Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Pass the award along to 15 bloggers who you have recently discovered and who you think are fantastic for whatever reason! (In no particular order...)
4) Contact the bloggers you've picked and let them know about the award
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
“Wait!” I scream it, my words slicing through the thick air with little effect, like a dull knife.
The street lamps above my head are flickering, and frantically, plunging forward as though I am caught in a kaleidoscope of incomplete dreams, I dash after them.
“Wait! Don’t go!”
I run and run, until I am out of breath, and my side is cramping. I cannot catch up with them. I stumble, unable to keep moving. I have to face the truth.
I can no longer see them. The lights go out, and I am hurled into a dismal abyss. What am I to do now?
I stifle a scream when I feel the hand on my shoulder.
“We’re still here,” she says calmly. I hear a grunt of disapproval from her left.
I grasp her fingers blindly. “You came back!”
“Yes,” she responds. “I want to give you another chance. You deserve another chance. He has agreed.”
“She doesn’t deserve it—she’s being honored with it.”
I nearly sob with relief. “Thank you! I promise this time—”
“No,” she cuts me off. “What you must understand is that things are different. Nothing can be the same. A lot of time has passed.”
“I understand...” But really, I don’t.
“We won’t wait around again,” he adds, his tone hollow. “We can’t do it again.”
“Take your time,” she adds, her own voice gentler, “but don’t leave. Don’t give up on us. You need to believe. Promise me.”
“I promise,” I swear fervently, desperately. I need them. They need me.
“Then open your eyes and begin again,” the lights are flickering once more.
“What’s happening?” I feel like I’m yelling, but the words are barely a whisper.
They are circling me, closing in and pushing through the brick wall that surrounds me, interjecting themselves into my mind, leaving their imprint.
I exhale and slowly open my eyes, finally able to see…
And on that note - my characters and I are back on agreed terms - I can't say good, because I'm not sure they are as yet. It's almost as if I need to reestablish their trust. They will let me write about them, but I need to commit to it and to them, something I have resolved to do. On the other hand, I do feel like I've awoken from a bad dream.
This was an interesting exercise - I've never done something quite like this, but I found it was very useful.
What about you? Have you ever tried such a writing exercise? What sort of things do you do when your characters start acting up?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Alrighty, as promised, here is a look into the crazy inner workings of my mind. Even as I write this, I'm wondering what I'm getting myself into. I never actually meant for anyone to read this - but as they say, we all have to start somewhere. It's very rough... so please excuse any glaring errors.
Oh, and there are no names included just because at this point, I sort of feel like I don't know them *sobs* :)
What Happened - Part 1
It’s cold. It’s never been this cold before. It’s never sounded this quiet or been this empty. I’m all alone. For the first time in months, I am irrevocably alone. I refuse to accept it and search in vain for a sign, anything, something to show me that I haven’t lost it all. I almost miss him when my eyes finally light upon his figure. Night has fallen, and long shadows are cast along his face, partially hiding it from me.
In this light, he looks more dangerous than usual, but less fiery than I remember him. It feels as though time has robbed him of his very essence, everything that he once was. His previously solid frame now appears thin and vacant, the locks of his hair too long, reaching past his bony shoulders and blending in with the darkness surrounding him. The stark contrast gives his face an eerie glow, luminescent, yet suspicious, wary of my sudden return.
“Where have you been?” His voice is gravelly, as though he hasn’t used it for a while.
He shifts, his movement almost imperceptible, coming slightly out of the gloom. I take a hesitant step back – even though I’ve been waiting for this moment, longing to see him again. He’s angry. I can see it in his fierce gray eyes as they rove over, and finally settle on my face, icy and distant. The harsh planes of his profile are no longer familiar. I swallow hard.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, knowing it excuses nothing. “It’s just that...” I trail off, not sure of exactly what to say.
“You started this whole thing, and then you just abandon us?” His tone teeters between incredulous and seething.
He won’t look at me any longer. His eyes have moved to the far right, staring at something over my shoulder, something I can’t see, and can’t even begin to relate to. He looks older, robbed of his youth, having been left to wait for something that never came.
“I didn’t mean to!” I protest, desperate for him to understand. I never meant for this to happen. But I had been wrong to leave things the way they were.
He doesn’t respond.
“Honestly,” I reach out to touch him, but he stiffens, and my hand falls limply at my side. “Please believe me.”
“Why.” He sounds broken now, more emotion in that single word than he has ever shown before.
He glares at me defiantly when I don’t answer, suddenly composing himself. “Why should I believe you? You’ve stopped believing in us, haven’t you?”
I feel like crying. I’m too ashamed to speak, even though he’s got it all wrong. I didn’t stop believing in them, I stopped believing in me.
“She needs another chance.”
I jump at the sound of her voice.
Squinting, I see her materialize out of the shadows behind him. Her face is drawn and pale, her dark hair in tangles, and the bluish tint that rims the bottom of her eyes make her look as though she hasn’t slept in months. He reaches behind him to take her hand. She squeezes his and I realize with a start that they have turned to each other for solace. These two, who cannot stand each other’s company, together.
