Believability

Just kidding on the bad excerpts thing. I didn't bring my old manuscript to work with me, so I think I will save that for tomorrow or the weekend. Not entirely sure...

So anyway.

I'm pretty good at dialogue between characters. In fact, I had that noted at least once in a creative writing class I took for my minor. In writing, it is the thing that comes most natural for me. That's the part that ends up the most believable, and that is helpful because dialogue reveals a lot about characters whose heads you can't get into.

My four characters have helped loads in making my story more believable. When a character is lifelike, it's easier to see their world as real.

I started thinking of this the other day when my brother was watching the Lord of the Rings movies. I seriously have seen the first one no less than twelve times.

Personally, I blame the work that went into the making of the movies.

Those three films weren't slapped together hastily in front of a green screen. The filmmakers took their time to make Middle-Earth as real as it could possibly be. Tolkien did them a favor when he made up an insane history for Middle-Earth.

I had never thought about that before my brother said it.

And I realized it applies very heavily to writing.

I wonder if I lost that for a little bit. Did I believe my story? Am I trying to copy anything? I mean, the book has in no way lost its roots. I worry a little that I tried to put too much grittiness in it and lost...something. I've sometimes described the story as "this, plus this, with a little of that."

I tried to make it too small. Problem is, we live in a very big universe.

I believe my stories now. I believe the world in which they're set.

That doesn't mean the story's perfect yet. But it's really close to being good enough for me.

I think now I've recaptured what I lost, the honesty of wonder.

Panic!

I really really really really cannot stand the thought of not being able to move my elbows. The thought of being stuck in a pipe or something, or somehow having my arms pinned, makes me mentally panic.

Now do understand that this is more than just discomfort. The first two minutes on an elliptical are a little uncomfortable, at least until I'm good and warmed up. I can't sleep at night if I'm too hot. I probably will never again make the mistake of ordering a bubble tea with whole milk.

But if I were caught with my elbows pinned to my sides and unable to move, I'd probably just start screaming. Even when I don't feel like doing much at all, my body still craves the option of moving.

There's only one other feeling in the world like it.

That feeling is always when I'm trying to work on my book. Recently, I've spent more energy blogging than actually working on my novel, and it does frustrate me. Being a little unsure of where to go next always feels a little untidy, but that's okay. I usually whip out my teeny little notebook for those moments, or run ideas by my fiance. It's a method of talking things out, and it usually really helps a ton.

I'm talking about those moments when my job is a little quiet and I have a moment I could use to focus. I sit in front of my screen and re-read the scene I just wrote. Then I place the cursor where I want to begin...

And usually that's when something makes noise. For no reason. Or my favorite times, when little kids scream. In short bursts.

Over and over again.

That's when I panic, because the noises don't stop. Door alarms sound, or UPS delivers something, or the phone rings and rings and rings, sometimes three callers at once. And I can't figure out, in earnest, where to go after getting five seconds to my mental self, and I start to hate the scene and I remember it being so much better when I wrote it down in the notebook five days ago, because I was listening to music I like and was therefore able to provide myself with a mental sanctuary. Then I sort of start to hate this character that's just visually there but said a whole lot more and her brother's important, and I like him but without her, there's no connection. And then I think "Oh crap, this character might be ripped off of Simon Tam" even though he's really honestly not. And then I wonder if I should just get rid of this character because she's been around since literally 2002, only back then she was twelve inches tall and now she's all emo, but I really love the attitude there. Oh my word, I could transfer that to another character and make her awesome, but the brother thing is a problem but I really really love that character and oh hey, they could have muskets and tricorner hats or maybe I can just say True Grit plus Lord of the Rings plus Twilight plus The Hunger Games plus the 1980s and nukes! OMG GUYS GUNS ARE COOL.

Not that any of this discussion actually occurs in words.

My brain doesn't have the attention span for words.

Well, now I feel better.

Thanks!

Silly Library, Books are for Kids

I've mentioned before how much I looked forward to the Bookmobile making its appearance on my street when I was a kid, and how much I loved reading.

We moved the summer after third grade, to a neighborhood sort of across town, where the Bookmobile didn't go. I started fourth grade, made new friends, and got both a computer and a puppy. The library sort of took a seat on the backburner, and I made use of the one at my Christian school, or just went to B. Dalton in the mall. When I was in seventh grade, Books-A-Million came to the Wal-mart shopping center, and suddenly, between it and B. Dalton, a wealth of books and magazines was suddenly available.

I literally did not visit the library again until I was in 10th grade.

Not joking. What books I wanted, I saved for and bought, or asked for them for my birthday or Christmas.

That year Clive Barker released his YA novel Abarat. I saw an ad for the book in a kids' magazine and thought "hey, that looks pretty cool." By this time, I'd of course devoured all of the Chronicles of Narnia, buffet style, and discovered The Lord of the Rings. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland was a huge favorite of mine, as was A Wrinkle in Time, and I wanted more adventure. More worlds to step into. So Abarat looked pretty cool.

It was also pretty expensive at BAM. What money I had, I didn't want to spend. So I decided, after seven years, to get a library card for the Wilson County Public Library.

I felt rich there, standing in the YA section. I remember (because I'm a freak who remembers stuff like this, don't judge) borrowing Wolf Tower by Tanith Lee and Many Waters, by Madeleine L'Engle. They didn't even have a copy of Abarat, but I still couldn't wait to check out more.

Problem was, a lot of YA books back then weren't all that interesting, especially the ones they had at the Wilson County Library. Usually they were "poignant, coming of age stories" written circa 1982. If there was any fantasy at all, it was all mythological Wales type of stuff, and a lot of the time they'd have the second book in a series, without having the first. I eventually did buy Abarat. As I got older, books became less of a cool thing for me. I wasn't at all interested in things like Pride and Prejudice; I wanted something more along the lines of my favorites. The bookstore wasn't much help either, though I'd known that. B. Dalton had closed a few years before, and BAM either didn't stock things as much or just plain sold out. I was restless and not content with basically having very little to read that I liked. The library didn't have anything because they purchased from BAM, and the local store didn't have all that much either.

But my mind had entertainment. It craved a story so much that it wrote one.

