There were two problems with this: First, there wasn't a whole lot going on Monday nights at Borders, and that the one group of people talking were loud. Add to this the blender from the cafe, which startled me out of a thought, and I thought I wasn't going to get anything done.
The cure? Music. I listened to Mae's The Everglow album, perfect to write to because the lyrics are deep but I don't know them so well, which keeps me from singing along with them. I gave myself a good hour to work and have a decent start to the scene, and hopefully I'll finish it up in the next day or so.
I'm not sure if writing in Borders had an impact on what came out, but I do know it gave me the time to do nothing but write, which I find is half the battle. Next time I'll pick a place that I don't know so well. Bard Coffee in downtown Portland looks like a winner. When I make the trip, I'll be sure to document how successful it goes.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Monday Writing Prompt: Pick 3
One of the communities I love watching on LiveJournal is Icons100. It's a challenge community, where people pick a topic, like the TV show Lost, and then make 100 icons for it, 50 of which are themed. I love seeing how people interpret each theme, what text they use, if it's literal or figurative. We can do the same with writing, using words as prompts or jumping off points. Combining three themes, or more, provides a mix of inspiration - at least, that's what I'm hoping for.
Here are the categories:
Colors:
red
blue
green
silver
orange
purple
Locations:
beach
mountainside
sidewalk
dive bar
on stage
department store
Mood:
happy
mellow
furious
calm
insane
ditzy
Pick one from each category and use them as themes for your next writing prompt. Your piece doesn't have to use these words exactly - for example, your character doesn't have to say, "I am happy," to illustrate happiness - but they should be prevalent somehow. I'm going to use this prompt with last week's Go Exploring challenge, and I'm looking forward to seeing what comes out of it.
Good luck - I'll let you know how it goes on Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Here are the categories:
Colors:
red
blue
green
silver
orange
purple
Locations:
beach
mountainside
sidewalk
dive bar
on stage
department store
Mood:
happy
mellow
furious
calm
insane
ditzy
Pick one from each category and use them as themes for your next writing prompt. Your piece doesn't have to use these words exactly - for example, your character doesn't have to say, "I am happy," to illustrate happiness - but they should be prevalent somehow. I'm going to use this prompt with last week's Go Exploring challenge, and I'm looking forward to seeing what comes out of it.
Good luck - I'll let you know how it goes on Friday!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 12, 2009
So. I didn't get a chance to try out this week's writing prompt yet, and I feel really guilty for not getting to do so. The day's still young, but I wanted to post something here anyway, to prove to myself that I'm still writing and so I didn't forget to post entirely.
This is from an idea I'm calling The Imperial Story for now, and pairs with the scene from a couple weeks ago. I've been coming back to this idea in my writing practice, writing out different points of the story. While I'm no closer to figuring out large chunks of what this society is like, I'm starting to get a handle on who Andros is and what drives him. Who knows? Maybe something longer will come out of it. All I know is that I had this scene in my head for a couple days and now it's somewhat down on paper.
This is a snippet; this particular scene is finished, but I'm waiting to see if it still makes sense to me a couple days from now before I show it off. At this point in the story, the Lambazzias believe Andros to be dead and he's trying to find them. He's severely injured, having been blasted in the face by a fireball (thanks Final Fantasy, for your enemies showing me new ways to mess up people!) and is currently wearing a bright blue mask to protect the burn, which needs to be treated. As such, the mask pretty much makes him blind.
I'm interested to know if anyone finds this snippet intriguing - worthy of continuing.
---
I heard the faint buzz of another engine approach the boat and then cut out nearby. Imperials, then, or hunters of some kind – someone who didn’t want their prey to know they were coming. I hauled myself into a sitting position, tightening a hand on my gun. I was not about to have them steal my boat, blind or not.
It was then I noticed my hands were shaky, the gun vibrating in my hand. I wasn’t scared – though the odds were bad, I could be facing worse. I hadn’t been able to eat solid food in over a week, and my liquid rations were almost gone. Even those burned like hell going down my throat, but it was all I could do. I feared letting anyone but Anitra near my wounds.
