A short farewell

Upon finishing the first major edit of my manuscript, Inevitable, I’ve been taking a break from blogging. This break wasn’t intentional—just sort of happened. I’d become wrapped up in editing, or I expend my brain to the point where it was only in Inevitable mode. Unfortunately for my blog readers, this is still where my brain is. My mind is gripping the manuscript so much it’s difficult to read books without wandering to my own. So with my tunnel vision, I’ve opted out of blogging for a little while. When I feel Inevitable is finally done, I will come back to blogger and to all of you.

-ST

The stream of conscious blogger

I vacillated on what to blog about today. I thought I'd blog about the latest book I'm reading, which isn't "latest" at all, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. But I hadn't finished it yet, so then I made a list of books I've read recently (way too many considering I'm still not done editing my book) and thought I'd do mini reviews of each of them. Then I got to playing on the internet as I'm known to do, and ran across a thread about the VT school shooting.

So I said my piece known about that and caught myself repeating lines from F451 in my head. So I wrote this long thing about how he's right and it's amazing how clear his vision of the future was etc... etc... Then I copy and pasted it into my "Create Blog" box and stared at it. It didn't say everything I wanted to say about the book, hell I wasn't even done reading it yet. Was I doing the book justice by making commentary on it when I was only 1/3 of the way through. The fact that I felt lead to discuss when it wasn't even finished made my decision for me. I had to respect the book and author that affected my that much with only part of his book. So I closed the lid to my laptop and finished the damn book.

Here I sit, done with the book and a rash of thoughts swirling in my head. I'm looking over what I wrote from before and still agree with everything I wrote, but there's so much more I want to say. It's almost 5 pm my time and I'm feeling guilty for not blogging already and I haven't even attempted to look for a video yet and with my shoddy internet connection, that's going to take awhile.

My conclusion to this small dilemma I have today? I will not post my thoughts on F451 and Ray Bradbury's genius today. I have too much respect to lay down immortal internet words about his work when I don't have the time, nor presence of mind to do them justice.

Handling Self Doubt

Is thinking your work isn’t good self doubt? Or is it recognizing your failings and fixing them? Aka editing

I’ve been editing quite a bit lately, in fact I’ve done about 80 pages in the last few days. I went back to read chapter one of my book and it wasn’t flowing for me. That’s a problem… or is it? Am I being too hard on myself? Am I not in the reading mood? Are the problems I’m seeing really problems, or just me doubting myself?

There’s really no way to be sure when you are in a mood. So I’m forcing myself to sit back and take a break. Not from editing all together, but from looking back at chapter one. Knowing myself, it’s all too possible that I’m just in some mind funk where nothing is good enough. So I’m waiting it out until I’m in a better frame of mind.

So what to do when you are in the crazy brain place where you hate your work…

- First thing you do is come up with specific questions on what you think is wrong with the passage. If you aren’t being nutty about it, the questions will help you revise later.

- Take a break from the part you are disliking—move on to a different part

-Write something new, different than what you are editing or writing before, perhaps you are just bored

- If you are dead set on figuring this out right away (not advisable) go to one of our beta readers and ask them what they think, but be forewarned, you must have specific questions, not just “does this suck?” But more like, does this part flow well, does it match the rest of the story? Is it lacking excitement?

- When you are in a better frame of mind, compare the part in question with a part that you do like, what are the differences?

Just know that it is entirely possible that you are being neurotic about it. We’re writers after all and have characters speaking to us in our heads, being neurotic isn’t too far behind. BUT, it is also possible that you are simply observing your work with a neutral eye… not an easy task. So make your notes, come back when your head is on straight and realize you are a genius, either in waiting it out so you didn’t destroy your work, or having the awareness of self to look upon your work with a discerning, critical eye. Either way you win.

Mermaid part 2

Hands tied behind my back, he hefted me over his shoulder and dumped me in the back of, what I’m guessing is a van—the industrial kind that don’t have seats or windows in the back. I bounced against the hard metal floor, wondering if I’d bump into high tech listening equipment that seemed factory installed with this type of vehicle—at least according to movies, and I didn’t have much experience with dry land excepting motion pictures, both the making of and the watching.

“Watch it, you’ll bruise me.”

“I’ll do more than that by the time I’m done, as I’m sure you’ll remember.”

Unfortunately I did remember, and I could picture his sly smile as he said it. So smug.

“And what will my father say about that?” There, that ought to put the fear of God into him, no one messed with Poseidon or his children and got away with it.