See, we had to read some story in English class that was sort of like the poor man's version of the story of Icarus. Only this tale read like a bad driver's ed film, because the kid's dad was Apollo, and he totally borrowed and wrecked the car. Or something. At any rate, my teacher decided we needed to write our own myth, preferably with a happier ending and that didn't graphically detail what happens to a body in an auto collision. I wrote some dumb little page-long thing where this chick found a clearing in the woods that was magical and turned blue when she walked into it. There's more details, all of which I remember, but they're dumb. Sorry. 

I turned it in and got it back, and promptly shoved it into my backpack, whereupon it was immediately stained with banana.*

I didn't forget about it, though. There was more to this story, so I wrote out another copy for myself to continue later. I went to my Gramma's that weekend and started working.

I confess, I have no idea what we did in my 6th period class for the rest of the freaking year, because I wrote the whole time. Like really. I think it was World Geography, but I know I didn't pay attention because I still suck at geography.**

I figured I was freaking brilliant by writing a novel at the age of 15. I finished it and began the process of rewriting, changing and taking out and putting in and having a ball. Then I got the idea for the sequel, then another idea for the third book. The second one was finished by the next winter, shortly after my library adventures began.

I never finished the third one, and here and there I'd work on it between high school and finishing college.

It's funny when you re-find things you hadn't touched in a while.

That book sucked.

Like, it was really bad. Childish and confusing and often times, downright dumb. I threw in plot devices like they were candy at a parade, and often characters existed just to remind the main character that she was special. Yeah, I was one of those writers. I wanted to make it as fantastical as possible, but keep it down to earth and for some reason, partially set in West Virginia (which at the time, I had never been to.)*** There was a gap somewhere in there, where I grew up and started writing a little better. Characters were more complex, there were more secrets, and the dog no longer talked. Dogs, by the way, were the only creatures that could talk in the story. I had two dogs at the time, so I blame that.

And yet, still, even after all my emo-ness and stuff, it still wasn't ready. Like at all.

Like it read like a horrible fan-fiction that wasn't even clear what exactly the author was a fan of.

Lo and behold, college! It was great, and it was awful and I had a lot of friends and did a lot shopping and hanging out and basically not ever working on my book.

But it simmered back there, on the back burner. All the bad stuff cooked off, and spices were added, and my story became mental comfort food. I like where it is now. Heck, I love where it is now. Granted, it is like a fickle lover, sometimes frustrating and many times amazing. Yes, the bare bones are there. Teenagers, quest, weapons. Like the human skeleton, this formula is literally everywhere in YA fiction, whether you know it or not. It's extremely basic. Now I have on my side a weird obesession with the Cold War, lots more attitude, many movies without hobbits, and a temper upon which I blame genetics.****

But that's all I'll say about that.

Because I think it's time to pretend I had a few too many and do the writer's version of dancing on a table at a wedding and launching my stilettos across the room.

I'm going to put some annotated excerpts from the previous work on this blog. Many of the notes may just contain exclamations of shame or LOLs because it's seriously bad, but funny bad. Seriously funny bad.

So prepare to enjoy.

Or just stare awkwardly. Your choice.







*I still have the sheet of notebook paper, and it still has banana on it. It's a beautiful sort of gross.
**Seriously, as far as I know, every state that isn't Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Missouri, or West Virginia floats around in this weird archipelago. Of freedom.
***I did go in 2005, on a senior ski trip with my class. And I have the shoulder pain and loss of motion to prove it!
****Yeah, if you think the Hatfields and McCoys were bad, you shoulda seen my family and the neighboring family where they lived, back before 1950. Apparently, an uncle of mine busted home one day and asked his mama (my great-grandmother) where the gun was, because he was gon' kill him somebody. She was all "heck to the naw" and I don't think anything came of that. Also, my Granny once frightened a school principal into actually punishing other students that jumped both my dad and my aunt. I am so proud of both of these events, you don't even know.

So Far...

If you found your way here via a link from another site, then it is entirely possible that you already know about Weirdly Awesome NC, a really cool blog that's just recently started up. I only wish it had existed when I was about eleven years old, 'cause seriously yall, I would have eaten all that stuff up. I'm promoting it here today because the writer has been so kind as to link to my site from hers, specifically to my pictures of the whirligigs. Follow Weirdly Awesome NC on Twitter @WeirdAwesomeNC.

So I've been pretty busy lately. About a month after we lost Minnie, I adopted a new puppy, by the name of Pippa. She's a handful, and so full of energy, but it actually makes me glad I don't have to change diapers or deal with little hands grabbing for stuff. But I do like to believe that a puppy is practice for parenthood. I believe this because I remember my own childhood, and my brother's. One single instance involved a bottle of baby powder and making it "snow" in one of our bedrooms. Hint: it wasn't me declaring an indoor snowday.

I've also been pretty hard at work on my book, and I'm experimenting with digital publishing first. Horror Vacui is my first attempt at such. Marketing is really what worries me, once I get everything finished and ready to go. I hear tales of authors spending in the thousands for marketing. I'm gonna see what I can do with Twitter and things. I do like having this desk job, because it helps me get things done when there's downtime at work. The book's come a long way since I was fifteen years old and the text was based heavily on The Chronicles of Narnia, The Lord of the Rings, and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I know looking back that it wouldn't have ever been ready to publish then. Not even three years later. It needed a ten-year slow cook for every influence in my life to add flavor. I avoid directly taking things. Elves for instance. I have no elves in my story. I don't want them there, frankly.

I'd rather have guns. I've found myself wondering if my story can be truly considered fantasy. There are no fairy godmothers or prophecies from elven seers in times past, but there's also little to no modern technology after a certain point. Broadswords and bows are few. Discussing this with my fiance was a little inconclusive. I didn't grow up reading the numerous mediocre clones of J.R.R. Tolkien. His epic work was the only one of its type I've enjoyed. There are other books with swords and bows and arrows that I couldn't finish. If it can't be called a fantasy novel, then what?

I can't figure it out, that's for sure. Everything I write is in some way flavored by my entire life, not just the books I've read in the past three, five, or ten years. I did not destroy the book's original foundation. I just changed what was built on it.

