This post was inspired by Quinn, over at seeing, dreaming...writing. I "met" Quinn through the Great Writing Experiment. He's got a great blog and he's gonna host a giveaway when he reaches 100 followers, so why don't you give him a read and become a life-long fan? (Free stuff! Free stuff!)
The Inspiration Zone:
You unlock this door with the key of imagination.
Beyond it is another dimension: a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind.
You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into...
the Inspiration Zone.
Case #1
Bob Bobson goes to the hospital to visit his wife, Sally, and their new baby. Little does Bob know, he’s about to enter….the Inspiration Zone.
Sally: What do you think of naming her Angelina?
Bob: Angelina’s nice.
Sally: Or Emily:
*INSPIRATION*
Bob: That’s the best idea ever!
Sally: You like Emily?
Bob: No, no, you silly cow, I’ve just decided that my main character, Micah, isn’t going to cut the brakes on his boss’s car –he’s going to set fire to the whole office building! This is going to AWESOME!
Bob Bobson, 43-years-old, now divorced and paying child support to his daughter, Angelina. There is no escaping…the Inspiration Zone.
Case #2
Quinn. 25-year-old student. Graduate of the University of Delaware with a degree in Interpersonal Communication and Russian Studies. It’s New Year’s, 2010, and Quinn is about to enter…The Inspiration Zone.
Quinn’s friends: Hey, Quinn, come dance with us!!!!! Woo hoo! New Year!
Quinn: Just getting a drink, guys, I’ll be over in a sec’!
Bartender: What’ll you have?
*INSPIRATION*
Quinn: Floaties. She wears floaties on her arms because she’s terrified of the world flooding. She wants to be prepared.
Bartender: What’s that??
Quinn: Huh? Oh, nothing, I just got some inspiration.
Bartender: We don’t make that here! Try the bar next door!
Quinn watches his friends dancing from the corner of the club, cell phone in hand as he feverishly types up notes for his novel, sending them to himself via text message. 2010 is going to be a good year for Quinn, now that he’s entered…the Inspiration Zone.
Case #3
Jacob Spinner, about to be married to his fiancée, Elise. Jacob isn’t just vowing eternal love and friendship, he’s vowing to live forever in….the Inspiration Zone.
Priest: Do you, Elise, take Jacob to be your lawfully-wedded husband?
Elise: I do.
Priest: And do you, Jacob, take Elise to be your lawfully-wedded wife?
*INSPIRATION*
Jacob: Does anyone got a pen? I think my main character’s about to cheat on his wife with her sister.
Elise’s sister: You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!
Elise: You SLEPT with my sister??
Jacob: Really, does anyone got a pen? Pencil is good too…
Jacob, 30-year-old bachelor with a three-legged cat named Fluffy. One publishing contract and a naked ring finger, Jacob is now married to…the Inspiration Zone.
Do you live in the Inspiration Zone? Comment below.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Writers PSA
Please watch. Spread the news on your blog, facebook, twitter, and at the local bar so that everyone pays attention to this important cause:
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Text messages of a writer.
"Im gonna be late, MC havng meltdwn."
"won't b at work 2day. rewrites."
"can we celbrate our annivrsy 2morrow? just deleted half my MS by accident."
"need to tweak qry lttr. can sum1 else take u to hospital?"
"got rejection 2day. locking myself in bathroom for 24hrs."
"will b at midnyte release 4 mckgjay 2nyte. can u feed kids?"
"be @ rehab w/ Rongdoers all day-probs w/ punctuation...!!!"
WHAT R URS?
"won't b at work 2day. rewrites."
"can we celbrate our annivrsy 2morrow? just deleted half my MS by accident."
"need to tweak qry lttr. can sum1 else take u to hospital?"
"got rejection 2day. locking myself in bathroom for 24hrs."
"will b at midnyte release 4 mckgjay 2nyte. can u feed kids?"
"be @ rehab w/ Rongdoers all day-probs w/ punctuation...!!!"
WHAT R URS?
Monday, September 27, 2010
They tried to make me go to rehab.
“We’re going to start our session today by introducing ourselves and getting to know one another. Why don’t you start, Elena?”
“Oh, okay. Hi, I’m Elena. I’ve been clean for about three months now. Let’s see…I remember the first time I used a dash, it was, like, this huge rush. I only did it the one time. I thought that’s all I would need. But then I started writing again the next day and I wanted another dash. I still felt that rush. It felt so powerful, such a clean break in a sentence. I swore I wouldn’t use it again, not for a few pages, but the next day I did it again.
“That day was the first time I had two dashes in one sentence: She paused – as she usually did – before ascending. It seemed harmless at the time. I even went a couple of chapters without using it again, but I wanted that pause after a while. I wanted to see the break in the sentences. None of the sentences seemed right anymore without, and that’s when my addiction really started.
“There were dashes in every paragraph. And then two wasn’t enough in a sentence. I had three going at once: Fred said – rather stupidly – that he wanted – rather oafishly – to eat the entire pizza. And I got to the point where I didn’t even care if the sentence wasn’t grammatically correct or didn’t sound good. I just wanted the dash. That’s all I cared about. Whatever could get me another dash. Then there wasn’t a sentence that went without one. Then I stopped using periods altogether, everything was just one long dash.
“My beta-readers were worried, obviously, and they tried to stop me, but I didn’t listen. Literary agents wouldn’t look at me, let alone editors. I lost everything. My draft, my characters, my technique. Then one day I woke up and realized I didn’t want to write anymore. The thing that had kept me alive for so long was dead. And so I took some time off and decided to come to rehab. I haven’t written anything new yet, but I know I will.”
Care to join the circle? What's your writing addiction?
“Oh, okay. Hi, I’m Elena. I’ve been clean for about three months now. Let’s see…I remember the first time I used a dash, it was, like, this huge rush. I only did it the one time. I thought that’s all I would need. But then I started writing again the next day and I wanted another dash. I still felt that rush. It felt so powerful, such a clean break in a sentence. I swore I wouldn’t use it again, not for a few pages, but the next day I did it again.
“That day was the first time I had two dashes in one sentence: She paused – as she usually did – before ascending. It seemed harmless at the time. I even went a couple of chapters without using it again, but I wanted that pause after a while. I wanted to see the break in the sentences. None of the sentences seemed right anymore without, and that’s when my addiction really started.
“There were dashes in every paragraph. And then two wasn’t enough in a sentence. I had three going at once: Fred said – rather stupidly – that he wanted – rather oafishly – to eat the entire pizza. And I got to the point where I didn’t even care if the sentence wasn’t grammatically correct or didn’t sound good. I just wanted the dash. That’s all I cared about. Whatever could get me another dash. Then there wasn’t a sentence that went without one. Then I stopped using periods altogether, everything was just one long dash.
“My beta-readers were worried, obviously, and they tried to stop me, but I didn’t listen. Literary agents wouldn’t look at me, let alone editors. I lost everything. My draft, my characters, my technique. Then one day I woke up and realized I didn’t want to write anymore. The thing that had kept me alive for so long was dead. And so I took some time off and decided to come to rehab. I haven’t written anything new yet, but I know I will.”
Care to join the circle? What's your writing addiction?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thanks to the Rongdoers! (And a contest!)
I just wanted to thank everyone for stopping by the blog this weekend and leaving your comments. I am working through the list on Elana's blog (in case you haven't seen it here), so if I have not stopped by your blog yet, I'll be there soon! (Only about 100 to go - they're all fascinating posts!)
Going through led me to this contest on Literary Jules, so stop by and check it out here.
