Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards
Holy freakin' cow, you guys. Spirit World made it to the semifinals!
Friday, April 23, 2010
Then and Now: Part 2
Okay, here's the revised version. It's still a long way from being finished, but I feel that it's at least a stronger opening. What are your thoughts?
Alsa had never seen a star. Or the moons. Terrneo had too many layers of smog to allow for such wonders. But as the transport shuttle broke through the planet’s atmosphere and into the inky blackness of space, the glowing bodies surrounded her.
Under normal circumstances she would have been thrilled, but that particular day, or night since the sun was nowhere to be seen, she couldn’t summon up the strength to be excited about anything.
She simply took a deep breath and sighed, letting her breath form a little cloud on the window. Then, using her pinky finger, she traced a stick figure tree into the cloud.
“Why am I here?” she whispered to herself. Of course, she knew the answer. But severing the past was rarely simple, especially when you hadn’t been given a choice.
Alsa had never seen a star. Or the moons. Terrneo had too many layers of smog to allow for such wonders. But as the transport shuttle broke through the planet’s atmosphere and into the inky blackness of space, the glowing bodies surrounded her.
Under normal circumstances she would have been thrilled, but that particular day, or night since the sun was nowhere to be seen, she couldn’t summon up the strength to be excited about anything.
She simply took a deep breath and sighed, letting her breath form a little cloud on the window. Then, using her pinky finger, she traced a stick figure tree into the cloud.
“Why am I here?” she whispered to herself. Of course, she knew the answer. But severing the past was rarely simple, especially when you hadn’t been given a choice.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Then and Now
Hi, guys. First off, thanks to those of you who sent their well wishes yesterday. I took Small Child to the doctor today, and she didn't seem to think it was a brown widow (which I know we have at our house) or a brown recluse spider bite. That was quite a relief to me since we have both of those here in Florida. She said it could be anything though, and gave me a topical antibiotic as well as an oral one with instructions to come back if it gets worse. Let's hope it doesn't.
That said, I really don't have the motivation to do the blog post I had planned, so I'm doing a sort of "Then and Now" on my own work.
About a year ago, I wrote my first manuscript. I was proud I had actually completed one, but when I finished my second, the first seemed, well, pitiful by comparison. But I really loved the world, so my third manuscript is a massive rewrite of that first one. Even the names are different. Following is the opening section of that first manuscript, titled Lunarbor Summer. Let's see how my writing has changed in a year.
I sat on the shuttle gazing out the window at about a gazillion stars. Sandwiched between the planet below me and the moon above, I had a view few people ever saw. With all of the smog down on the planet, the people were lucky to get a glimpse of any stars, let alone this tapestry of little sequins glued onto the night sky.
I took a deep breath and sighed, letting my breath form a little cloud on the window. With my pinky finger, I traced a tree into that cloud.
I had already been in flight for several hours. In that time I had read two books, taken a nap, and counted the number of floor lights…twice. Now with nothing left to do that truly interested me, I let my thoughts take me away. I reflected back to the night that served as a catalyst bringing me to this moment.
Okay, there's a setting, but not a very clear one. There's no hint of the plot, not a clue about the mc's character, and to tell the truth, I don't think you can tell how she feels right now. She seems happy to see the stars, but then she sighs like she's depressed. Hmm. On Friday, we'll see if the new draft has improved.
That said, I really don't have the motivation to do the blog post I had planned, so I'm doing a sort of "Then and Now" on my own work.
About a year ago, I wrote my first manuscript. I was proud I had actually completed one, but when I finished my second, the first seemed, well, pitiful by comparison. But I really loved the world, so my third manuscript is a massive rewrite of that first one. Even the names are different. Following is the opening section of that first manuscript, titled Lunarbor Summer. Let's see how my writing has changed in a year.
I sat on the shuttle gazing out the window at about a gazillion stars. Sandwiched between the planet below me and the moon above, I had a view few people ever saw. With all of the smog down on the planet, the people were lucky to get a glimpse of any stars, let alone this tapestry of little sequins glued onto the night sky.
I took a deep breath and sighed, letting my breath form a little cloud on the window. With my pinky finger, I traced a tree into that cloud.
I had already been in flight for several hours. In that time I had read two books, taken a nap, and counted the number of floor lights…twice. Now with nothing left to do that truly interested me, I let my thoughts take me away. I reflected back to the night that served as a catalyst bringing me to this moment.
Okay, there's a setting, but not a very clear one. There's no hint of the plot, not a clue about the mc's character, and to tell the truth, I don't think you can tell how she feels right now. She seems happy to see the stars, but then she sighs like she's depressed. Hmm. On Friday, we'll see if the new draft has improved.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Day Off. Resuming Life Tomorrow
Ordinarily, my blog schedule is as follows:
Mondays - Read/discover something wonderful about writing. Blog about it.
Thursdays - Post some of my own writing. Usually some experiment or character study.