Unlike many of my friends, I grew up reading Goosebumps and The Babysitter's Club. (Many friends of mine went to college with me, and more often than not, adult students of Bob Jones University had more sheltered childhoods. I like to imagine that many of my fellow students at BJU had stay-at-home moms. My mom chose to work so that my brother and I could attend a private Christian school. I have been judged and probably pitied for it, but I've never felt anything but grateful.) I read many YA books, including ones that the pseudo-intellectuals of my generation now deny they ever read. Yeah, I read shallow, vapid books. Recently, I enjoyed Twilight. Twice. I watch TV as well as lots and lots of movies. Zombieland was kinda gross but pretty funny. Legally Blond was hilarious and I still enjoy it. My brother, when he was young, kept the movie Back to the Future on loop, just about. I've seen the original Star Wars more times than I can count, and I really get a kick out of Dumb & Dumber.

Mash all of this together, and all of it, along with my personality, temperament, beliefs, and personal convictions are what make me. It will very naturally bleed into the things I create.

I refuse to label myself. Why limit my work?

Horror Vacui: Short Story Collection I Wrote

And here I present a short story collection that I've written. Most of it was practice, from dialog rolling around in my head. It's more character centric, though it is sci-fi. I suppose you could say it's about interactions that fill the empty spaces.

The picture is a link, but if you have some trouble with it, click here to get to the book. It's only 99 cents on Kindle, and the Kindle app is free to download. I hope you enjoy it.

The Shop and the Book

So it's the week before Thanksgiving, and I've heard about a little something called Small Business Saturday. Apparently, it's the day after Black Friday, and I do suppose Etsy shops count. So here's a shameless plug for mine.

The shop recently underwent a name change and a bit of a makeover. So, I present to you a few snapshots from Edna's Discount Space Freight.

This is one of my favorite pairs of earrings that I made. Check out the geek-tastic description underneath.

Another similar pair, but with a bit of a different color scheme.

A knit wire bracelet that I'm working on having some optional charms for, but it's beautiful alone.

This necklace has been in my shop for a while, and I'd like to find someone to enjoy it.

I loved putting these earrings together and watching the way the different pearls play off each other.

And through Sunday, this week only, enter the coupon code SPACEGIVING at checkout to receive 30% off your purchase! And I'd be flattered if you'd follow me on Twitter and like the shop's Facebook page.

Also, I'd like to announce the title of my novel. I don't have a definite release date yet, but I will very soon. It's called Trenavell, and while it is technically a YA novel, I think it will appeal to people outside the range. I hope, anyway. I've joked that it's a mix of Red Dawn and Twilight (without communism and vampires), with a dash of colonial America thrown into a nightmare version of Narnia. So if you liked The Hunger Games, this book may be for you. Keep a lookout, 'cause I plan to have it available on Kindle, in paperback, and in hardcover.

Edward Cullen, Man-Child

Upon a mental analysis of the Twilight novels, it has become apparent to me that Edward Cullen, one of the male leads, is an 80 year old man-child.*

I have a few facts to back up this observation.

1. Edward has no job, only hobbies. He spends most of his time playing piano and hunting. Now, true, his adopted father is a doctor, which in any family is a well-paying occupation that sometimes does allow one's offspring to live a life of comparable leisure. But, uh, Ed? You still don't have a job 'cause your dad's rich. That's just as bad.

2. If the book and the movie are to be believed, at the time of his marriage to Bella, Edward has lived an honorable life and kept his virtue intact. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but it does make him the 80 year old virgin. Steve Carell will be playing him in the sequel to Breaking Dawn, which I understand has a working title of The Cullens Take Manhattan.

3. Edward stares. And I don't mean that he stares at Bella while's she's sleeping. (The horse is dead. Put the whip down, step away, and go on with your life.) I mean he stares at people in general. Now, he is a vampire, but you sorta get the feeling that he did this as a human. Since he was 17 at the time of his transformation, this plants Edward firmly in the realm of awkward guy. If he had lived to head over to Europe with the rest of the dough-boys (because his "death" was during the first World War, and from Spanish flu), he probably would have been "that guy."

4. He demands to be taken seriously, at all times. No joking. It's mean. Stop it now. (Sorta like how little kids react when you laugh at their indignation.)

One consolation is that, given his love of hunting things that involve blood, he'd probably be fun to play Halo with. Or maybe Left 4 Dead.**




*This is not a Twi-hate post, and if you don't get in touch with the real world and realize that the Twilight series is not going to result in severe damage to the world as we know it, then I'll have to accuse you of being a secret fan.

**Hurr hurr. Get it?

Rare Sunday Post!

So yeah, it's Sunday. I don't often have time on the weekends to post, usually because I end up chillin' in our living room, looking in the general direction of the television and snarking about whatever the heck I feel like. But I feel a little inspired. I think.

And really, I'm thinking it to myself "Okay, Amanda, it's Sunday. You're not working today. You've got a novel to finish, maybe some other posts to do ahead of time because of your weird work schedule and superhero-compromised attention span. How about some productive stuff, okay?"

And I'm all "NO I MUST BE AWESOME TODAY."

Really, I don't know where it comes from. My body works backwards or something. Friday night, I got 8 hours of sleep. I usually average about 6-7, and function. Heck, I functioned through most of college on 5 hours of sleep a night. But 8 hours should make me feel like...okay, I'm out of analogies since I don't know many un-stupid female Marvel characters and most DC characters bother me. Bottom line is, I should feel ready to run a freaking marathon, but all I felt Saturday was sorta tired. Like "oh, that 8 hours...that was nice. Let's do that again." If I get a normal amount of sleep, I have this weird hangoverish feeling (and I don't drink, so...yeah) and I just end up sleeping more. So basically I've wired my body to actually run better on less sleep.

Case in point. I had to open last weekend. I work at a museum, and my only full days are Fridays and every other Saturday. I have to leave my house about 8:20 to get downtown. I usually get up at 7:15 to give myself enough time. So last Thursday night, I was winding down, about to prepare for bed, when my brother, innocently enough, said "Let's watch Ironman 2."

I had not seen this movie yet, and I wanted to, but I had to get up early. So my brain took half a second to be all "Eh, I better no-YES WE WILL WATCH IRONMAN 2."