And this contest, on writers write, right? (I love that blog name, by the way). Check it out here.
And this contest on Carol's Prints (I am continually editing this post to add 'em all, so keep checking back!). See contest here.
Thanks again, everyone!
Going through led me to this contest on Literary Jules, so stop by and check it out here.
And this contest, on writers write, right? (I love that blog name, by the way). Check it out here.
And this contest on Carol's Prints (I am continually editing this post to add 'em all, so keep checking back!). See contest here.
Thanks again, everyone!
Friday, September 24, 2010
How to Write Compelling Characters.
This is the Great Blogging Experiment! Go to Elana Johnson's blog for details, here.
All of us bloggers are getting into our caravans and heading West. Hopefully none of our literary children will catch cholera.
So today, 182 bloggers (so far) are posting on the same topic:
How to Write Compelling Characters.
A long time ago, in a land that’s not so far away because I still live there, I wanted to be a ventriloquist. I think it had something to do with this:
Why did I want a killer dummy in my house?
Same reason people become writers. You just want to see what’ll happen, right?
Anyway, in the years (days) I spent trying (failing) to become a ventriloquist, one lesson always stuck with me:
NEVER call your dummy a "dummy".
(And never get them wet, expose them to bright light, or feed them after midnight. Oh, wait, I think that’s from something else…)
Calling your dummy a “dummy” makes them a dummy, you see. And they’re not dummies – they’re people. That’s not your hand up their back, making their mouth move. That’s not you speaking for them.
People know that you are. They know it's not real. But they want a ventriloquist to convince them that it is.
So, my lesson to writing compelling characters:
NEVER call your characters “characters”. They are people. Living, breathing, twittering, facebooking, kickboxing people.
When you sit down to write every day, you’re not thinking about your characters – you’re having a company meeting. See these two posts here and here. You're trading ideas, discussing plot changes and character motivations.
You're talking to your colleagues. Not your characters.
If the people in your novel are just as real to you, then they're going to be real for your readers - and that's what makes them compelling.
Readers pick up a novel and they know it’s fiction. It's not real. An author made it up. Great writing is when they forget that it is.
All of us bloggers are getting into our caravans and heading West. Hopefully none of our literary children will catch cholera.
So today, 182 bloggers (so far) are posting on the same topic:
How to Write Compelling Characters.
A long time ago, in a land that’s not so far away because I still live there, I wanted to be a ventriloquist. I think it had something to do with this:
Why did I want a killer dummy in my house?
Same reason people become writers. You just want to see what’ll happen, right?
Anyway, in the years (days) I spent trying (failing) to become a ventriloquist, one lesson always stuck with me:
NEVER call your dummy a "dummy".
(And never get them wet, expose them to bright light, or feed them after midnight. Oh, wait, I think that’s from something else…)
Calling your dummy a “dummy” makes them a dummy, you see. And they’re not dummies – they’re people. That’s not your hand up their back, making their mouth move. That’s not you speaking for them.
People know that you are. They know it's not real. But they want a ventriloquist to convince them that it is.
So, my lesson to writing compelling characters:
NEVER call your characters “characters”. They are people. Living, breathing, twittering, facebooking, kickboxing people.
When you sit down to write every day, you’re not thinking about your characters – you’re having a company meeting. See these two posts here and here. You're trading ideas, discussing plot changes and character motivations.
You're talking to your colleagues. Not your characters.
If the people in your novel are just as real to you, then they're going to be real for your readers - and that's what makes them compelling.
Readers pick up a novel and they know it’s fiction. It's not real. An author made it up. Great writing is when they forget that it is.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
It's a BlogFeast!
Angela McCallister over at Jaded Love Junkie is hosting a BlogFeast today - you still have time to sign up! Link is here.
As always, make sure you check out the other entries! I've kept my short. Enjoy.
***
My first day at a new school had gone pretty well, despite the rain. It wasn’t until Biology that things got…strange.
“Ah, Stella,” my teacher said. “New student, yes? You’re going to be sitting with Eddie back there.”
That’s when I saw him.
Eddie Cul-de-sac. His skin was pale-yellow and so soft it seemed like I could bite into it. His eyes were two blue sprinkles. And those lips, thin strips of licorice.
“Hello.” I sat down next to him. There was barely room at our lab table, he was so wide. Underneath the slight opening in his wrapper, I could see the soft, yellow flesh beneath, like a foam sponge.
He focused those sprinkle-eyes on me and I froze.
“I’m no good for you,” he whispered, just loud enough for only me to hear.
“But you look so….”
“Appetizing, I know. That’s what I’m made to do,” he purred. “Everything about me draws you in, even my scent.”
“Why are you in high school if you’re so dangerous?”
Those licorice lips curled into a smirk. “I try to fit in, Stella. I don’t want to be a monster.”
“You’re not.”
He leaned closer. “I’ve killed people before. Too much of me, they gain weight, get diabetes or cancer. I try not to be like this, but it’s just in my nature.”
“You’re good. I can sense it, Eddie.”
He ran a hand through his white frosting. “You should stay away from me, Stella.”
But I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel his calories run through me, remove that wrapper and fall into him like a big yellow pillow.
I dreamed of him all night, and in the morning I knew three things for certain:
1) Eddie was a cupcake.
2) There was a part of him – and I didn’t know how big a part it was – that contained sugar, fat, carbs, and artificial dye.
3) I really wanted to eat him.
As always, make sure you check out the other entries! I've kept my short. Enjoy.
***
My first day at a new school had gone pretty well, despite the rain. It wasn’t until Biology that things got…strange.
“Ah, Stella,” my teacher said. “New student, yes? You’re going to be sitting with Eddie back there.”
That’s when I saw him.
Eddie Cul-de-sac. His skin was pale-yellow and so soft it seemed like I could bite into it. His eyes were two blue sprinkles. And those lips, thin strips of licorice.
“Hello.” I sat down next to him. There was barely room at our lab table, he was so wide. Underneath the slight opening in his wrapper, I could see the soft, yellow flesh beneath, like a foam sponge.
He focused those sprinkle-eyes on me and I froze.
“I’m no good for you,” he whispered, just loud enough for only me to hear.
“But you look so….”
“Appetizing, I know. That’s what I’m made to do,” he purred. “Everything about me draws you in, even my scent.”
“Why are you in high school if you’re so dangerous?”
Those licorice lips curled into a smirk. “I try to fit in, Stella. I don’t want to be a monster.”
“You’re not.”
He leaned closer. “I’ve killed people before. Too much of me, they gain weight, get diabetes or cancer. I try not to be like this, but it’s just in my nature.”
“You’re good. I can sense it, Eddie.”
He ran a hand through his white frosting. “You should stay away from me, Stella.”
But I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel his calories run through me, remove that wrapper and fall into him like a big yellow pillow.
I dreamed of him all night, and in the morning I knew three things for certain:
1) Eddie was a cupcake.
2) There was a part of him – and I didn’t know how big a part it was – that contained sugar, fat, carbs, and artificial dye.
3) I really wanted to eat him.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Can I ask you something?
I'm not a fan of hate. To be a hypocrite, I hate the word hate. So instead of 10 Questions Writers Hate, the theme for my post today is actually:
10 Questions Writers Severely Dislike:
1. Can I borrow your laptop for a bit?
2. Why can't you just send agents your first draft?
3. There are no vampires in your book?
4. Is this draft different from your last one?
5. Do you dream all of your endings?
6. Why are your books so depressing?
7. What other hobbies do you have?
8. What do you do for a real job?
9. Did you remember to buy ink cartridges?
10. You wrote this whole thing?
Do you have any questions to add to the list?