I couldn’t worry about that now. My hunger, my pain were making my mind wander, losing focus on the moment. One mistake here and I’d never see Anitra or my family again.
Footsteps landed on the upper deck, at least two distinct pairs. The first was heavy, though I could tell he was trying to move quietly. I pictured a man, possibly built, possibly heavyset, but with half a mind about what to do in a situation like this. The second set was dainty, quick taps against the boards, like a dancer walking from one end to another. A woman, then, which meant these probably weren’t Imperials who found me. More than likely, they were hunters or poachers, curious about the boat, wondering who might be aboard.
Murmurs floated down to me; they’d paused outside the cabin door. The man was giving orders and I slid into a crouch, ignoring the way my neck protested as I kept my head down. The heavier footsteps moved away from the cabin, towards the bow and the storage compartments underneath. He wouldn’t find anything.
The cabin door creaked open, and those tiny feet tapped inside the doorway. I’d left the lights off in the cabin – there was no point in using them when I’d gotten used to the darkness. There was a click, and a dim light flooded the edges of what was left of my vision.
The light felt almost warm as she swept it over the edges of the cabin. Another few steps forward and she’d reveal my position. A burst of static broke the silence, and I could hear her breathing as she lifted the communicator to her mouth. “It’s set to drift,” she murmured, voice quiet and sweet and a flood of memories surged forward. “Might have been set on auto-pilot.”
That voice – I knew that voice. Anitra was here; she’d found me without knowing where to look, like the Gods had smiled down on us for a change. I slumped forward, bumping into the cabin wall and knocking over a spare communicator as I did so. The clattering sound it made rang throughout the cabin and she jumped back, the click of a gun pointed in my direction.
“Who are you?” Anitra asked, shining her floodlight in my direction. I turned away from it, the brightness searing my injured eyes.
“Anitra.” Her name was a rasp in my throat, having avoided speaking for so long. “Anitra.”
She fumbled with the communicator; I could hear her pressing buttons. “Found our pilot,” she said, louder now. “You’d better get down here.”
“Subdue him until I arrive.” It was Wakka who answered; that explained the heavy footsteps.
“Anitra,” I tried again. This time it almost sounded right, so I continued. “It’s me.”
Her footsteps came closer, and she shined the light in my face. No, I realized, not directly in my face, but on the edges of it; she was inspecting the edges of the burn outside of the mask. “How do you know my name?”
“Andros.”
“Is dead.” Her rebuttal is quick, but I knew Anitra’s voice well enough to hear the quiver behind it. She believed the rumor, and I felt the gun pressed beneath my ribcage. “I’m not in the habit of playing games. Who are you, and how do you know who I am?”
This is from an idea I'm calling The Imperial Story for now, and pairs with the scene from a couple weeks ago. I've been coming back to this idea in my writing practice, writing out different points of the story. While I'm no closer to figuring out large chunks of what this society is like, I'm starting to get a handle on who Andros is and what drives him. Who knows? Maybe something longer will come out of it. All I know is that I had this scene in my head for a couple days and now it's somewhat down on paper.
This is a snippet; this particular scene is finished, but I'm waiting to see if it still makes sense to me a couple days from now before I show it off. At this point in the story, the Lambazzias believe Andros to be dead and he's trying to find them. He's severely injured, having been blasted in the face by a fireball (thanks Final Fantasy, for your enemies showing me new ways to mess up people!) and is currently wearing a bright blue mask to protect the burn, which needs to be treated. As such, the mask pretty much makes him blind.
I'm interested to know if anyone finds this snippet intriguing - worthy of continuing.
---
I heard the faint buzz of another engine approach the boat and then cut out nearby. Imperials, then, or hunters of some kind – someone who didn’t want their prey to know they were coming. I hauled myself into a sitting position, tightening a hand on my gun. I was not about to have them steal my boat, blind or not.
It was then I noticed my hands were shaky, the gun vibrating in my hand. I wasn’t scared – though the odds were bad, I could be facing worse. I hadn’t been able to eat solid food in over a week, and my liquid rations were almost gone. Even those burned like hell going down my throat, but it was all I could do. I feared letting anyone but Anitra near my wounds.