I rolled into bed at 2 AM and got up at 7 ish.

Now most people would feel sorta gross and just not good after 5 hours of sleep. Me? All I could think of was seeing how high in the air I would be if I stood on the lobby desk at work to clean off the mysterious smudge 12 feet up. Actually, the smudge was a bonus, I just wanted to feel really tall. Then the thought entered my brain that "I wonder what would happen if I jumped off the counter onto the floor." This continued for quite some time.*

Last night, I got to bed sometime after three and got up at like 9:35 to get ready for church. I don't want a nap. I want to be awesome. I should be writing away, but I am far too ADD to not want to be doing something like knitting upside down above lava. And this is how I normally am, mentally anyway, because most nights I go on Cracked.com and get into the "open seven tabs at once" trap.

When I'm in a really really really really really really really good mood, and I'm feeling all "OMG I WOULD BE AMAZING CREW MEMBER ON A SPACE FREIGHTER" then I don't get much done. Seriously, when I'm feeling that awesome, I have weird daydreams. The apocalypse version of me is an engineer that fixes stuff UPSIDE DOWN and saves the day.

And then I usually end up tripping up the stairs.




*Pesky customers never let me get time to do it. Dang.

Writing Like You Speak...or Not?

"All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all. I just keep it almost naked. And probably the words are so bland." - Jimi Hendrix

One of the challenges in writing fiction, whether or not you decide to make your setting a MAJOR THING in the story, is making your readers feel at home. I've already gone over your personal writing style and making your readers feel at home. Today, I'll get into something that can be more of a technical aspect. I use that term very loosely, because this part of writing fiction (or even non-fiction) is not much dependent on mechanics. You can't memorize a method for it or figure out how to do it from a textbook. It must simply be mastered. Want to know what this all-important thing is?

Writing like you speak.

Not so hard, right? I mean, it seems pretty easy. Just write stuff like you and everyone you know says stuff. Easy stuff. Slang, here you come. Colloquialisms abound. Awesome.

Or not.

Here's why. Ever read a transcript?

Yeah. Writing a sentence exactly how someone says it, every time, is as bad as trying to make your random hilarious true story into a scene in a novel. No one is going to believe it. Case in point: any time anyone tries to give characters a "Southern accent." I have read the word "gwine" too many times in my life. I still don't know how you're supposed to pronounce it. (Like swine, maybe? I'm really not sure.) I know it means "going" and is supposed to be Southern (or just Old Person Southern), but it gets on my nerves. A lot. It's a really bad way to have a character (old or young) talk because it's a good indicator that a) you don't know what you're doing and b) you've never been out the house or flipped on the TV. Same goes if you insert some New York or Boston or California slang stereotypes and try to phonetically indicate how people in a certain place speak. Unless you are making a movie and are the Coen brothers, it will not work.

So your real challenge is to make your writing, prose or dialogue, seem as though it is actually someone speaking. Nicholas Sparks is pretty good at this. Honestly, though I am from North Carolina, I wouldn't speak like he writes, but somehow the guy manages to convey a conversational tone without it actually being anything from a conversation.

So how can you do the same? Well...practice. Read books that feature that local flavor feel. And practice some more. Bounce your ideas off willing friends. The method and time are different for everyone, and it may take some work before you find that conversational groove for your fiction. But once you do, it will be all worth it.

We're Doin' It Right (or just...you know...funner.)

My senior year of college was one where many a great thing was accomplished, such as my car actually making it to Greenville, South Carolina. And speaking of college.

Bob Jones University is a very interesting school. It's a fundamentalist (for all purposes very conservatively dressed Baptist) university with lots of rules and regulations and the occasional interesting happening, like Artist Series (which isn't the name anymore but whatever. Look it up.) During Artist Series, if the university doesn't put on an opera or a play (I saw a lot of Shakespeare...), they invite performers from outside the university to come and put on a show.
Since this post is partly about my senior year, I'll narrow in and focus on the two outside performers that I happened to see those two semesters: the Dallas Brass and the King's Singers.

I'm not crazy about brass music or choral music, at least not initially. I am not one to just sit and listen to classical music or barbershop quartets. That said, I was most unenthusiastic about seeing these dudes from Dallas who I thought had picked the most uncool instrument group (myself being a violinist). I looked forward to an evening of sheer boredom. But you know what? They came and they put on a show. They weren't just performers; they were showmen. They had fun and played some good stuff. Ever heard of Gabriel's Oboe? Look it up. It's from a movie called The Mission (which I have not seen) and shoot, I'm gonna use it in place of Wagner's Wedding March thing at my wedding. They played that. They brought brass music to life in a way that no one in or outside of Bob Jones University (brass heavy as they are) ever did. I laughed, I enjoyed music and the show that went along with it.

It being Bob Jones University, a true show just isn't enough. It has to be exotic. Which I think might be the reason for everyone at the school getting all excited and junk about The King's Singers, a group of men who, well, sing and were apparently god-like simply because they were British. So I was all "Eh, they might not be so bad, I'll give 'em a chance. Probably will be cool." After all, I am fairly certain that some of my fellow students would have gladly sold their first-born child for lunch and a private performance with these guys. They must be good, right?

Eh.

Yeah, they were good. Heck, they were very good. They had a high level of skill and didn't slip once on the notes or the timing or the pitch...Yeah, that's how exciting it was. They stood on stage and sang American folk songs and old spirituals and one thing I actually liked that was about South Africa and Dutch people. Or something. They stood. And sang.

That's about it.

All this to back up my oh so humble opinion...

Here we go, it'll blow yalls minds...

America is not Britain.

BaGOOSH. Am I right?

This is not an anti-Britain rant. Heck, I love Britain. My favorite show right now is Doctor Who* and could you even imagine an American version of Harry Potter?

Harry Potter and the Jersey Devil?