10 Questions Writers Severely Dislike:
1. Can I borrow your laptop for a bit?
2. Why can't you just send agents your first draft?
3. There are no vampires in your book?
4. Is this draft different from your last one?
5. Do you dream all of your endings?
6. Why are your books so depressing?
7. What other hobbies do you have?
8. What do you do for a real job?
9. Did you remember to buy ink cartridges?
10. You wrote this whole thing?
Do you have any questions to add to the list?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Punk-tuation.
The colon: punctuation that in no way resembles your internal organ. It really looks like a vampire bite, so the colon should hereby be baptized: the fang mark.
The semi-colon; proud to be colon’s temptressy little sis. She's got a perpetual wink; sleeps with one eye open like a possum.
The period. Which has no relation to "that-time-of-the-month". The period. Relies heavily. On other forms of punctuation. To precede it. Because. It's. Too. Jumpy. To. Use. Between. Every. Word. The period. Like an engine that won't. Start. Period is. The death of a sentence. Period. Can be known as. The scythe.
The comma, that yellow light. You can stop, like this, or you can go on through and hope that light doesn't change to red. If it does, you just keep on driving until you get to the next light. Comma watches for period all the time, just waiting for the endless stream to, finally, lastly, immutably, come to an end. Comma could go on, always and always, into forever, and forever, and forever
, until it reaches the stars and meets apostrophe. She's a player. Girl's worked hard to get a position that's so high up. She'd be stupid to lose it , but it's not like she couldn't come down every once in a while when she's inclined to.
The exclamation point is the only one who can reach her way up there! The exclamation point stands on period's neck and stretches so high up! Man, look at him climb!
When he's tired, he just rests on the level ground of the dash - always there when needed. Just a little break, because - like most things - you gotta stop sometime. Dash travels - horizontally, of course - over the land, seeing - touching, smelling, tasting - all the world has to offer. He brings back - like the loyal friend he is - presents for all the other punks. Most of them - here's looking at you semi-colon - appreciate it -
but now that we've come to the end of this post, what happens next? Do you have any questions? Is there a mainstream punctuation mark that I missed? How about you leave your own punk in the comments? Or do you think you're not appreciated? Do you feel like you're screaming into cyberspace and no one's listening? Well, how about you just try to leave a comment? What if I'm waiting desperately for your input and you never take the plunge?
"No, really, everyone, I love your comments. Keep them coming. Let's start a dialogue with these handy quotation marks."
"They're like cat scratches."
The semi-colon; proud to be colon’s temptressy little sis. She's got a perpetual wink; sleeps with one eye open like a possum.
The period. Which has no relation to "that-time-of-the-month". The period. Relies heavily. On other forms of punctuation. To precede it. Because. It's. Too. Jumpy. To. Use. Between. Every. Word. The period. Like an engine that won't. Start. Period is. The death of a sentence. Period. Can be known as. The scythe.
The comma, that yellow light. You can stop, like this, or you can go on through and hope that light doesn't change to red. If it does, you just keep on driving until you get to the next light. Comma watches for period all the time, just waiting for the endless stream to, finally, lastly, immutably, come to an end. Comma could go on, always and always, into forever, and forever, and forever
, until it reaches the stars and meets apostrophe. She's a player. Girl's worked hard to get a position that's so high up. She'd be stupid to lose it , but it's not like she couldn't come down every once in a while when she's inclined to.
The exclamation point is the only one who can reach her way up there! The exclamation point stands on period's neck and stretches so high up! Man, look at him climb!
When he's tired, he just rests on the level ground of the dash - always there when needed. Just a little break, because - like most things - you gotta stop sometime. Dash travels - horizontally, of course - over the land, seeing - touching, smelling, tasting - all the world has to offer. He brings back - like the loyal friend he is - presents for all the other punks. Most of them - here's looking at you semi-colon - appreciate it -
but now that we've come to the end of this post, what happens next? Do you have any questions? Is there a mainstream punctuation mark that I missed? How about you leave your own punk in the comments? Or do you think you're not appreciated? Do you feel like you're screaming into cyberspace and no one's listening? Well, how about you just try to leave a comment? What if I'm waiting desperately for your input and you never take the plunge?
"No, really, everyone, I love your comments. Keep them coming. Let's start a dialogue with these handy quotation marks."
"They're like cat scratches."
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Shhhhhh!!!!! (Blogfest)
No, we're not in the library.
Summer Ross is hosting the Shhh! It's a Secret Blogfest! Linkage is here. Go check out all the entries, and make sure to comment, obsess over, and occassionally stalk the authors for the rest of your life because they're ultra-awesome.
My entry is on the poetic side. Here goes:
Secrets.
Lie behind the cover of a book.
Under the sink.
In fresh-cleaned laundry.
Secrets.
Lurk in the hallway at midnight.
Hide in a closed casket.
A psychologist’s thoughts.
An avatar.
In the slaughterhouse and unprotected sex.
Secrets are whispers.
They live under the layers of hair, skull, and cortex, down the rabbit hole called Mind.
Secrets were born in the womb of the universe. Its father, Time, and its mother, Future.
The withheld handshake. The tears not shed.
Blink, and the truth tightens its cloak.
Why humans think, and talk, and walk.
Secrets are born without vocal chords, operators of the dream carousel we ride in our sleep.
In the mirror, secrets are who we want to be, who we’re afraid we are. All that is Not Us.
Speak, and secrets die.
Listen, and secrets become trust.
Summer Ross is hosting the Shhh! It's a Secret Blogfest! Linkage is here. Go check out all the entries, and make sure to comment, obsess over, and occassionally stalk the authors for the rest of your life because they're ultra-awesome.
My entry is on the poetic side. Here goes:
Secrets.
Lie behind the cover of a book.
Under the sink.
In fresh-cleaned laundry.
Secrets.
Lurk in the hallway at midnight.
Hide in a closed casket.
A psychologist’s thoughts.
An avatar.
In the slaughterhouse and unprotected sex.
Secrets are whispers.
They live under the layers of hair, skull, and cortex, down the rabbit hole called Mind.
Secrets were born in the womb of the universe. Its father, Time, and its mother, Future.
The withheld handshake. The tears not shed.
Blink, and the truth tightens its cloak.
Why humans think, and talk, and walk.
Secrets are born without vocal chords, operators of the dream carousel we ride in our sleep.
In the mirror, secrets are who we want to be, who we’re afraid we are. All that is Not Us.
Speak, and secrets die.
Listen, and secrets become trust.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Office. Part Two.
1:00 pm Meeting.
"Okay, guys, we have a few things to go over. First, I want to talk about your weapon use in here. I think I've repeatedly asked that all guns, grenades, tear gas, tiki torches, and evil talismans be given to Chester at the security desk before you clock in. And I want to extend the no-weapons rule to your powers, as well. I don't want to see any more lightning bolts coming from your fingers, or zombie desk chairs, and please just use the microwave to cook your lunch. You don't need to do a spell."
"I know some of you are mortal enemies, but I really need you to work in a business-like manner while you're in the office. I don't want another Bob to happen. Those blood stains are not coming out of the carpet, and now we're going to have to buy a new one, as well as find another character to replace him."
"As for the draft, I think we all know that there was some confusion as to what version we were on and what edits had been made to it. Now I just want to say that I had to work over-time to try to get the new scenes from version 5 into version 7 and remove the old scenes from version 4 and put them back into version 2 - and I still have not found the chapter titles that Will worked on last week, so if you have them, you can just drop them off anonymously on my desk. No punishment, all right?"