I couldn’t worry about that now. My hunger, my pain were making my mind wander, losing focus on the moment. One mistake here and I’d never see Anitra or my family again.
Footsteps landed on the upper deck, at least two distinct pairs. The first was heavy, though I could tell he was trying to move quietly. I pictured a man, possibly built, possibly heavyset, but with half a mind about what to do in a situation like this. The second set was dainty, quick taps against the boards, like a dancer walking from one end to another. A woman, then, which meant these probably weren’t Imperials who found me. More than likely, they were hunters or poachers, curious about the boat, wondering who might be aboard.
Murmurs floated down to me; they’d paused outside the cabin door. The man was giving orders and I slid into a crouch, ignoring the way my neck protested as I kept my head down. The heavier footsteps moved away from the cabin, towards the bow and the storage compartments underneath. He wouldn’t find anything.
The cabin door creaked open, and those tiny feet tapped inside the doorway. I’d left the lights off in the cabin – there was no point in using them when I’d gotten used to the darkness. There was a click, and a dim light flooded the edges of what was left of my vision.
The light felt almost warm as she swept it over the edges of the cabin. Another few steps forward and she’d reveal my position. A burst of static broke the silence, and I could hear her breathing as she lifted the communicator to her mouth. “It’s set to drift,” she murmured, voice quiet and sweet and a flood of memories surged forward. “Might have been set on auto-pilot.”
That voice – I knew that voice. Anitra was here; she’d found me without knowing where to look, like the Gods had smiled down on us for a change. I slumped forward, bumping into the cabin wall and knocking over a spare communicator as I did so. The clattering sound it made rang throughout the cabin and she jumped back, the click of a gun pointed in my direction.
“Who are you?” Anitra asked, shining her floodlight in my direction. I turned away from it, the brightness searing my injured eyes.
“Anitra.” Her name was a rasp in my throat, having avoided speaking for so long. “Anitra.”
She fumbled with the communicator; I could hear her pressing buttons. “Found our pilot,” she said, louder now. “You’d better get down here.”
“Subdue him until I arrive.” It was Wakka who answered; that explained the heavy footsteps.
“Anitra,” I tried again. This time it almost sounded right, so I continued. “It’s me.”
Her footsteps came closer, and she shined the light in my face. No, I realized, not directly in my face, but on the edges of it; she was inspecting the edges of the burn outside of the mask. “How do you know my name?”
“Andros.”
“Is dead.” Her rebuttal is quick, but I knew Anitra’s voice well enough to hear the quiver behind it. She believed the rumor, and I felt the gun pressed beneath my ribcage. “I’m not in the habit of playing games. Who are you, and how do you know who I am?”
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: Notebooks
Every writer needs a good notebook to keep thoughts in, even the ones that don't seem so important at the time. I'm always on the lookout for new notebooks and journals, even when I know I don't have a use for them yet. (Clearance Paperchase at Borders will get me every time.) My notebooks each have a purpose, so that way when I'm looking for a certain story or subject, I know exactly which book it's in.
Right now I'm using three notebooks on a regular basis; next week, you could ask me again and I'll tell you a different number. I do this mostly so that way, wherever I am, I always have some place to jot down a thought or idea without needing to grab a notebook or lose it on scraps of paper.
The one probably getting the most use right now is my "kickaround" notebook. I use the term "kickaround" to describe those notebooks that seem to follow me everywhere; this one primarily lives in my work bag, but I carry it around to friends' houses, the library, you name it. I initially bought this notebook for its tabbed sections - not that I've used them to separate thoughts or topics, but it looked cool. Just looking at the cover, you can tell it's getting beat up from the rough life it has with me. Insides is everything from half-finished writing prompts to pieces of my novel to notes about writing books, taken while I was reading. I usually draft my blog posts here, since I'm not always in front of my computer. I'm surprised at how long this one has lasted me going on a year, most of that spent getting carted back and forth to work.