Naw, I'm good with Britain. I think our version of Top Gear is way better. I've been disagreed with, of course. But the British Top Gear? Yeah, old dudes driving. American? They drive and break stuff. Aw yeah.**

Somehow, somewhere, sometime, there was a mass movement of denying who you are and of graciously (ahem) informing others of how wrong they were. Possibly that's why we have hipsters. Liking tea doesn't make you globally minded or more polite or more intelligent. Please understand me, I like tea. It's great. It's delicious. What I don't like are the pretentious little tea shops here in the States that pretend they can steep low-quality paper-bagged tea better than I can.*** Maybe, instead of bragging of our love of tea and all the bands "no one's ever heard of" (even though they probably have), we could just chill. Like tea and like coffee. But just stop pretending.

Maybe we could finally realize that we gained independence from Britain years ago, like it that way ('cause they probably do too), and realize the potential of learning from something instead of trying to be it.

'Cause writers, if you try to be Jane Austen or Charles Dickens and try to squeeze their genius into your stuff and create a disastrous mash-up of the two with a 21st century half-reasoned message about "society and stuff" that cannot and will never belong in that world, your readers will spot it a mile away. But you go ahead and do what you want and write what you want. So guess what? You're not them, so prepare for your baby to be slid back on the shelf and given a remainder mark sometime in the very near future.

More on that tomorrow.

*Did not River Song's identity raise more questions than it answered? And how 'bout that beginning for a season? American conspiracy theory folklore as a plot? Brilliant. Really. Great stuff. I did not see that coming. The Silence are pretty much They, Them, and the Men in Black. Love it.

**Don't even play; you know it's fun.

***It's true. The lowest quality leaves end up in bags. It is easier, and I found that Lipton Spiced Chai was really good to my sore throat yesterday. It's also great iced.

Drapes and Other Trials of Patience

So it's officially summer here in the South. Officially. Most days it's been in the 90s anyway, so we're all practiced for summer. Or warmed up, I should say.* To keep the costs of utilities down, I had to put up drapes in my room, because my corner of the house takes the brunt of the sun every day, mostly in the morning between 9 and 11. (You can actually feel the temperature rise. It's a little scary.) We bought them one at a time, just to see if they work before committing. I had help with the first window the evening we bought it. It worked well, so we got another one, and it stayed on the floor until today, when I decided to put it up.

So apparently, the window frame is made of steel-infused oak. I really think it's just a special kind of tree that the builders grow using secret knowledge. After eventually getting the brackets mounted, I put up the drape, and my room is cooler and a little darker. I really think that marriage counseling should include the couple trying to put up a pair of drapes in an un-air-conditioned room, just to see how fun it gets (and mind you, I put this one up myself.)

Moving on to the books. I'm making huge progress through the first book, but sometimes key characters just don't know when to be quiet. Okay, really, it's just me. I think I'm feeling like I need to explain stuff or provide this huge convoluted catalyst for certain actions. Eventually I get frustrated, make it simple, and then have the information dump marked for movement to another place, occurring later in the narrative, where it fits better.

I try my own patience sometimes. But working through it is really the only remedy. Are you having the same problem? Keep writing, and a better option will present itself, I promise.

So starting tomorrow, I'll be posting some snatches from the original copy of what I'm working on. It's delightfully atrocious. Stay tuned!

*I'm terrible, I know, but I really couldn't resist.

Never Enough

Dang, that's one emo post title...Sorry about that.

Anyway, it has a point, I swear, so just hold on tight and we'll get there.

Some my readers may already know that I am engaged to an amazing, wonderful man. I'm not being sentimental or gushy because we're engaged; I've known him for 4.5 years and we've been a couple for just under that time. He is really a great guy who is both loving and willing to put up with a lot. That and he's been mistaken for Prince William (who is not as good looking as my man. Sorry Kate.)

Okay, so I'm engaged. Ever since a) some good friends of ours got engaged and b) I went to Disney World at Christmas time, I've pretty much been planning my wedding, mostly for fun. I've had a hundred different ideas for food, venues, my dress, my friends' dresses, whether my dog should walk down the aisle with me, and other such things. Now that I'm seriously planning a wedding for approximately a year from now, I'm getting serious about the little details such as food and locations. What I do know: I'm getting married to an amazing man, the cake will be chocolate, and Chick-fil-a food trays are great for any party. I'm happy to get married at my church, or a church in town, and I have picked three options in my hometown for the reception venue. But for a while there I caught it.

Yes, the wedding bug. No, this is no cutesy animal that makes you excited about centerpieces and favors and such. This particular species of wedding bug injects an otherwise safe neurotoxin that leads women to think things such as "I must get married at Cinderella's castle" (that was me y'all...totally was gonna rent the coach and everything) and "$9,000 isn't that outrageous for a gown...." Suddenly, it becomes necessary to have live circus acrobats at the reception (gee thanks, David Tutera) and fine caviar for every guest, just as a wedding favor. The wedding must culminate in an all-night blowout lasting until two in the morning. $70,000 is a potential price, though $100,000 weddings for normal, non-famous people, are not unheard of. Inviting everyone in your zip code, whether you know them or not, or like them or not, is the thing to do.

Suddenly, a simple dress with a simple church wedding, where just your family and friends are there and where you dance and eat delicious cake is not enough. It seems painfully inadequate to have a simple, old-fashioned wedding with good food and great music and just plain fun. Wedding magazines inform you that the sub tray at your reception is cheap instead of nice. You feel shamed into spending far too much to impress people who a) already know you or b) don't really know you well at all.

Yeah, for a while I bought into this. I was going to have a reception at an outrageously expensive location, the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences in Raleigh (great place, though. Gorgeous.) The ceremony, in order to cut down on traveling time so that people would come to the reception, would be held at the All Saints Chapel, a block away from the museum. The total would have come to $3,000, only for the venue. Not terrible, but then you have to use the approved caterers, and they're expensive, because they're good. And let's just be honest, photographers charge way too much for a service in which they keep the pictures and all rights to said pictures.

Recently, I've decided that I don't want all that extra stuff. I just want to get married. I want it to be special and elegant, not over the top and stupidly elaborate. Namely, I want to be able to pay cash for it. It's mine and my fiance's wedding, not anyone else's.

You'll run into the exact same thing with your writing, but usually it's not even as intentional as it is with weddings. Most writers inflict that feeling of inadequate awesomeness on themselves.