"And I was hoping I wouldn't have to say this again, but please do not make personal phone calls to other dimensions from your desk phone. We can't afford it."
"I also want to talk about dress code. We're business casual here, and I guess I need to reiterate that tutus and/or bikinis are not appropriate business attire. Please do not wear dragon skin as a tie - it stinks. Shoes are required, and I would also recommend that some of you familiarize yourselves with the concept of deodorant. And to the people who haven't been wearing clothes at all because you think you're invisible - you're not invisible. We can see you. All of you. This is not the Garden of Eden, folks."
"Let's see...Duncan, you were supposed to be commenting on blogs this week and I received a concerned report about the comments you left on several of them that said 'I like cheese. Cheese is good. Yum, yum, more chees plz.' Care to comment on that?"
Duncan: No.
"Okay, moving on then. As for your reports on which agent we should query, I did not find it funny that someone here suggested we query Edward Cullen and say 'My book sparkles as much as your ass.' "
Thea: That was a typo.
"Was it?"
Thea: Yes.
"What about the suggestion that we query President Obama, because our book is going to change the world?"
Thea: I think that's accurate.
[everyone nods]
"He'll be thrilled."
[office manager smashes head on desk several times]
"Okay, guys, we have a few things to go over. First, I want to talk about your weapon use in here. I think I've repeatedly asked that all guns, grenades, tear gas, tiki torches, and evil talismans be given to Chester at the security desk before you clock in. And I want to extend the no-weapons rule to your powers, as well. I don't want to see any more lightning bolts coming from your fingers, or zombie desk chairs, and please just use the microwave to cook your lunch. You don't need to do a spell."
"I know some of you are mortal enemies, but I really need you to work in a business-like manner while you're in the office. I don't want another Bob to happen. Those blood stains are not coming out of the carpet, and now we're going to have to buy a new one, as well as find another character to replace him."
"As for the draft, I think we all know that there was some confusion as to what version we were on and what edits had been made to it. Now I just want to say that I had to work over-time to try to get the new scenes from version 5 into version 7 and remove the old scenes from version 4 and put them back into version 2 - and I still have not found the chapter titles that Will worked on last week, so if you have them, you can just drop them off anonymously on my desk. No punishment, all right?"
"And I was hoping I wouldn't have to say this again, but please do not make personal phone calls to other dimensions from your desk phone. We can't afford it."
"I also want to talk about dress code. We're business casual here, and I guess I need to reiterate that tutus and/or bikinis are not appropriate business attire. Please do not wear dragon skin as a tie - it stinks. Shoes are required, and I would also recommend that some of you familiarize yourselves with the concept of deodorant. And to the people who haven't been wearing clothes at all because you think you're invisible - you're not invisible. We can see you. All of you. This is not the Garden of Eden, folks."
"Let's see...Duncan, you were supposed to be commenting on blogs this week and I received a concerned report about the comments you left on several of them that said 'I like cheese. Cheese is good. Yum, yum, more chees plz.' Care to comment on that?"
Duncan: No.
"Okay, moving on then. As for your reports on which agent we should query, I did not find it funny that someone here suggested we query Edward Cullen and say 'My book sparkles as much as your ass.' "
Thea: That was a typo.
"Was it?"
Thea: Yes.
"What about the suggestion that we query President Obama, because our book is going to change the world?"
Thea: I think that's accurate.
[everyone nods]
"He'll be thrilled."
[office manager smashes head on desk several times]
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Back-to-School Blogfest Entry
Below is my entry to Roh Morgan's Back-to-School Blogfest. Link is here:
http://www.rohmorgon.com/blog/?p=696
This is the first half of a short story I wrote last year. Anyone interested in reading the rest, just comment or send me an email at esolodow at gmail dot com.
Enjoy!
Trust
“Donation?”
A collection jar rattled in my eye-line. The student holding it had pasted yearbook photos on the outside. I saw my brother there, the gleam of the camera flash in his eyes. The charitable student withdrew his jar once I looked up at him.
“Oh. Sorry. Guess you don’t have to.” He offered to my Pack. “Anyone else?”
I reached for his crotch. Mr. Charity squealed, dropped the donations, and scampered away, bleating.
My Pack laughed. They collected the earnings and offered the coins and cash to me.
I shook my head.
They fought over ways to divide it amongst themselves while the morning announcements invaded:
“Grieving Together will be meeting at 2:15 today in the auditorium…please place your vote for the monument by Friday…and remember that members of Student Senate will be around all week with donation tins, all proceeds will go to those families in need of funeral funds and will be distributed at the memorial service tomorrow night.”
“You sure you don’t want?” one of my girls said, raising her fistful of green.
I growled and knocked her cut to the ground. She didn’t protest when the others lapped it up.
“Sorry,” she told me. “It was just a thought. I mean, it’s kind of nice that they’re doing it, right? So many families…”
First Bell rang. We lagged behind the studentry plodding toward the school’s front doors like USDA Prime Beef en route to slaughter. They smelled of cigarettes, spearmint, and sweat. Cloud cover forced smells and noises to linger, unable to escape the world on a jet stream of blue sky. The acid slurp of indigestion hit me, seeing the blood and gobs of flesh marking their clothes. No tide could kill the stains.
The ceiling of Homeroom seemed a few inches lower than yesterday’s ceiling. I sprawled over my graffiti-stained desk (“M+J”; “Fun Noodle”; a semi-automatic). The Pack collected desks around me.
Second Bell rang. The students’ talk frittered around the absence of our teacher, Mr. Warner. He was never late.
Mona Simm leaned across the aisle. She was low-cut tops and berry gloss. Her mascara turned her eyelashes into claws. “You didn’t say anything about Mr. Warner, did you, Emma?”
“Say anything about what?”
“He’s not here. Please tell me you didn’t. I was just venting.”
“No. I didn’t say anything.”
Her shoulders drooped in relief.
“I ate him,” I told her.
“You what?”
I bared my teeth. “I what you asked me to. Be grateful and leave me alone.”
Two of my boys whisked her to an outlying desk. They upended the chairs of those gawping enough to qualify for vegetable status. Bruises bloomed silently. Everyone knew about us.
“What if something happened to Mr. Warner?” a girl in the front row asked. Her fingernails were frayed with teeth marks. She was quieted by the student next desk, eyes checking me at the same time.
Mr. Warner - flannel and vinegar breath - was a subscriber to the proverb, those who can’t do, teach, and those who can’t teach, sleep with their students. He didn’t sleep with them well based on the amount of tears shed by his moaning concubine, Ms. Simm. I found her in the bathroom yesterday, bleeding tears, decided to do her a favor. So I ate him.
Perhaps they had an available slot to mention him at the memorial service tomorrow night. But probably not.
Nurse Bloome entered and announced Mr. Warner’s absence (undiscovered death), and her temporary substitution (a welcome break from scrubbing cots in her office, brown leather covers slick with the refuse of dead and dying). Mona collapsed to her desktop in tears. Nurse Bloome offered a cat-embroidered handkerchief and a pat on the back.
“Does anyone else need to cry?” she asked the class.
They answered in fidgets.
“That’s not a knife, is it, Mr. Brown?” Nurse Bloome reared over Brown’s desk. He handed over the plastic knife paired with his bagel breakfast. “This,” Nurse Bloome raised the knife; the class flinched, “is now against the school’s safety policy. Only spoons, children.”