My writing practice notebook, however, is more durable, being one of the few hardcover notebooks, aside from journals, I've ever used on a consistent basis. I like that the pages are the size of normal printer paper, so it's a good judge of how much I've written; a 20 minute session usually yields two and a half pages of writing. For a bound journal, the spine lays flat so I'm not struggling to keep the book open while I'm writing. Probably my favorite part is the ribbon bookmark attached to the spine. I like to set it at the end of my writing and then look at the top of the journal, to see how much of it I've filled. It's a confidence boost for me, being able to see how my writing practice pays off.
The last of my three favorites of the moment, my "writer's sketchbook" is a new idea I'm trying out. It's technically a scrapbook, with heavy pages I can write and draw on with Sharpies and the ink doesn't bleed through. I use it to map out ideas, such as a character's personality traits or thinking of new ideas for this here blog. I like the fact that the pages are so big and the unlined paper makes the maps look cleaner and easier to read. Though I've only used it for a few weeks, I've found it to be really helpful for remembering ideas and jotting down new ones as they come. And I'll be honest - getting to play with Sharpies helps my creativity.
Notebooks have always been my way of keeping my thoughts straight, both for my stories and for my personal life. I've always wondered if it works the same for other writers as well - whether through journals, sketchbooks, lined paper, unlined paper, colored pens, the list goes on. What notebooks do you use? I'm curious.
Right now I'm using three notebooks on a regular basis; next week, you could ask me again and I'll tell you a different number. I do this mostly so that way, wherever I am, I always have some place to jot down a thought or idea without needing to grab a notebook or lose it on scraps of paper.
The one probably getting the most use right now is my "kickaround" notebook. I use the term "kickaround" to describe those notebooks that seem to follow me everywhere; this one primarily lives in my work bag, but I carry it around to friends' houses, the library, you name it. I initially bought this notebook for its tabbed sections - not that I've used them to separate thoughts or topics, but it looked cool. Just looking at the cover, you can tell it's getting beat up from the rough life it has with me. Insides is everything from half-finished writing prompts to pieces of my novel to notes about writing books, taken while I was reading. I usually draft my blog posts here, since I'm not always in front of my computer. I'm surprised at how long this one has lasted me going on a year, most of that spent getting carted back and forth to work.
My writing practice notebook, however, is more durable, being one of the few hardcover notebooks, aside from journals, I've ever used on a consistent basis. I like that the pages are the size of normal printer paper, so it's a good judge of how much I've written; a 20 minute session usually yields two and a half pages of writing. For a bound journal, the spine lays flat so I'm not struggling to keep the book open while I'm writing. Probably my favorite part is the ribbon bookmark attached to the spine. I like to set it at the end of my writing and then look at the top of the journal, to see how much of it I've filled. It's a confidence boost for me, being able to see how my writing practice pays off.
The last of my three favorites of the moment, my "writer's sketchbook" is a new idea I'm trying out. It's technically a scrapbook, with heavy pages I can write and draw on with Sharpies and the ink doesn't bleed through. I use it to map out ideas, such as a character's personality traits or thinking of new ideas for this here blog. I like the fact that the pages are so big and the unlined paper makes the maps look cleaner and easier to read. Though I've only used it for a few weeks, I've found it to be really helpful for remembering ideas and jotting down new ones as they come. And I'll be honest - getting to play with Sharpies helps my creativity.
Notebooks have always been my way of keeping my thoughts straight, both for my stories and for my personal life. I've always wondered if it works the same for other writers as well - whether through journals, sketchbooks, lined paper, unlined paper, colored pens, the list goes on. What notebooks do you use? I'm curious.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Monday Writing Prompt: Go Exploring
Everyone has one or two places where they write - maybe not in the same spot at the same time every single day, but on a regular basis. For me, I have two places: my desk at home, where I work on my writing practice every morning and keep a spot empty big enough for my notebook, and the back room at work, where I write on my breaks and before my shift starts. I probably wrote at least a third of the first draft of And You Tell Me I Am Home from work.