It starts this way. You pick up a good novel and start reading. Maybe it can even be a guilty pleasure book with good elements (Twilight, for example, has some solid dialogue between various characters. It flows naturally, and I appreciate that in any book. Harry Potter and Elantris both also are forefront in my mind and have examples of natural flowing dialogue.) You're going to see something you like in a book that you feel you lack in your own fiction. Rules of magic, cool dialogue, an air of suspense, or a fantastical setting are only a few examples. So you start tweaking what you don't like, only you tweak it according to someone else's work. This is not plagiarizing by any means. You just tend to lose your unique voice by trying to live up to whatever author you've picked. Eventually, your book becomes unwieldy and brimming with main characters who suddenly develop a natural ability with swords, or the always popular nation of Pseudo-Germa-France. Chosen Ones who aren't chosen by anyone in particular drop in from nowhere, or from a tiny village, or from a sketchy intergalactic neighborhood, and dangit, I've never seen an ugly elf. (Someone please invent one. Please.) Eventually, your book becomes little more than a copy of something else. A real life example? Eragon, by Christopher Paolini. It's been criticized as being very much like Star Wars, and as much as I like the series, I agree. Turn the elf forest from the second book into a swamp, and you've got Dagobah with a taller mentor and metal swords. There were enough differences to keep my attention, and I do enjoy the books. The fourth one, called Inheritance (really? Inheritance: Inheritance?) debuts November 8th. I'll be buying it, because Paolini's writing has matured with him, and that's nice to read. But for anyone who's seen Star Wars, the first book generates a voice in the back of your mind going "THIS IS STAR WARS FOR THE DARK AGES." It means that somewhere, the author's voice was drowned out just a tad. Letting that happen too much will hand you the big fat stamp of "RIPOFF." (I'm not yelling at you, I swear. But can't you just picture that word, stamped in big red letters on a book cover?)

So while I'm seeing that the other girl over there has a full orchestra booked for her ceremony and serves gold-leafed cake on china plates, I have to remind myself that I don't really care. It may be beautiful, and wonderfully done, but it's hers and her fiance's wedding. So-and-so may have an amazingly detailed world where the sky is green and purple and fairies fart magic and it may be awesome...but it's not mine. I'm happy with two teenagers, best friends, discovering something they'd never suspect and dealing with all the changes that come.

I've said it many times before: be you. Find your voice and project it in your own work, and you won't be disappointed.

And if anyone's wondering, my wedding favors will be homemade chocolate chip cookies, because the ones I make are awesome. Just saying.

Ah, Self-Righteousness, the Spice of Life

This blog's mostly about fiction and various forms of it, such as writing. Y'all knew that already, so I'll move on.

Writers always get stuck with a version of typecasting. We're always the quiet ones who don't want others to read our stuff and fiercely guard it with our lives and hide journals under stuff. Sometimes, we're also in pain and we write to make life better or something, usually with the use of beautiful and tortured (i.e. horrible) poetry. And ultimately, we write for the sake of writing. It is an art form, and to make our art into anything but would be selling out.

Right.

Maybe I'm especially unique, but I'd personally like to write a bestseller and make money from either book sales or subsidiary stuff, such as books and related merchandising. Does this make me a sellout? Not really. As a skill, writing is very marketable. Your options range from writing website copy to penning the next Harry Potter, and it is hard work. As a writer, it's easy to fool yourself into thinking that your unedited work is just gold in ink form, but that's the farthest thing from being true.

My degree comes from a very conservative university. I minored in creative writing, and I took some great classes that didn't only focus on the skill of writing, but also on the marketability of a finished product. In fact, not one but two professors pushed a focus on making your work publishable. If you want to use your gifts, you shouldn't limit yourself to writing stories and poems for friends or your own personal pleasure, and you really shouldn't scoff at those who are published, because they've been willing to do the work that you will need to do to get published.

I think one of my favorite reactions is the "I've seen and write better than that" that tends to come up. A good example that I once read on the internet was the laughable statement that Twilight is unoriginal because...wait for it...Buffy did it better the first time. Reasons being? Buffy had a vamp boyfriend too. This is true, but that doesn't grant Joss Whedon's hit series any more originality than Twilight. In all honesty, Buffy kinda sucked. (Whedon hit the mark better with Firefly, a great show that regretfully lasted only one season.) The title character's ability to sort of use something that resembled a sappy stage version of fake martial arts was, I think, the reason so many were fans of the show, or something like that. (Granted, this was the 90s, the era of empowered women in leather bikinis, and fanboys went nuts for stuff like that. Throw in the romance with a tortured vamp-guy, and you have a hit series.)

All this to say, don't get too much on your high horse. Take criticism. I once knew someone who had a near breakdown at her on-campus job because some guys in her creative writing class had given an honest critique on her story's characters. It deeply bothered this person that someone had noticed that her characters went through very unsubtle, sudden changes. Look at examples around you, and please stop comparing apples to oranges. For example, comparing the Chronicles of Narnia to the Harry Potter series is probably something you should avoid, just because the styles are very different. True, they're both fantasy, and neither are allegorical. They do have a couple of things in common. For example, England. And words.

One more thing: give yourself credit. You may be a fan of Harry Potter, a loyal Narnian, a Twi-hard, or a respectable citizen of Hobbiton, but you are not any of those authors. You don't have to be them in order to write good books of your own. I'm reading through the Harry Potter series right now and it was tempting for a bit to knock a few years of the ages of my main characters and give them adventures at the age of 13 or 15. I admire Rowling's work and I think she's a good writer. She's certainly a strong writer, and that could easily become a problem for myself if I let her series overcome my work. I can't let that happen. All I can do is work out discrepancies and issues in my book and let it be what it already is. What sets me apart from the writers of any books I own? They're already published. Instead of concentrating on my intellect, I'm going to sit down, shut up, and work, because they're all way ahead of me already.

Sentience Part 3

Here's part 3 of Sentience.  It's a bit short, but this part is where the story begins to pick up.  Enjoy!

**************

His tablet was starting to lose power, and he'd read most of the interesting articles by now anyway.  With a sigh, he slipped it into his pack and stared at his shoes, glancing up every few seconds to watch the passersby.  He pretended to search his pockets when he glanced up.  A figure in simple clothing walked down the street, not slowly, not quickly.  Her red-brown hair was covered by a hat.  As he watched, it became evident that her clothing was a uniform of some sort, probably for one of the shops nearby.  He did not look away. 