She stowed the knife away. “Now, as you know, the memorial service will be held tomorrow evening, and the school wishes that everyone utilize the time in between as an effective method of relationship-building. What has occurred in these halls will not be a monument to death, but to the bond of mankind. In that spirit, the school has prepared another exercise for all of us. A trust exercise. I am going to pair everyone together, and each pair will share one secret with each other. That person will be your Trust Buddy from now on.”
“I already have two other Trust Buddies,” someone announced.
“Lucky that you have three now, isn’t it?” She smiled. Her eyes targeted me. “Miss Tennes, I think you’ve missed most of the exercises the school has implemented so far. I’m happy you’re here.”
I bared my teeth – the appointment was set to eat her. Her smile died. She gripped the knife in her pocket. “Well, let’s just pair you all together, yes?”
My partner was Mr. Charity. He crossed his legs.
“So.” He gripped his stickered notebook (“Fall Out Boy”, “No Blood For Oil”, Elmo with a bullet hole gracing his furry tomato forehead). “What’s your secret?”
I kept silent until he confessed to pissing himself on that day. “Your turn,” he said.
My teeth grew beyond my lips, my tongue agile as a spider. I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his ear:
“I’m a werewolf.”
Piss dribbled down his chair like lemmings on their suicide run.
“Miss Tennes. Please stay in your seat.” Nurse Bloome’s ammonia perfume swarmed my nostrils.
I swiped her fanny-pack zone. Shreds of flesh, like veined, purple sirloin, splashed the floor. I wanted to taste her, but there were too many stares to make it enjoyable.
“Let’s go,” I called to my Pack. They followed me close into the hallways beyond our classroom.
The school walls – yellow, pockmarked, covered in memoriam photos (I saw my brother again)- were thin as plywood compared to our arching talons. The tiles under our feet – white, cracked, littered with black streamer - were only a layer of paper towel, a shredded victim under muscular, bowed legs. The teachers that tried to stop us: humans evolved from rats and moles, hiding under desks and jumping from windows. They couldn’t stop my break into the outside world. I bade the Pack remain behind, maintain our territory. I had to leave.
http://www.rohmorgon.com/blog/?p=696
This is the first half of a short story I wrote last year. Anyone interested in reading the rest, just comment or send me an email at esolodow at gmail dot com.
Enjoy!
Trust
“Donation?”
A collection jar rattled in my eye-line. The student holding it had pasted yearbook photos on the outside. I saw my brother there, the gleam of the camera flash in his eyes. The charitable student withdrew his jar once I looked up at him.
“Oh. Sorry. Guess you don’t have to.” He offered to my Pack. “Anyone else?”
I reached for his crotch. Mr. Charity squealed, dropped the donations, and scampered away, bleating.
My Pack laughed. They collected the earnings and offered the coins and cash to me.
I shook my head.
They fought over ways to divide it amongst themselves while the morning announcements invaded:
“Grieving Together will be meeting at 2:15 today in the auditorium…please place your vote for the monument by Friday…and remember that members of Student Senate will be around all week with donation tins, all proceeds will go to those families in need of funeral funds and will be distributed at the memorial service tomorrow night.”
“You sure you don’t want?” one of my girls said, raising her fistful of green.
I growled and knocked her cut to the ground. She didn’t protest when the others lapped it up.
“Sorry,” she told me. “It was just a thought. I mean, it’s kind of nice that they’re doing it, right? So many families…”
First Bell rang. We lagged behind the studentry plodding toward the school’s front doors like USDA Prime Beef en route to slaughter. They smelled of cigarettes, spearmint, and sweat. Cloud cover forced smells and noises to linger, unable to escape the world on a jet stream of blue sky. The acid slurp of indigestion hit me, seeing the blood and gobs of flesh marking their clothes. No tide could kill the stains.
The ceiling of Homeroom seemed a few inches lower than yesterday’s ceiling. I sprawled over my graffiti-stained desk (“M+J”; “Fun Noodle”; a semi-automatic). The Pack collected desks around me.
Second Bell rang. The students’ talk frittered around the absence of our teacher, Mr. Warner. He was never late.
Mona Simm leaned across the aisle. She was low-cut tops and berry gloss. Her mascara turned her eyelashes into claws. “You didn’t say anything about Mr. Warner, did you, Emma?”
“Say anything about what?”
“He’s not here. Please tell me you didn’t. I was just venting.”
“No. I didn’t say anything.”
Her shoulders drooped in relief.
“I ate him,” I told her.
“You what?”
I bared my teeth. “I what you asked me to. Be grateful and leave me alone.”
Two of my boys whisked her to an outlying desk. They upended the chairs of those gawping enough to qualify for vegetable status. Bruises bloomed silently. Everyone knew about us.
“What if something happened to Mr. Warner?” a girl in the front row asked. Her fingernails were frayed with teeth marks. She was quieted by the student next desk, eyes checking me at the same time.
Mr. Warner - flannel and vinegar breath - was a subscriber to the proverb, those who can’t do, teach, and those who can’t teach, sleep with their students. He didn’t sleep with them well based on the amount of tears shed by his moaning concubine, Ms. Simm. I found her in the bathroom yesterday, bleeding tears, decided to do her a favor. So I ate him.
Perhaps they had an available slot to mention him at the memorial service tomorrow night. But probably not.
Nurse Bloome entered and announced Mr. Warner’s absence (undiscovered death), and her temporary substitution (a welcome break from scrubbing cots in her office, brown leather covers slick with the refuse of dead and dying). Mona collapsed to her desktop in tears. Nurse Bloome offered a cat-embroidered handkerchief and a pat on the back.
“Does anyone else need to cry?” she asked the class.
They answered in fidgets.
“That’s not a knife, is it, Mr. Brown?” Nurse Bloome reared over Brown’s desk. He handed over the plastic knife paired with his bagel breakfast. “This,” Nurse Bloome raised the knife; the class flinched, “is now against the school’s safety policy. Only spoons, children.”
She stowed the knife away. “Now, as you know, the memorial service will be held tomorrow evening, and the school wishes that everyone utilize the time in between as an effective method of relationship-building. What has occurred in these halls will not be a monument to death, but to the bond of mankind. In that spirit, the school has prepared another exercise for all of us. A trust exercise. I am going to pair everyone together, and each pair will share one secret with each other. That person will be your Trust Buddy from now on.”
“I already have two other Trust Buddies,” someone announced.
“Lucky that you have three now, isn’t it?” She smiled. Her eyes targeted me. “Miss Tennes, I think you’ve missed most of the exercises the school has implemented so far. I’m happy you’re here.”
I bared my teeth – the appointment was set to eat her. Her smile died. She gripped the knife in her pocket. “Well, let’s just pair you all together, yes?”
My partner was Mr. Charity. He crossed his legs.
“So.” He gripped his stickered notebook (“Fall Out Boy”, “No Blood For Oil”, Elmo with a bullet hole gracing his furry tomato forehead). “What’s your secret?”
I kept silent until he confessed to pissing himself on that day. “Your turn,” he said.
My teeth grew beyond my lips, my tongue agile as a spider. I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his ear:
“I’m a werewolf.”
Piss dribbled down his chair like lemmings on their suicide run.
“Miss Tennes. Please stay in your seat.” Nurse Bloome’s ammonia perfume swarmed my nostrils.
I swiped her fanny-pack zone. Shreds of flesh, like veined, purple sirloin, splashed the floor. I wanted to taste her, but there were too many stares to make it enjoyable.
“Let’s go,” I called to my Pack. They followed me close into the hallways beyond our classroom.