This week's assignment deals not so much what you write as where you write it. Find some place new to write, and see how your work changes, or what new things inspire you. Have a favorite cafe where the music is just right and the baristas know your drink? Don't write there - try the one across the street instead. Drive out to the park or the lake or the beach and bring sunscreen and a bathing suit (depending on the weather, of course). Take a hike, take a walk, experience something new. I have a few ideas for where I might go, possibly taking the opportunity to explore downtown Portland a little.
Please feel free to drop me a line letting me know where you went and if creativity followed you. I'll be back on Friday to talk about where I went!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
This week's assignment deals not so much what you write as where you write it. Find some place new to write, and see how your work changes, or what new things inspire you. Have a favorite cafe where the music is just right and the baristas know your drink? Don't write there - try the one across the street instead. Drive out to the park or the lake or the beach and bring sunscreen and a bathing suit (depending on the weather, of course). Take a hike, take a walk, experience something new. I have a few ideas for where I might go, possibly taking the opportunity to explore downtown Portland a little.
Please feel free to drop me a line letting me know where you went and if creativity followed you. I'll be back on Friday to talk about where I went!
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Friday Writing Response for June 5, 2009
So. That Colors prompt? I followed it loosely - too loosely. While this short piece does focus on descriptions, I found it much, much harder to focus on a color than I previously thought. Instead I focused on an aspect of a color and writing a little scene around that, using a character I've been playing around with for a while now. It's still practice, so the effort wasn't lost even if it wasn't as successful as I had hoped.
The color I chose was green, focusing on it being a sign of life and rebirth. I blame it on the weather being so nice up here for a change. Comments always appreciated.
---
Adrie always noticed the same thing when she first stepped out her front door: the sunlight. It filtered through the trees, thick with late summer leaves; it spotted the roads, warming her feet as she walked through the patches. Everything always seemed so bright in Southampton, compared to the dark, claustrophobic halls of the manor where she grew up. She loved the openness of the town, the closeness of the water, the wonder of small town life.
People smiled here as she walked past them, out checking the mail or watering their gardens. Some stopped to ask her how things were going, how her husband was, what was new. Adrie had grown so accustomed to the jealousy, the fear, she'd seen in the eyes of her parents' friends. The difference was astounding, the freedom she could feel.
It was something she'd never realized, when she and her husband first came to Southampton. Josiah grew up here; his parents lived two streets away, and they'd welcomed her with open arms, like she was their daughter already. Southampton was a place to raise a family.
She laid a hand on the tiny bump of her stomach as she walked. Josiah had been beyond thrilled to learn he was going to be a father, and Adrie was even more pleased that she was starting to show. She couldn't wait to feel the baby move within her, to take on a life of his or her own, to know the baby was half her, half Josiah. Though she'd never been the kind of girl to have her children's names picked out or nurseries planned, she knew when the moment was right.
They'd have the baby in spring, just when the leaves returned to all the trees after winter's long stay. A new life as nature returned to life - Adrie thought it was fitting. She'd be able to show the little one the sun and the sky and the sea and all the things she loved about their port town.
A slow smile spread across Adrie's face as she reached the bottom of the hill, downtown Southampton spread out before her. The Owl's Nest Restaurant, the business her in-laws owned and where her husband was a chef, was at the end of the street. Josiah always seemed so surprised whenever Adrie visited him at work; he should be getting out soon, and they could walk together back to their new house. Their life was built on these quiet moments, and Adrie wouldn't have it any other way.
The hostess ushered her into the kitchen, and Adrie stood to the side, hand on her stomach, waiting. Her father-in-law caught her eye and smiled, knowing who she was here to see. Reaching over, he nudged his son's shoulder, where Josiah was flipping steaks over on the grill.
Josiah's eyes grew wide as he saw her standing there, the deepest shade of blue she'd ever seen; she hoped their child would have those eyes. "Adrie? What are you doing down here?"
Her smile matched his: mischievous, loving, promising. "Waiting for you, what else would I be doing?"
The color I chose was green, focusing on it being a sign of life and rebirth. I blame it on the weather being so nice up here for a change. Comments always appreciated.