“Ahh, but he sent me after you my lady. Got yourself into a bit of trouble up here on land it seems.”

He what! Oh that was just like something Papa would do, send this cretin after me when he knows our history. Possibly Daddy thought I’d come back easily if what’s his name over there came for me.

The ear splitting noise of the metal doors slamming against one another marked his exit. The roar of the engine was followed by a lot of jarring bumps and turns. Was he going off roading? Knowing him, he probably did this to rattle me. He was always doing this sort of thing back home—anything to get a rise out of me. One would think that with Akheilos as his father, he would’ve learned a bit more self restraint, but not my Strix, no he always had to make his own mistakes and I was still waiting for them to come back and bite him on the ass.

After a long time of grueling bouncing back and forth causing my breasts to ache like they were used for punching bags, Strix stopped the van. Dragging me out by one ankle and tossing me over his shoulder again, he carried me into a building. Dumped onto a soft surface, the bag was taken off my head.

“Triton will get you back for this. You know how protective of me he gets.”

“Ah yes, the infamous brother. Protective of you, Khary? He just tried calming you when you had your little hissy fits, which was often by the way, so you wouldn’t cause ships to crash. Triton likes his humans almost as much as he likes his calm seas and that damned horn of his. You were just a means to an end.”

Pursed lips, I refused to take Strix’s bait. Making me angry and frustrated was only going to make me puke again, and knowing him, he wouldn’t let me make it to a bathroom and force me to lay in the mess. After turning to my human form, I still had to puke the prescribed once a day, although controlling the tides had nothing to do with it, just force of habit I guess. I mean, what did my people expect? I grew up my whole life throwing up every morning, bulimia was the next most logical step when I took on my human form, so I fit in perfectly in Hollywood where bingeing and purging is the name of the game.

After much hmpfing and general fidgeting, Strix untied my arms and laid me back on the bed. His eyes turned the shiny onyx they always did before he… ah hem well maybe I should’ve kept still and not drawn attention to myself.

“You need to rest up, for I’ll be back to tire you out shortly.”

Dragging his eyes from my body, I felt every place they touched. Now hot from head to toe, it was going to be a bitch getting some sleep, and knowing him, I’d need it.

Slippery Slope

The past few days I’ve been quite busy. Not with writing, but preparing for writing, and no not even research. I’ve been rearranging furniture. I moved my bedroom outfit around (the bedroom doubles as my office) I cleared my old computer desk off and the newer one (the nice big one) and am swapping. I made room for it and bought a new bookcase, which is delightfully full of novels. Oh how I love looking at the books I own.

So then its all set up, organized, even partially decorated. Then I get onto to my writing and editing. That is when I take the step that is invariably leading me down a very slippery steep slope. Now that I have the room, I’ve started making notes to myself on sticky pads then sticking the notes to the wall. So far I’ve managed to have only three on the wall, but I feel the desire to place more, to vary the color depending upon the note. I feel the need to make maps and place them on the wall, to find pictures out of magazines for my locations and to print out my character pictures and push pin them to the wall as well.

In fact, I’m even looking forward to gazing at those items on my wall as much as I like looking at the books on my shelf. I anticipate feeling like a general of my own world. There I am, standing near my wall, dressed to the nines, with a long pointer indicating certain areas on the wall size map of the city my book is placed in. I point out the suspects and their most likely hiding place. I give the run down of what’s happened so far in the plot then look into my non existent audience to field questions. Except all that stares back at me is the bed I forgot to make when I woke up that morning. But nonetheless I am inspired by this daydream and now I’m off to search for maps on ebay.

Mermaid Short

The water was clear blue, just like every other day. Well today perhaps there was a slight greenish tint to it and that ladies and gentleman, is the extent of excitement in my life.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to have excitement. Hell, I even miss the days when people would constantly ask me how I went to the bathroom. I was kind of like “duh!” but when the lower half of your body is all scales and one big tail fin, I guess it’s okay for humans to wonder. Now when we got to the how do I have sex question, which invariably included a lecherous leer, that’s when my patience ran out. Oh there were a few times when the man asking the question was cute enough, and asked in such a way that I showed him, but those days are over. Now, I’m all washed up.

I have performance anxiety. It isn’t supposed to happen, ya know. I’m kind of like a werewolf who turns with the full moon. When the tide is high, I’m a mermaid, but for some reason I can’t turn anymore. So here I sit, on the rocks near the ocean longing to be somewhere I can’t. Everyday I make note of the color of the sea and what happened to me on days when the sea was that color.