The school walls – yellow, pockmarked, covered in memoriam photos (I saw my brother again)- were thin as plywood compared to our arching talons. The tiles under our feet – white, cracked, littered with black streamer - were only a layer of paper towel, a shredded victim under muscular, bowed legs. The teachers that tried to stop us: humans evolved from rats and moles, hiding under desks and jumping from windows. They couldn’t stop my break into the outside world. I bade the Pack remain behind, maintain our territory. I had to leave.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Blogfest Tomorrow!
For those of you who didn't hear, Roh Morgan has her back-to-school blogfest tomorrow - so sign up or else I'm going to sic a pack o' werewolves on ya!
(Okay, maybe not.)
Link is here: http://www.rohmorgon.com/blog/?p=827
In other news, I managed to finish draft 2,876 of my WIEP (Work-in-Eternal-Progress) tonight. So that just means I have to start draft 2,877 tomorrow. Woo...hoo?
Hope everyone is writing up a storm and still alive to tell the tale. We've got a lot of blogfests coming up. Summer Ross has graciously posted them all on the sidebar of her blog, My Inner Fairy, so check them out:
http://summersvoice.blogspot.com/
RSBP (Regularly-Scheduled-Blog-Posts) will resume on Sep. 16th, and make sure to check out my blogfest submission tomorrow!
And thanks again to all who have commented, viewed, and lurked on this here bloggie. It is more appreciated than a half-frozen Coke in the Sahara Desert.
RSBP (Regularly-Scheduled-Blog-Posts) will resume on Sep. 16th, and make sure to check out my blogfest submission tomorrow!
And thanks again to all who have commented, viewed, and lurked on this here bloggie. It is more appreciated than a half-frozen Coke in the Sahara Desert.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Support Writing AND Cancer Research.
Hi everyone. I just want to point your attention to a great cause I read about today. A self-published author died of lung cancer this month, and her friends decided to donate all proceeds of her novel to the American Cancer Society.
The novel is available on Hulu, and will be available on Amazon and B&N.com shortly. I have just purchased my copy to support this important cause. If you're interested in reading more about it, please visit Melissa's blog, Through the Looking Glass.
The novel is available on Hulu, and will be available on Amazon and B&N.com shortly. I have just purchased my copy to support this important cause. If you're interested in reading more about it, please visit Melissa's blog, Through the Looking Glass.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Office.
For those not already in the Monday-universe, tomorrow for New Jersey-ites is the start of a new work week.
A return...To The Office.
So it got me wondering, what would it be like if the characters in your novel worked for you, and you, as the author, were their office manager?
Wonder no more:
8:30 a.m. Office Meeting.
"All right, everyone. Good morning! I've passed around our book outline for you. Please turn to page two. We were a little short of our goals last week. I want to make sure that we write up to the climax this week. If we can head in there and start the final battle scene, that would be excellent. I know I'll sleep better this weekend!"
[crickets]
[Office manager clears throat.]
"Okay, and moving on. I just want to make sure that everyone's labeling their food as well. We have some vampires here, and I know you like your blood, but someone - and I won't say who - thought it was pomegranate juice last week and vomited all over the kitchen."
[snickers]
"Really, we all need to respect each other when it comes to the refrigerator. As for office gossip, I just want to address that I don't yet know which of you is going to die in the book's sequel, and I think talking about it and starting rumors is not a productive way to get through the first book, okay, people? Let's just try to work on the current book and worry about the sequel later. We all have parts to play, and I know that each one of you is going to work your hardest to survive."
"I also want to talk about our internet use here. It's okay if you want to take your ten-minute breaks and check some blogs, but I do not - and I repeat, do not - want you querying agents as a joke. It just annoys them, and I think it shows some immaturity on your part. You need to take this novel seriously. By the time we're actually ready to query, the agents aren't going to care one hoot about us if they already think we're writing a...what was it now?"
Character says: "Vampire sexcapades set on the moon."
"Yeah. That."
[more snickers]
"And I also just want to address some issues I've been noticing on this draft. Trenton, you're doing a lot of winking lately. You're the antagonist - why are you winking? It just makes you look like you're hitting on everybody. You're supposed to be killing people! Not flirting!"
"And while I'm on that subject, do I need to repeat that office romances are not a good idea, you guys? I mean, we know who the established couples in the book are, and if you go behind your book-partners back, it's just going to make it harder for us to get through this draft, all right? And I'm very concerned about literarily-transmitted-diseases, okay? Let's make sure we're all safe with our given partners. If you've forgotten who you're meant to get together with, you've got the outline to go from, all right? And I don't want any of you ladies getting pregnant! Maternity leave does not get a book published!"
"Um, what else? Let's see...I just want to give a brief warning that those of you who like to chat about books at the water cooler, let's keep the Mockingjay spoilers to a minimum, okay? Some of us haven't read it yet."
"And if you're planning to join in on the company picnic, just make sure you give me your t-shirt size for the uniform. Does anyone have any further questions?"
[silence]
"No? Okay! Well, let's get started from scene 75 again. Thea, I want you to stay focused. You were supposed to break Paul out of prison last week. What happened? You didn't even leave the apartment yet!"
Thea says: "Got sidetracked. Sorry."
"Making out with Will in the girl's bathroom is not getting sidetracked. It's stealing company time. I'm docking your pay."
Thea: "You suck."
"Yeah, well, get used to it. Someone's gotta get some writing done around here."
A return...To The Office.
So it got me wondering, what would it be like if the characters in your novel worked for you, and you, as the author, were their office manager?
Wonder no more:
8:30 a.m. Office Meeting.
"All right, everyone. Good morning! I've passed around our book outline for you. Please turn to page two. We were a little short of our goals last week. I want to make sure that we write up to the climax this week. If we can head in there and start the final battle scene, that would be excellent. I know I'll sleep better this weekend!"
[crickets]
[Office manager clears throat.]
"Okay, and moving on. I just want to make sure that everyone's labeling their food as well. We have some vampires here, and I know you like your blood, but someone - and I won't say who - thought it was pomegranate juice last week and vomited all over the kitchen."
[snickers]
"Really, we all need to respect each other when it comes to the refrigerator. As for office gossip, I just want to address that I don't yet know which of you is going to die in the book's sequel, and I think talking about it and starting rumors is not a productive way to get through the first book, okay, people? Let's just try to work on the current book and worry about the sequel later. We all have parts to play, and I know that each one of you is going to work your hardest to survive."
"I also want to talk about our internet use here. It's okay if you want to take your ten-minute breaks and check some blogs, but I do not - and I repeat, do not - want you querying agents as a joke. It just annoys them, and I think it shows some immaturity on your part. You need to take this novel seriously. By the time we're actually ready to query, the agents aren't going to care one hoot about us if they already think we're writing a...what was it now?"
Character says: "Vampire sexcapades set on the moon."
"Yeah. That."
[more snickers]
"And I also just want to address some issues I've been noticing on this draft. Trenton, you're doing a lot of winking lately. You're the antagonist - why are you winking? It just makes you look like you're hitting on everybody. You're supposed to be killing people! Not flirting!"
"And while I'm on that subject, do I need to repeat that office romances are not a good idea, you guys? I mean, we know who the established couples in the book are, and if you go behind your book-partners back, it's just going to make it harder for us to get through this draft, all right? And I'm very concerned about literarily-transmitted-diseases, okay? Let's make sure we're all safe with our given partners. If you've forgotten who you're meant to get together with, you've got the outline to go from, all right? And I don't want any of you ladies getting pregnant! Maternity leave does not get a book published!"
"Um, what else? Let's see...I just want to give a brief warning that those of you who like to chat about books at the water cooler, let's keep the Mockingjay spoilers to a minimum, okay? Some of us haven't read it yet."