---
Adrie always noticed the same thing when she first stepped out her front door: the sunlight. It filtered through the trees, thick with late summer leaves; it spotted the roads, warming her feet as she walked through the patches. Everything always seemed so bright in Southampton, compared to the dark, claustrophobic halls of the manor where she grew up. She loved the openness of the town, the closeness of the water, the wonder of small town life.
People smiled here as she walked past them, out checking the mail or watering their gardens. Some stopped to ask her how things were going, how her husband was, what was new. Adrie had grown so accustomed to the jealousy, the fear, she'd seen in the eyes of her parents' friends. The difference was astounding, the freedom she could feel.
It was something she'd never realized, when she and her husband first came to Southampton. Josiah grew up here; his parents lived two streets away, and they'd welcomed her with open arms, like she was their daughter already. Southampton was a place to raise a family.
She laid a hand on the tiny bump of her stomach as she walked. Josiah had been beyond thrilled to learn he was going to be a father, and Adrie was even more pleased that she was starting to show. She couldn't wait to feel the baby move within her, to take on a life of his or her own, to know the baby was half her, half Josiah. Though she'd never been the kind of girl to have her children's names picked out or nurseries planned, she knew when the moment was right.
They'd have the baby in spring, just when the leaves returned to all the trees after winter's long stay. A new life as nature returned to life - Adrie thought it was fitting. She'd be able to show the little one the sun and the sky and the sea and all the things she loved about their port town.
A slow smile spread across Adrie's face as she reached the bottom of the hill, downtown Southampton spread out before her. The Owl's Nest Restaurant, the business her in-laws owned and where her husband was a chef, was at the end of the street. Josiah always seemed so surprised whenever Adrie visited him at work; he should be getting out soon, and they could walk together back to their new house. Their life was built on these quiet moments, and Adrie wouldn't have it any other way.
The hostess ushered her into the kitchen, and Adrie stood to the side, hand on her stomach, waiting. Her father-in-law caught her eye and smiled, knowing who she was here to see. Reaching over, he nudged his son's shoulder, where Josiah was flipping steaks over on the grill.
Josiah's eyes grew wide as he saw her standing there, the deepest shade of blue she'd ever seen; she hoped their child would have those eyes. "Adrie? What are you doing down here?"
Her smile matched his: mischievous, loving, promising. "Waiting for you, what else would I be doing?"
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Wednesday Blog Post: On Dan Brown's Angels & Demons
(What follows is an in-depth discussion of the book Angels & Demons, containing plot spoilers. Just so you've been warned.)
I don't usually read a lot of "popular" fiction. If a book seems interesting, I'm always willing to give it a try if I can get my hands on a copy. I read Dan Brown's The DaVinci Code a few years back, after the movie came out, and I remember thinking the book was tons better. So, before Angels & Demons came out, I didn't want to repeat the same mistake twice, and my friend Adriane conveniently gave me a copy.
Maybe I've spent too much time reading books on how to write, because this book did not blow me away by any means. From page one, I found myself thinking on everything I've learned and how I would address Brown's writing in a workshop setting.
The first third of the novel moves too slow, especially for a suspense thriller. Why spend so much time describing Robert Langdon's home, only to put him on a super jet and fly him to Geneva a few pages later? Spend the reader's time getting to the point of the action, where the drama is at its strongest. Focusing on descriptions - like Brown did with Leonardo Vetra's lab, while Vetra lies dead upstairs - doesn't cut it.
It doesn't help that Langdon, a Harvard professor and symbologist, doesn't have much to do in the beginning of the novel. Until he discovers the poem and starts to follow the Path of Illumination, Langdon goes through the novel with a dazed look on his face - "Oh snap, there's Illuminati around?!" He definitely fulfills the role of the Everyman thrown into an extraordinary situation, but as the hero of the story, it sure takes him a while to live up to the role. I also didn't get why Brown always refers to Langdon's "Harris tweed jacket" - this brand means nothing to me. I'd be more intereste if this jacket was worn or had holes, a personality to it. Brown refers to a lot of brand names in Angels & Demons, and to me it sounded like a lazy man's way of describing something.