My heart is breaking. How could I have done this? What was I thinking?
“We’re leaving,” he says firmly.
“No,” she responds softly. She touches his face lightly, soothing him, before turning to me. “I’m sure you had a good reason.” She takes a step closer, her eyes pleading.
But I don’t. I have no feasible reason at all. But I don’t say it. How can I admit to it?
We’re the same height though and I can’t look away. She reads the answer on my face.
“See,” he growls roughly from behind, having already come to the same conclusion on his own, “I told you. Let’s get out of here.”
The small speckle of hope vanishes from her face, making the last remaining light in her eyes dim, and she makes no effort to conceal her disappointment in me.
He’s pulling her now. Pulling her in the opposite direction, away from me, away from the three of us and the good thing we shared. He’s always been too headstrong.
I cringe. Why did I make him that way?
They’re disappearing right before my eyes, fading into the night that gobbles them up greedily. Soon they will be gone, and there will be no more.
What do I do? What can I say? How can I make this right? Too much time has passed. Still though, I must try...
To be continued... on Thursday! Thanks for reading :)
Monday, June 14, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
So we briefly touched upon this subject on Wednesday (and I apologize for moving this post to Friday - besides getting distracted, I thought it might be some nice food for thought over the weekend).
To recap: "Some of us are born ready to take the world by storm, while some of us are biding our time, slowly crawling out of our shells".
Let's face it. Some of us were meant to be in the spotlight. Others--not so much. I've been reading quite a few blogs/comments lately where writers are worried they're not good enough, they're not writing fast enough or they don't have what it takes to be a full fledged author. Sure--they like to write, but liking something and attaining it are two very different things. Maybe. But doing something? Anything? It counts! Trust me!
I think even the people that love the spotlight and are incredibly socially adept at making others gravitate towards them still have these same fears. They are completely natural, and you're no less or more for having them.
Writing (as well with many other forms of artistic expression - but this is the one we are focusing on here) is baring your soul. And that's a hard thing to let others in on. When we write, we're creating - creating the world as we see it, as it exists in our own minds.
Yes, we are all on the same path, but the journey is ours and ours alone. The same thing that brings us together is also what makes us different - we are each unique, regardless of the type of writer we are. Again, we are all on the same path, no matter how quickly or slowly we traverse down it.
Keep in mind, almost all of these paths started with a dream - no, not literally (for all you Stephenie Meyer fans out there ;).
I mean the dream inside of you. You love to write. You love seeing the way the words grow and evolve on the page. You love that as scared as you are, that someone, some day, might read those words, and love them as much as you do.
So, repeat after me: WE ARE NOT ALONE! We're all in this together!
Regardless of what type you are - the one racing towards the finish line, or the one in the corner, peeping out to see when it's safe - we're all starting at the same place, and we will all meet up there at the end and celebrate!
Happy Friday Everyone! Have a great weekend, and I will see you Monday :) As always, I would love to hear your comments. Please share! Do you agree? Do you have anything to add?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
That's the thing about reading - the way that almost any book, well written, and thoughtfully crafted, can completely transport you to another world. You don't want to put it down. You can utterly submerse yourself into the storyline and become a part of it.
The sad thing is when I'm writing, I'm not quite able to enjoy reading in the same way. It's like my brain fully rewires itself into "analyze mode" and all I can see is the technicality of the writing. I'm constantly picking apart each element of the novel, frequently going back and re-reading certain parts to see if they match up--it almost becomes very tedious, but I can't help it. While I still lose myself in the story, the expression "reading for fun" now has a different meaning for me.
Despite this, while I'm picking apart all these novels - I know it's because I'm learning. This never happened before when I was just writing for myself. Now that I'm positive I would like to someday be published, these are the sorts of things I am suddenly paying attention to. I'm learning not only about writing, but also about technique and myself--what works, what doesn't, what I enjoy, what I don't, how the story should flow, etc. When you really look at it, the book you're holding in your hands is something someone, somewhere thought was good enough to be printed - we can all learn from that.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
In today's post, I would like to discuss the idea of character immortality in books and what it is about it that draws readers in. Vampires, Werewolves, Immortals, Angels... just to name a few ;).
There has been a surge in these types of characters recently, but they have existed in stories forever. Many fantasy novels involve at least one type of immortal character, if not more. They are usually young and beautiful, frozen that way, both doomed and destined to roam the world for all eternity. But what makes them so appealing?
Is it that they never get older? They are literally "forever young", and considering the human quest to unlock that elusive fountain of youth, perhaps this is what draws us to them. They don't need to die young to be immortalized or obtain perpetual youth. People will never remember them as old, aged or wrinkly. They get to live forever, never age, never get sick, experience all life has to offer, to do it all with no regrets--because they always have that second, third, fourth chance to make it right. But do they?
Perhaps it's the tortured soul that we sympathize with. The lost wanderer who is all alone with no one to turn to because he/she eventually loses the people and things they love, while they themselves continue to merely exist, but not really live anymore.
What do you think? Are your characters immortal and if so, why did you choose to make them that way (of course, depending on the genre you are writing)? And if not, what is your opinion of the appeal of these characters?