"And if you're planning to join in on the company picnic, just make sure you give me your t-shirt size for the uniform. Does anyone have any further questions?"
[silence]
"No? Okay! Well, let's get started from scene 75 again. Thea, I want you to stay focused. You were supposed to break Paul out of prison last week. What happened? You didn't even leave the apartment yet!"
Thea says: "Got sidetracked. Sorry."
"Making out with Will in the girl's bathroom is not getting sidetracked. It's stealing company time. I'm docking your pay."
Thea: "You suck."
"Yeah, well, get used to it. Someone's gotta get some writing done around here."
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Words Are People Too.
These were chosen at random from the dictionary.
Hazard: danger; risk.
Drinks Everclear and smokes ten packs a day. Jumps off cliffs to see if he can fly. Takes drugs to cure boredom. Drives without signaling. Steals your stuff and never apologizes. Ties his ties too tight. Eats leather and files his teeth. Runs with his eyes closed. Sleeps on train tracks.
Doldrums: a period of depression or inactivity.
Stares at the moon but never howls. Collects fingernails. Watches the toilet flush. Eats when he’s hungry. Sleeps when he’s not. Lives on memories. Knocks at the door that he never answers. Dreams in his head that he chases with nightmares. The moon howls at him.
Boundless: without any known limits; infinite.
Draws a circle. Spits at the stars. Six feet under is too high for him to reach, so he builds a stepladder, and then a skyscraper. Runs ‘til his lungs explode. Loves ‘til his heart expires. Remembers the future. Doesn’t wear a watch. Winks at empty space.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Writer: A Photographic Journey
Working from an old draft:
Procrastinating:
I think I know what I'm doing:
I don't know what I'm doing:
I really don't know what I'm doing:
Why the hell did I add that scene in?
Interruption:
Body-odor check:
Mexican standoff with your characters:
Vampire overload:
Exhaustion:
Maybe if I just dress the part:
U-No-Poo
Do you like winning stuff? Hell yeah, you do! Even better: it's Harry Potter memorobilia. You can enter the contest at this link:
http://melissa-throughthelookingglass.blogspot.com/2010/09/guess-what.html
http://melissa-throughthelookingglass.blogspot.com/2010/09/guess-what.html
Monday, September 6, 2010
I Now Pronounce You.
The Real:
A wedding.
The Imagined:
"We are gathered here today to bind in holy matrimony this author with this novel. Marriage is a commitment made with great consideration. It is not a decision made after an outline or a chapter, it is an everlasting vow to cherish, from this day forth, the relationship you have with one another, holding your bond in the utmost respect and love, forevermore. Through point-of-view changes, verb-tense confusion, character breakdowns, major plot overhauls, misuse of punctuation, catastrophic grammar, the two of you must promise to remain honest and loyal, show patience and kindness, and never forget this day in which you promised yourself to one another for all eternity. Please state your vows."
"Novel, I promise that no matter if it's draft one or draft six, I will never abandon you. No matter if you need scene revisions or individual line edits, I will be there to hold your hand and nurse you through it. I promise to submit you to literary agents who value the bond that we share, and to always listen to editors when they suggest that "The Amazing Misadventures of a Seventeen-Year-Old Suburban Chick" is not an appropriate title for a young adult fantasy novel.
I vow to curb my over-usage of adverbs and m-dashes. I will try not to procrastinate by going on Facebook when I should be writing you. I will allow your plot to go where it needs to go, but promise to always step in and prevent you from de-railing the entire theme. I will only outline when it's necessary, and promise not to stifle your creativity by insisting that we follow every point.
I will never take credit for writing all of you by myself. We work as a team, and without you, there would be no draft. It is your consistent presence in my life that keeps me stable. After all, who needs friends when I have you? These past few years have not been without stress, but I'm glad that we overcame all of those stale descriptions, telling vs. showing, and unnecessary plot twists to reach this point where we can move forward into the future with a keen sense of active, compelling writing.
I love the way you offer new scene ideas for the beginning when I'm already half-way through a draft. It's so cute when you decide to unexpectedly kill off a character. I love you for showing me that sometimes, changing a character's gender is the key to the novel I've been hoping to write my entire life. When you offer me a thought for the ending but don't give me the scenes I need to get there, shows me that our relationship isn't all about fun and games. We'll always have to work at this relationship, and it'll make us stronger entities in the long run.
Thank you for never giving up on me. Thank you for always staying in the same desktop folder where I left you the night before. I promise that I'll never cheat on you with another novel. I could never do that to you. And when I make notes on the plot for a new project, it's just so I can cherish all the good that we have together.
I'm honored to be your author."
"Novel? Your vows?"
Silence.
The preacher turns to me. "This is all on you. I hope you know that."
I sigh. "Yeah. Tell me something I don't know."
"Amen."
A wedding.
The Imagined:
"We are gathered here today to bind in holy matrimony this author with this novel. Marriage is a commitment made with great consideration. It is not a decision made after an outline or a chapter, it is an everlasting vow to cherish, from this day forth, the relationship you have with one another, holding your bond in the utmost respect and love, forevermore. Through point-of-view changes, verb-tense confusion, character breakdowns, major plot overhauls, misuse of punctuation, catastrophic grammar, the two of you must promise to remain honest and loyal, show patience and kindness, and never forget this day in which you promised yourself to one another for all eternity. Please state your vows."
"Novel, I promise that no matter if it's draft one or draft six, I will never abandon you. No matter if you need scene revisions or individual line edits, I will be there to hold your hand and nurse you through it. I promise to submit you to literary agents who value the bond that we share, and to always listen to editors when they suggest that "The Amazing Misadventures of a Seventeen-Year-Old Suburban Chick" is not an appropriate title for a young adult fantasy novel.
I vow to curb my over-usage of adverbs and m-dashes. I will try not to procrastinate by going on Facebook when I should be writing you. I will allow your plot to go where it needs to go, but promise to always step in and prevent you from de-railing the entire theme. I will only outline when it's necessary, and promise not to stifle your creativity by insisting that we follow every point.
I will never take credit for writing all of you by myself. We work as a team, and without you, there would be no draft. It is your consistent presence in my life that keeps me stable. After all, who needs friends when I have you? These past few years have not been without stress, but I'm glad that we overcame all of those stale descriptions, telling vs. showing, and unnecessary plot twists to reach this point where we can move forward into the future with a keen sense of active, compelling writing.
I love the way you offer new scene ideas for the beginning when I'm already half-way through a draft. It's so cute when you decide to unexpectedly kill off a character. I love you for showing me that sometimes, changing a character's gender is the key to the novel I've been hoping to write my entire life. When you offer me a thought for the ending but don't give me the scenes I need to get there, shows me that our relationship isn't all about fun and games. We'll always have to work at this relationship, and it'll make us stronger entities in the long run.
Thank you for never giving up on me. Thank you for always staying in the same desktop folder where I left you the night before. I promise that I'll never cheat on you with another novel. I could never do that to you. And when I make notes on the plot for a new project, it's just so I can cherish all the good that we have together.
I'm honored to be your author."
"Novel? Your vows?"
Silence.
The preacher turns to me. "This is all on you. I hope you know that."
I sigh. "Yeah. Tell me something I don't know."
"Amen."
Saturday, September 4, 2010
You're...
The concept of perfection is something every writer is familiar with. Draft after draft, query after query, all authors - published or not - strive for their writing to become the seemingly-unattainable perfect. But what's perfect for one reader (or one literary agent) is not perfect for another.
That's why writing, same as life, is difficult.