That being said, once the story moves to Rome and Langdon and Co. start to chase the Hassassin, the man committing the Illuminati's vicious murders, the pace picks up. This was where my interest in the novel grew, as Langdon and Vetra's daughter, Vittoria, race through obscure church after church, finding the branded cardinals, following the clues. The amount of reseach Brown needed to get these details was obvious; the descriptions of the churches were one of my favorite parts of the whole book. I wanted to know what happened next, even while I wondered who the mastermind behind the Illuminati plot was.
Which brings me to my next point: Trick endings are still cheap. Finding out that it was actually the camerlengo, the Pope's personal attendant, at the very end put an entirely different twist on the story. Thinking the master was Max Kohler, the director of CERN, made sense because Brown describes him as cold, unfeeling, dislikeable. Even his assistant hopes he won't recover from one of his frequent medical emergencies. On the other hand, Brown writes the camerlengo as sympathetic, an orphan taken in by the church and who really, truly believes that God has a plan in mind for him. Apparently that plan was to resurrect the ancient fear of the Illuminati, kill some cardinals, almost blow up the Vatican, and come out looking like a hero for all of 30 seconds. Who knew?
Both Angels & Demons and The DaVinci Code work as thrillers because they are literally written in the same format. Just a few similarities I noticed:
- Both open with the murder of an old man under highly ritualistic circumstances (scientist Leonardo Vetra; museum curator Jacques Sauniere)
- Both involve secret societies that the Catholic church tried to banish (the Illuminati; the Knights Templar)
- Both have a "hired hand" to do all the dirty work (the Hassassin; Silas)
- Both have a female relative of the first victim helping Robert Langdon (Vittoria Vetra, Leonardo's daughter; Sophie Neveu, Sauniere's granddaughter)
- Both have law enforcement who don't buy into Langdon's theories (Captain Olivetti of the Swiss Guard; Bezu Fache of the French police)
- Both have a disabled man as part, or seeming to be part, of the scheme (Maximilian Kohler and his super high-tech wheelchair; Sir Leigh Teabing and his leg braces and crutches)
- And, of course, the whole "figure out clues to track down the killer and ultimate prize" thing.
Having read Angels & Demons, The DaVinci Code seems like a rehash of the first book - still a thrill ride, but not the epic triumph I was hoping for. I am glad, however, that I read this one befroe seeing how Tom Hanks brings Robert Langdon to the big screen.
I don't usually read a lot of "popular" fiction. If a book seems interesting, I'm always willing to give it a try if I can get my hands on a copy. I read Dan Brown's The DaVinci Code a few years back, after the movie came out, and I remember thinking the book was tons better. So, before Angels & Demons came out, I didn't want to repeat the same mistake twice, and my friend Adriane conveniently gave me a copy.
Maybe I've spent too much time reading books on how to write, because this book did not blow me away by any means. From page one, I found myself thinking on everything I've learned and how I would address Brown's writing in a workshop setting.
The first third of the novel moves too slow, especially for a suspense thriller. Why spend so much time describing Robert Langdon's home, only to put him on a super jet and fly him to Geneva a few pages later? Spend the reader's time getting to the point of the action, where the drama is at its strongest. Focusing on descriptions - like Brown did with Leonardo Vetra's lab, while Vetra lies dead upstairs - doesn't cut it.
It doesn't help that Langdon, a Harvard professor and symbologist, doesn't have much to do in the beginning of the novel. Until he discovers the poem and starts to follow the Path of Illumination, Langdon goes through the novel with a dazed look on his face - "Oh snap, there's Illuminati around?!" He definitely fulfills the role of the Everyman thrown into an extraordinary situation, but as the hero of the story, it sure takes him a while to live up to the role. I also didn't get why Brown always refers to Langdon's "Harris tweed jacket" - this brand means nothing to me. I'd be more intereste if this jacket was worn or had holes, a personality to it. Brown refers to a lot of brand names in Angels & Demons, and to me it sounded like a lazy man's way of describing something.