Other days -Occasional random stuff
You may have noticed that today is Monday, and this blog post doesn't resemble anything related to writing. That is because I was up all night worried about my 1 yo who has nasty, unexplained bug bites on his head, and my sick husband. My brain is unresponsive.
Tomorrow, I will return with my planned blog post for today. Characters. Until then, sleep well.
Mondays - Read/discover something wonderful about writing. Blog about it.
Thursdays - Post some of my own writing. Usually some experiment or character study.
Other days -Occasional random stuff
You may have noticed that today is Monday, and this blog post doesn't resemble anything related to writing. That is because I was up all night worried about my 1 yo who has nasty, unexplained bug bites on his head, and my sick husband. My brain is unresponsive.
Tomorrow, I will return with my planned blog post for today. Characters. Until then, sleep well.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Frustration
I'm taking a break from my regularly scheduled programming today for a self-indulgent whine.
Why do I read reviews? I don't know. I guess I'm just a masochist at heart. It seems for every good review I get of Spirit World, I get something negative. I try to take criticism as constructive and use it to figure out what I could do to improve my writing. Today, I just want to vent, so please indulge me.
The latest review said some nice things, but mentioned my grammar as a weak point. Okay, I've gone over it with a fine tooth comb and have had several people in my writing group critique it for me as well. Aside from that, I am teacher and I know grammar. If there are errors in there, I assure you they are intentional.* The novel is written in first person, and thoughts as well as dialogue are not always grammatically correct. End rant.
Thanks for listening, and I will be back on Thursday with another short story. Also, I promise not to whine again at least until I get my review from Publisher's Weekly. After that, I can't make any promises. =)
*That said, if you have read it and found a missed comma or something, I am of course willing to listen.
Why do I read reviews? I don't know. I guess I'm just a masochist at heart. It seems for every good review I get of Spirit World, I get something negative. I try to take criticism as constructive and use it to figure out what I could do to improve my writing. Today, I just want to vent, so please indulge me.
The latest review said some nice things, but mentioned my grammar as a weak point. Okay, I've gone over it with a fine tooth comb and have had several people in my writing group critique it for me as well. Aside from that, I am teacher and I know grammar. If there are errors in there, I assure you they are intentional.* The novel is written in first person, and thoughts as well as dialogue are not always grammatically correct. End rant.
Thanks for listening, and I will be back on Thursday with another short story. Also, I promise not to whine again at least until I get my review from Publisher's Weekly. After that, I can't make any promises. =)
*That said, if you have read it and found a missed comma or something, I am of course willing to listen.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
First Chapter of Your Novel Part 4: Grounding
One of the problems writers often have in their first pages is allowing the MC to drift into his/her mind and dwell on problems, ideas, the weather, etc. without bringing us directly into a scene. We have no idea where the MC is or what he/she is doing. That's where grounding comes in...letting the reader know where they are in space instead of floating around inside the MC's head.
Instead of pulling examples from books, I decided to do something different. This week, I'll be experimenting with my own work to see how it turns out. This excerpt is from my next work in progress. Keep in mind, I have only just begun the character profiles. There is no outline or manuscript yet. The first page is just something I jotted down to keep it fresh in my mind until I had the chance to get to it.
Version #1
I remember the day I was born, the squishy way my head felt, the strange ladies poking and pricking me, the fuzzy outline around everything.
My mom says it’s just my imagination. She says, “If your memory is that good, Bea, why aren’t you doing better in school?”
I say, “Because my head is too full for school.”
She shakes her head and says, “I swear you’re going to end up a writer, just like my mother.”
I say, “I don’t want to be a writer. I want to fly airplanes.”
She says, “Then, you’d better get your grades up.” Because everything always comes back to school.
The truth is I remember a lot of things I’m not “supposed” to. I remember the tingles in my fingers and my heart when I fly a plane. Not the kind you take on vacation to Disney World. The kind like Amelia Earhart flew, with the tiny bodies and propellers. I remember getting married in a long white wedding dress with a high itchy collar. I remember escaping from a mansion with fat columns in front and scorching flames bursting from the windows. I remember living on a farm, and the smell of cows and hay that stuck in my clothes. All of those things float through my mind from the moment I flop out of bed til the moment I flop back in it.
I like them for the most part. I’m never bored, that’s for sure. But there is one memory I try not to ever think about, the one that only pops up when the nightmares come, and makes me shiver underneath my covers until the sunlight burns it away.
I remember being murdered.
Version #2 - essentially the same scene, but I added a location and tension.
I remember the day I was born, the squishy way my head felt, the strange ladies poking and pricking me, the fuzzy outline around everything.
So when my mom tried to tell me the story of my birth in her fifth “re-bonding” attempt of our road trip, I finally broke.
“I remember, okay?” I said, digging my ipod out of my backpack so I could drown her out. “Can we just not talk for a while?”