Frederick found himself looking into the eyes that were neither gray nor blue, just for an instant.  Her-its- eyebrows rose, it looked away, and Frederick dropped his gaze.  It was walking more quickly now.  He kept watching.  The machine was thinking.  Learning.  It knew, and it turned into the entrance of a department store.  The automatic doors slid open, and Marie the machine was gone. 

He stood.  He had to follow her; no question, and now if he was to ever catch her.  He stood, walking quickly to the department store and in.  Marie was disappearing up the glass elevator.  It was facing away from the door, but he followed up the antiquated staircase that stood in the middle of the store, running.  The robot stopped at the third floor and got off, walking toward some tall clothing racks.  Frederick kept after it, and it directed a quick glance behind, and he knew he'd been seen. 

"Excuse me!"  He called to her-it- as she sped up.  "Ma'am...excuse me!"  He caught up to it, grabbing the upper arm. 

The reaction was fast.  It spun around and slapped him across his face.

"Leave me alone, creeper."  The android pulled away and kept going, seeming panicked. 

Frederick was only shocked for a second.  He collected himself and fished in his pocket for the strong magnets he'd brought.  This would disable it for sometime, if not fry something.  He hurled them, connecting solidly with the back of the torso area, the cranium, and the neck.

"Ow!"  Marie spun around, then came closer.  "Look, I have no idea why you're throwing junk at me, but leave me alone or I'll find out who you are and call the police.  Just...go away, freak."

It stalked to the stairs and ran down them, going out the door.  Frederick watched as she turned neither right nor left.  Other customers were watching.  Silently, he collected the magnets.  For today, he'd lost Marie the robot, and he'd have to go back to his apartment for more ideas.  Fear raced up his spine.

This job he knew had to be done. 

Part 2 of Sentience...and Some Apologies for It Being A Little Late...

Okay, here's part two.  Enjoy.  Here's Part 1 if you missed it.

*********

Chapter 2:  Job

Frederick sat in his room, waiting for his other computer to start up. In seconds, the lightweight operating system had started running.  Frederick accessed the folders that held the information he needed.  It had been placed there, as promised, remotely, while he was at work.  There was a folder of pictures and a separate folder for text files.  He clicked the text folder.

Robotics.  Android, eliminate.  A robot with female attributes had escaped from the corporation.  It had been an experiment, she was unstable, dangerous even, and on the run now.  He had to find the machine and either bring it to the company or destroy it himself.  There were pictures included.  He needed to find it, by the pictures given.  It had gone by the nickname of Marie, and may be still going by that name somewhere.  She was tricky and elusive it said, able to think and learn.  He opened the folder of photographs.

A woman smiled at him from the screen.  She couldn't have been older than himself.  It was Marie, the android, so lifelike that he may have mistaken her for another human if he didn't know any better.  She was average looking, brownish red hair, eyes that may have been gray or blue, pale skin.  She'd been missing for sometime, most likely hiding in the very city where Frederick was living, where she would blend with the masses, where no one would give her a second glance.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and stared at it.  He would take the job, maybe, but first...

"Macon.  Wonderful to hear from you so quickly."
"Mmm."  He bit his lip and kept speaking.  "So I am to collect and eliminate this woman?"
"Robot, Macon.  Or android.  This thing is not a human.  I thought that was quite obvious from the information."  The woman's voice sharpened.  "I do hope you are not backing out.  This is one job that we need you to to do, and it would be quite a shame if you refused.  Quite a shame, indeed."
"You threaten me."
"Such accusations, Macon.  Tsk tsk."  Other voices in the background.  "In truth, we really need this particular piece of technology back here, or dismantled and destroyed.  You have either option.  I would say the latter is the best."
"Why is that?"
"To avoid problems that may arise.  Now, do you agree to this job?"
He hesitated.  These people were dangerous, but this job could easily be so as well.  Anything to avoid going back to his home world.  Life was too slow there, too simple, not enough stimulation to keep him from thinking.  Better to collect a piece of property for a company than to go back.  "Yes.  I agree."

"Good luck."  A soft click sounded. 

Frederick stared at the pictures again.  One looked like a formal portrait.  Another was candid, the android leaving a restaurant and dressed rather plainly, flanked by a friend or two.  The machine walking down a sidewalk above the ground, in the city.  He recognized the building behind her.  It was a bank, and she was walking as if it were a routine to pass there.  He'd start there. 

The portrait caught his eye again, the smiling face unflinching.  He swallowed hard and closed the files.

Tomorrow.

Niche? Goodness, I Hope Not...

One of my most recent worries is that the novels I am working on are too much of something that fits only into a niche.  My dream is to be the next J.K. Rowling (I'm really only half joking...) and her books appeal and apply to all, even adults like me, despite the very young main characters in the Harry Potter series.  Imagine my surprise that, despite the always full shelves at Books-a-Million, speculative fiction (fantasy, sci-fi, horror, etc.) is a niche that not everyone can get into.  Honestly, I don't like the pure fantasy genre.  Maybe it's the astounding number of chosen ones, or maybe it's the vital-organ-exposing leather bikinis that female characters wear, but all the Tolkien (or Greek epic) clones out there really bug me.

Don't get me wrong, I like fantastical elements.  One of my favorite books is The Neverending Story.  (Not the movie...the book.)  I like it because it reads like a story book, but there's a little bit of scary, a little mystery here and there ("but that's another story and shall be told another time..."), and I love the characters.  I love the Harry Potter books.  I was recently thrilled to get the first two in hardcover for my 24th birthday.  They combine fantasy with a little mystery (yes, I did wonder endlessly about R.A.B.) and some comedy, with a touch of scary on top.  Add the characters that feel real and you've got a great story.  Concerning sci-fi, the jury's still out on that one.  My favorite movie is Star Wars, but that film doesn't really count as sci-fi (space opera is the applicable term.)  I enjoyed J.J. Abrams' take on Star Trek (the man knows how to mess with your head...), but it's also that the movie was just plain entertaining.  I occasionally indulge in some Next Generation, but that was a very character driven show (and Data is just like my boyfriend.  Awesome.)  I generally don't read or watch horror, but I enjoyed Sleepy Hollow, mostly because it's a fine mystery, an early CSI: NY, quite literally.  These particular stories do well because they can appeal to so many people for different reasons.