That being said, once the story moves to Rome and Langdon and Co. start to chase the Hassassin, the man committing the Illuminati's vicious murders, the pace picks up. This was where my interest in the novel grew, as Langdon and Vetra's daughter, Vittoria, race through obscure church after church, finding the branded cardinals, following the clues. The amount of reseach Brown needed to get these details was obvious; the descriptions of the churches were one of my favorite parts of the whole book. I wanted to know what happened next, even while I wondered who the mastermind behind the Illuminati plot was.
Which brings me to my next point: Trick endings are still cheap. Finding out that it was actually the camerlengo, the Pope's personal attendant, at the very end put an entirely different twist on the story. Thinking the master was Max Kohler, the director of CERN, made sense because Brown describes him as cold, unfeeling, dislikeable. Even his assistant hopes he won't recover from one of his frequent medical emergencies. On the other hand, Brown writes the camerlengo as sympathetic, an orphan taken in by the church and who really, truly believes that God has a plan in mind for him. Apparently that plan was to resurrect the ancient fear of the Illuminati, kill some cardinals, almost blow up the Vatican, and come out looking like a hero for all of 30 seconds. Who knew?
Both Angels & Demons and The DaVinci Code work as thrillers because they are literally written in the same format. Just a few similarities I noticed:
- Both open with the murder of an old man under highly ritualistic circumstances (scientist Leonardo Vetra; museum curator Jacques Sauniere)
- Both involve secret societies that the Catholic church tried to banish (the Illuminati; the Knights Templar)
- Both have a "hired hand" to do all the dirty work (the Hassassin; Silas)
- Both have a female relative of the first victim helping Robert Langdon (Vittoria Vetra, Leonardo's daughter; Sophie Neveu, Sauniere's granddaughter)
- Both have law enforcement who don't buy into Langdon's theories (Captain Olivetti of the Swiss Guard; Bezu Fache of the French police)
- Both have a disabled man as part, or seeming to be part, of the scheme (Maximilian Kohler and his super high-tech wheelchair; Sir Leigh Teabing and his leg braces and crutches)
- And, of course, the whole "figure out clues to track down the killer and ultimate prize" thing.
Having read Angels & Demons, The DaVinci Code seems like a rehash of the first book - still a thrill ride, but not the epic triumph I was hoping for. I am glad, however, that I read this one befroe seeing how Tom Hanks brings Robert Langdon to the big screen.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Monday Writing Prompt: Colors
How much of our world do we describe through color? Spring has finally sprung in southern Maine, and the trees are covered in the rich green of new leaves. Descriptions tend to be one of my challenges; I can show a character through their actions, through their dialogue, but I often forget how big an impact small details can make, including colors. Driving this weekend between Connecticut and Maine in the bright sunshine, seeing how beautiful the flowers where in my grandmother's yard - those are the moments I would like to practice capturing. As such, this challenge was born.
This week's prompt is to pick a color and infuse it in a piece of writing. I mean you should let it inspire you; maybe take a few minutes to brainstorm ideas asociated with this color, what thoughts come to mind. Focus on ways to show this color rather than saying, "His shirt was red." Is it crimson? Or the shade of two-day-old spilled wine? Does he remind you of the "redshirts" of Star Trek fame? Let's see if we can find new ways to describe the colors in our world.
If you try this, or any of the other prompts I've posted, feel free to let me know how it worked out for you. Comment here or drop me a link via my email. My attempt will, in theory, be up here sometime on Friday.
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Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
This week's prompt is to pick a color and infuse it in a piece of writing. I mean you should let it inspire you; maybe take a few minutes to brainstorm ideas asociated with this color, what thoughts come to mind. Focus on ways to show this color rather than saying, "His shirt was red." Is it crimson? Or the shade of two-day-old spilled wine? Does he remind you of the "redshirts" of Star Trek fame? Let's see if we can find new ways to describe the colors in our world.
If you try this, or any of the other prompts I've posted, feel free to let me know how it worked out for you. Comment here or drop me a link via my email. My attempt will, in theory, be up here sometime on Friday.
---
Don't like this week's prompt? Check out previous ones through the Monday Writing Prompt tag.
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