I’m a has-been, never will be again. My body is still amazing by human standards, but people recognize my face and then I’m no longer a female with a hot body, but a mermaid with an ordinary set of legs.

I’d like to blame it on the Lubriderm commercial I was in. You know the one, an alligator walks around all slow like and a chick with a great pair of sticks rubs lotion all over them. Yeah well, take that commercial but combine the gator and the chick into one person, a scaly hot chick—that’s me. I’d be in a Mer form then rub lotion on my tail and viola, I’d be ordinary again, albeit with silky smooth, evenly tanned legs.

Pebbles cascaded down the rocky path and bounced their way by me to plummet into the crashing waves. Oh great, he was here again.

“I don’t want any, don’t have any, don’t need any.”

“That might matter if I gave a shit what you thought.”

Turning around, I saw a face I never wanted to see again for as long as I loved… er…lived. I caught a glimpse of his onyx black eyes and slicked back hair before he threw the burlap bag over my head.

In my prime no one would’ve kidnapped me with a potato sack. Silk, it definitely would’ve been silk. I thought I would at least warrant a poly-cotton blend—oh how the mighty have fallen.


In russian???

A writer on writing

Writing is easy isn't it? The hard part is coming up with the story, right?

Um... wrong. I have ideas coming out my ass, but not the time to write them all. No, the writing itself is the hard part. Just telling a story in person is easy, telling it well and with interest is more difficult... now writing down that story and making it interesting is something else all together.

When you tell a story in person, you have inflection in your voice, hand motions, facial expressions, you set the pacing. All of those things come naturally, but when you write a story down, you have to implement those into your work with interest. Just saying, Her voice was sing songy as she said "You'll never catch me" Isn't as interesting as it could be. You can't write *insert suspense* or *dramatic pause* Hell you can't even write *pause* the most you can do is put in a comma--ooh how interesting.

So then, how do you make it interesting? Hmm, beats me, you just do. Ha.

No, all of those things I've been listing throughout the past few months are what you can do to make your story interesting. Keep the action fast, show, not tell, watch how passive your tense is. Keep things written in the proper order unless you are obviously telling the story out of order and it all comes together in the end. But of course all these things only work if you have a good story to begin with.

All of these writing techniques are called the Craft, the writing craft. To quote Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Good Craft won't get you published, but lack of good craft will prevent it.

It takes more than a good story to make a good writer, but lucky for us, for the most part, craft can be taught. If the writer has a natural feel for how a story is supposed to be told, the rest is just gravy. If the writer doesn't have a natural feel for how a story is supposed to be told, they should read more books, watch more movies until they figure it out. If they can't? Well maybe they aren't writers.

Not that, as writers, we are some elitest group who don't accept all members. No, being a writer is just something you are or you aren't.

Born that way? Possibly.

The only way to determine if someone is a writer or not is the person themselves. No one can tell you, you aren't a writer. Only your self doubt can do that. If you feel the desire, no the need to tell a story, then you are either a storyteller (actor) a screen writer or a writer. You make that decision. But like any other talent/art, it takes practice.

Bellies so many

Tara ran her hand over her stomach. Hard, ripped, defined lines, everything a stomach should be.

Suzanne ran a hand over her belly, her pot, her bringer of life. Her belly was done, the timer had popped up and it was time to take it out.

Janis ran a hand over her stomach, her gut, her pooch. Soft, yielding, everything a stomach shouldn't be. But her daughter loves the feeling of safety it provides when someone she doesn't know tries to talk to her. It is a place to hide her face when she feels shy, it is her sanctuary.

Rose ran a hand over her stomach, troubled again. Would food ever sit well with her again or would the sickness take her long before that?

Nayla ran a hand over her distended stomach. Pushed out in starvation, it was misleading. Her insides were swollen from malnutrition, not from being overfed.

Angie ran a hand over her stomach, or the few rolls that made up a stomach. Would the faint red lines ever fade away? Would she ever find the time, the drive, to work her rolls away? Would she ever accept that this is how she looks and go out in public again? She'd love to see her daughter's play in person.

Kathryn ran a shaky hand over her stomach. Flat, but flappy. She'd lost too much weight, the doctors weren't going to like that, her children weren't going to like that. They'd try to make her eat again. More it's always one more, one more bite of jello, one more roll, one more chunk of chicken. One more appointment, just give us one more year with her.

Julia ran a hand over her belly and gave it one loud smack. Giggling, she showed her younger brother what she could do. He tried to do it too, but her bigger belly made the louder noise. The whole beach, her favorite place, could hear her belly smacks.