So in honor of everyone out there working toward perfection, here are a few quotes to ponder...
"To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often."
- Winston Churchill
"A man would do nothing if he waited until he could do it so well that no one could find fault."
- John Henry Newman
"Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away."
-Antoine de Saint-Exupery
"The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection."
- George Orwell
"If a man should happen to reach perfection in this world, he would have to die immediately to enjoy himself."
-Josh Billings
"No good work whatever can be perfect, and the demand for perfection is always a sign of the misunderstandings of the ends of art."
-John Ruskin
"Perfection is the bravery required to accept when things are good enough."
- Elena Solodow
That's why writing, same as life, is difficult.
So in honor of everyone out there working toward perfection, here are a few quotes to ponder...
"To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often."
- Winston Churchill
"A man would do nothing if he waited until he could do it so well that no one could find fault."
- John Henry Newman
"Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away."
-Antoine de Saint-Exupery
"The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection."
- George Orwell
"If a man should happen to reach perfection in this world, he would have to die immediately to enjoy himself."
-Josh Billings
"No good work whatever can be perfect, and the demand for perfection is always a sign of the misunderstandings of the ends of art."
-John Ruskin
"Perfection is the bravery required to accept when things are good enough."
- Elena Solodow
Friday, September 3, 2010
Help a Blog Today
Every thirty seconds, a blog in need dies.
In an internet population full of gossip sites, social networks, on-line retailers, news forums, inboxes, chat rooms, role-plays, free television, limitless encyclopedias, how-tos, search engines, photo storage, games, webisodes, fan-sites, twitter posts, consumer reviews, voting polls, gambling, pornography, celebrity shrines, no one ever mentions the most overlooked percentage of the interweb population:
Blogs.
They're born every day in a moment's misguided inspiration, or a career move that gouges too much time from the schedule; a way to look hip, in a frenzy of ego-stroking, or in the desire to share innermost thoughts that can't be contained in a Facebook status or Twitter update...
And every day, these blogs are abandoned. Months go by. Years. Not a single new post. The page views dry up. The followers un-follow. All one has to do is sign in to their own blog and hit the prompt at the top of the screen to view the blog next-door.
Here lies a dead blog. Loved for a week, forgotten in a day.
So in an effort to prevent this from happening, share some blog love today. Make a few comments, follow a few more pages, or help to inspire a new post.
The blog-o-verse needs you!
In an internet population full of gossip sites, social networks, on-line retailers, news forums, inboxes, chat rooms, role-plays, free television, limitless encyclopedias, how-tos, search engines, photo storage, games, webisodes, fan-sites, twitter posts, consumer reviews, voting polls, gambling, pornography, celebrity shrines, no one ever mentions the most overlooked percentage of the interweb population:
Blogs.
They're born every day in a moment's misguided inspiration, or a career move that gouges too much time from the schedule; a way to look hip, in a frenzy of ego-stroking, or in the desire to share innermost thoughts that can't be contained in a Facebook status or Twitter update...
And every day, these blogs are abandoned. Months go by. Years. Not a single new post. The page views dry up. The followers un-follow. All one has to do is sign in to their own blog and hit the prompt at the top of the screen to view the blog next-door.
Here lies a dead blog. Loved for a week, forgotten in a day.
So in an effort to prevent this from happening, share some blog love today. Make a few comments, follow a few more pages, or help to inspire a new post.
The blog-o-verse needs you!
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Another Blogfest!
Just wanted to point anyone interested to S.E. Sinkhorn's new blogfest, due October 1. See link below:
http://maybegenius.blogspot.com/2010/09/announcing-mash-up-blogfest.html
Prizes are chuck-full of awesomeness - and the writing assignment's should be fun too!
(We're all entering for the writing practice, cough cough).
http://maybegenius.blogspot.com/2010/09/announcing-mash-up-blogfest.html
Prizes are chuck-full of awesomeness - and the writing assignment's should be fun too!
(We're all entering for the writing practice, cough cough).
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
How to Succeed in Writing Without Really Trying.
- Use big words such as ascertained, vociferously, quintessence, and prolix. Fancy words equal fancy writing.
(You had to look that last word up, didn’t you? That’s why I linked to it, my friend. Thank me later.)
- Keep your paragraphs short. People will think the book moves faster that way.
- Always describe a character’s personality before they have any dialogue, that way the reader doesn’t have to work so hard through the rest of the novel.
- Always end your novel with a twist. You know they’re going to buy the next one just to see what happens, even if they don’t really care whether or not Emma survived her fall down the elevator shaft of the evil gnome’s office building.
- Give your characters names that are hard to remember, like Garthea (oh, wait…that’s my main character’s name), or Dremblem. Even if they hate the book, they’ll consistently open it up again just to remind themselves.
Believe me, they’ll be too distracted trying to think of it that they’ll be forced to. And no one wants to watch Inception thinking, “What the hell was the main character’s name in that crap-fest of a book? Damn it, that’s gonna drive me nuts. Wait – what did Leo just say?”
- Always open your story with a dream. Readers will think: Here’s an author willing to dive straight into the murky territory that is the unconscious. They’ll respect you for it. Trust me.
- Make sure that you explain every detail of the scenery, otherwise the reader will think you don’t care.
- Verbs are good. Adverbs are better. They show you’re willing to put in the extra effort.
- Keep your chapters short. The reader will feel a lot more accomplished having read 100 chapters, rather than a measly 13 by the time they’re finished.
- Always make sure that the title of your novel ends up being spoken or written in the narrative itself.
If your book title is I’m Going to Fall Down an Elevator Shaft, make sure Emma says, “I’m going to fall down an elevator shaft” before she does.
Can you say goosebumps? (In a hushed voice, your reader will say: “It’s like the author knew Emma was going to fall down the elevator shaft when she titled her novel!”).
Any other suggestions for the list? Comments welcome!
(You had to look that last word up, didn’t you? That’s why I linked to it, my friend. Thank me later.)
- Keep your paragraphs short. People will think the book moves faster that way.
- Always describe a character’s personality before they have any dialogue, that way the reader doesn’t have to work so hard through the rest of the novel.
- Always end your novel with a twist. You know they’re going to buy the next one just to see what happens, even if they don’t really care whether or not Emma survived her fall down the elevator shaft of the evil gnome’s office building.
- Give your characters names that are hard to remember, like Garthea (oh, wait…that’s my main character’s name), or Dremblem. Even if they hate the book, they’ll consistently open it up again just to remind themselves.
Believe me, they’ll be too distracted trying to think of it that they’ll be forced to. And no one wants to watch Inception thinking, “What the hell was the main character’s name in that crap-fest of a book? Damn it, that’s gonna drive me nuts. Wait – what did Leo just say?”
- Always open your story with a dream. Readers will think: Here’s an author willing to dive straight into the murky territory that is the unconscious. They’ll respect you for it. Trust me.
- Make sure that you explain every detail of the scenery, otherwise the reader will think you don’t care.
- Verbs are good. Adverbs are better. They show you’re willing to put in the extra effort.
- Keep your chapters short. The reader will feel a lot more accomplished having read 100 chapters, rather than a measly 13 by the time they’re finished.
- Always make sure that the title of your novel ends up being spoken or written in the narrative itself.
If your book title is I’m Going to Fall Down an Elevator Shaft, make sure Emma says, “I’m going to fall down an elevator shaft” before she does.
Can you say goosebumps? (In a hushed voice, your reader will say: “It’s like the author knew Emma was going to fall down the elevator shaft when she titled her novel!”).
Any other suggestions for the list? Comments welcome!
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