“Well,” she said with a pinched face while staring out the front window of our PT Cruiser. “If your memory is that good, why aren’t you doing better in school?”
I twisted sideways in the passenger seat, and leaned my forehead against the window. I should have known better than to say anything. She never believed me. “Because my head is too full for school.”
She sighed, the same way she had been sighing at me for the past two days, ever since the two of us had packed all of our belongings into the little Uhaul trailer, attached it to the back of our car, and drove away from Dad. “I swear you’re going to end up a writer, just like your father.”
I plugged my ear buds into my ears, hit shuffle, and tilted my head to the sky. “I don’t want to be a writer,” I said quietly. “I want to fly airplanes.”
“Then, you’d better get your grades up,” she said, because everything always came back to school.
The truth is I remember a lot of things I’m not “supposed” to. I remember the tingles in my fingers and my heart when I fly a plane. Not the kind you take on vacation to Disney World. The kind like Amelia Earhart flew, with the tiny bodies and propellers. I remember getting married in a long white wedding dress with a high itchy collar. I remember escaping from a mansion with fat columns in front and scorching flames bursting from the windows. I remember living on a farm, and the smell of cows and hay that stuck in my clothes. All of those things float through my mind from the moment I flop out of bed til the moment I flop back in it.
I like them for the most part. I’m never bored, that’s for sure. But there is one memory I try not to ever think about, the one that only pops up when the nightmares come, and makes me shiver underneath my covers until the sunlight burns it away.
I remember being murdered.
Let me know what you think.
Instead of pulling examples from books, I decided to do something different. This week, I'll be experimenting with my own work to see how it turns out. This excerpt is from my next work in progress. Keep in mind, I have only just begun the character profiles. There is no outline or manuscript yet. The first page is just something I jotted down to keep it fresh in my mind until I had the chance to get to it.
Version #1
I remember the day I was born, the squishy way my head felt, the strange ladies poking and pricking me, the fuzzy outline around everything.
My mom says it’s just my imagination. She says, “If your memory is that good, Bea, why aren’t you doing better in school?”
I say, “Because my head is too full for school.”
She shakes her head and says, “I swear you’re going to end up a writer, just like my mother.”
I say, “I don’t want to be a writer. I want to fly airplanes.”
She says, “Then, you’d better get your grades up.” Because everything always comes back to school.
The truth is I remember a lot of things I’m not “supposed” to. I remember the tingles in my fingers and my heart when I fly a plane. Not the kind you take on vacation to Disney World. The kind like Amelia Earhart flew, with the tiny bodies and propellers. I remember getting married in a long white wedding dress with a high itchy collar. I remember escaping from a mansion with fat columns in front and scorching flames bursting from the windows. I remember living on a farm, and the smell of cows and hay that stuck in my clothes. All of those things float through my mind from the moment I flop out of bed til the moment I flop back in it.
I like them for the most part. I’m never bored, that’s for sure. But there is one memory I try not to ever think about, the one that only pops up when the nightmares come, and makes me shiver underneath my covers until the sunlight burns it away.
I remember being murdered.
Version #2 - essentially the same scene, but I added a location and tension.
I remember the day I was born, the squishy way my head felt, the strange ladies poking and pricking me, the fuzzy outline around everything.
So when my mom tried to tell me the story of my birth in her fifth “re-bonding” attempt of our road trip, I finally broke.
“I remember, okay?” I said, digging my ipod out of my backpack so I could drown her out. “Can we just not talk for a while?”
“Well,” she said with a pinched face while staring out the front window of our PT Cruiser. “If your memory is that good, why aren’t you doing better in school?”
I twisted sideways in the passenger seat, and leaned my forehead against the window. I should have known better than to say anything. She never believed me. “Because my head is too full for school.”
She sighed, the same way she had been sighing at me for the past two days, ever since the two of us had packed all of our belongings into the little Uhaul trailer, attached it to the back of our car, and drove away from Dad. “I swear you’re going to end up a writer, just like your father.”
I plugged my ear buds into my ears, hit shuffle, and tilted my head to the sky. “I don’t want to be a writer,” I said quietly. “I want to fly airplanes.”
“Then, you’d better get your grades up,” she said, because everything always came back to school.
The truth is I remember a lot of things I’m not “supposed” to. I remember the tingles in my fingers and my heart when I fly a plane. Not the kind you take on vacation to Disney World. The kind like Amelia Earhart flew, with the tiny bodies and propellers. I remember getting married in a long white wedding dress with a high itchy collar. I remember escaping from a mansion with fat columns in front and scorching flames bursting from the windows. I remember living on a farm, and the smell of cows and hay that stuck in my clothes. All of those things float through my mind from the moment I flop out of bed til the moment I flop back in it.
I like them for the most part. I’m never bored, that’s for sure. But there is one memory I try not to ever think about, the one that only pops up when the nightmares come, and makes me shiver underneath my covers until the sunlight burns it away.
I remember being murdered.
Let me know what you think.
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