That's what I want to do with my books.  I'm gonna need encouragement in this area.  It's a fantasy mystery that combines the amazing locale of modern Eastern North Carolina, lacks the teenage romance that seems to be the norm these days, a mystery that has to be solved, and time running out for a world that resembles colonial America (seriously, tired of the all-too-common pseudo-Germany/France) with a little interesting machinery thrown in (think the Antikythera mechanism, and little to no steam.)  Will it work?  If I'm nitpicky enough, yeah, it'll work fine as long as I make it work.  As long as I can keep two teenage characters from turning into just another Edward and Bella couple clone (they're nothing like them.  Don't worry; I can't stand blatant copies.)  I'd like for anything I write to appeal to all audiences of all ages.  Wish me well, because I'm writing for everyone's enjoyment.  In fact, I'll keep my self accountable.  I'll post my progress daily, and y'all feel free to remind me or leave comments.  I love comments.  I welcome them.

Thanks for stopping by today, and tune in tomorrow for more!

Characters: Putting Yourself in Your Work (Part One of a Series)

Let me start by confessing that when I write a story, I tend to make cameos within the narrative.  I don't always function as the main character, but I am there, keeping an eye on the inhabitants of my mini universes.  I could be anyone from the work-stressed sister on the other end of the phone to the blue-haired (yep, my a hair's been that color more than once) background character who's actions are a catalyst of sorts, but it's a habit now for me to be there in some capacity.  I believe that there is nothing wrong with that in the least bit.  In one of my current projects, my main character basically is me, tweaked of course, and with several differences, but she is me, exploring a world I made up.  I'll restate that there's nothing wrong with this.

Until.

Oh yes, until.  This word just makes me giddy with anticipation, because it means I'm about to fully analyze and critique something.  (Favorite hobby, seriously.)  Okay, I'm back now.

It's fine to stick yourself in your story.  If you want your main character to be a variant of you, that's fine, but watch out for Mary Sues and Gary Stus.  They tend to be rampant in fanfiction, but I have also caught them lurking in books that I've purchased.  (Yes, there are different degrees of Sue and Stu, and the pair is quite sneaky.  They're like glamor ninjas.)  The most blatant type of Mary Sue tends to occur when the author inserts herself as the powerful and extremely beautiful main character.  Gary over here shows up in the same way.  Usually, they're pretty average height (a 21st century type of average, regardless of the era they live in) and either have something inexplicable about them (abilities or appearance), and they never live an average life.  If they are not a princess/prince, then they are a beggar who is really a princess/prince and life is hard.  Abuse is common for Mary and Gary.  Sobsob, crycry.  Writers, avoid this at all costs.

When you decide to make your main character a version of you, do so in personality.  If he or she looks like you, fine.  Having a picture of a character in your head for reference is a great idea.  It helps you visualize actions that they or other characters make, see someone's face as they speak, and understand how the character would move if they walk, run, swing a sword, or drive a car.  But a mistake that some writers make is going out of their way to describe the character, pointing out Mary or Gary's eye color or hair sheen or unblemished skin constantly.  Usually, when you flip to the author's picture, you'll find that they are the spitting image of their perfect main character.  (Feather, which I reviewed earlier, has the dubious honor of being exactly like this.  I do not exaggerate when I say that Estella describes herself every few pages.  It gets old reading about someone being perfect in looks.)  I know that as far as the Twilight Saga goes, many people either love it to obsession or hate it with a passion, but the lack of self-description was actually something that impressed me.  There's a little bit of description, but it's in context as to where the character lives at the beginning of the story.  Actually, you never get a clear grasp on what Bella looks like until the fourth book, when one of the Cullen sisters remarks on the color of Bella's eyes when she was human.  Nicely done.  Yeah, she looks like the author, but does not ever come across as "I'm perfect in every external way."  Also, if you have an evil character, please refrain from making them look like the slightly petty, mean, and popular girl in your school.  Female villains tend to be slightly perfect as well, and that's just as annoying.

Give your character flaws.  And I don't mean "they're a worrier" or "they get stressed easily."  I mean give them real flaws.  They're scared, or they have acne.  (Glasses, by the way, are hardly a cosmetic problem.  Yeah, I wear contacts now, but mostly out of convenience.  For me, they're easier to maintain.  If they were harder to own, I'd totally have glasses.)  Maybe they're mean sometimes, even to their best friend, or *gasp* they can't use a sword with any competence whatsoever.  You have to be careful, though, of making your main character unlikeable.  Let them have flaws, but normal, human, every day flaws.  Characters who are unpopular in school because "popular kids are mean" are not realistic.  (I went to private school for 13 years.  I wasn't exactly Homecoming Queen, but I wasn't ridiculed for stupid stuff like having curly hair or wearing knee socks with my skirts.  Actually, high school was rather nice.)  That's one of the things I liked in the Harry Potter series.  Harry can be an awkward guy, but he has friends.  Yeah, he has enemies, and he's not super popular at Hogwarts, but he has a good circle of people who like him, and with whom he hangs out.  Most of the ones who don't like him feel that way because they are actual foes with an agenda.  (Poor Snape and his unrequited love for Lily, though.)  Without the list of mortal enemies, it's a convincing story of adolescence.  Okay, J.K. Rowling hardly put herself into that story, but you see the point.  Don't make your story into a pity party about your life if your life is pretty average and pretty good.  (Okay, the Dursleys were mean, but jealousy fueled it, and the 90s were a grungier time anyway.)

You don't always have to be the main character.  Remember, there is an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor.  Let yourself be an observer, or a background character.  You could be the main character's best friend, helping them decide stuff.  But most writers will choose to make the main character another version of themselves, and that's fine as long as the character is convincingly imperfect, just like you.  It can be hard to build a character that everyone can relate to, but if you're willing to actually work on a character instead of taking the lazy route and making them perfect/powerful/the Chosen One, you and your readers will be rewarded.