Really enjoyed the discussion yesterday! Thanks for all the thoughtful responses. Ah, love. Shall we move on to the next one? It's one of my personal favorites to read.
Reluctant Love
The Formula: Girl and Boy meet—they hate each other. (Or Girl hates Boy and he hides his love...or vice versa.) Series of events force them into awful situations where they have to deal with each other. Their hate either grows or wanes until the moment. At said moment, it comes out that one or both of them actually likes the other. Affection ensues...or doesn't.
Personally, I love the romantic tension in these novels. There's often much witty banter, and I'm left smiling the whole way through because I'm thinking, "Teehee, they're sooo going to eat their words by the end...neener neener." There's something about how they resist each other that makes me want them together. It's like if they can make it past all THAT, then they must really love each other. The natural attraction. The frustration. The awkward situations. So been there. The line between love and hate is precariously thin.
Okay, so a couple examples—there are so many out there. (I'll be doing a movie/play and book for each one, just to follow my previous format.) One of the first movies that comes to mind for me is You've Got Mail. I know, I'm cheesy. But Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks rock the reluctant love. Here they are enemies, so focused on their "book war" they don't realize/admit they're attracted to each other. (And you know they really are with their anon. emails. omg.) You so know they'll end up together, and you're sucked in because you want to see how it happens.
And I can't even think of writing this post without mentioning the quintessential story of reluctant love—Pride & Prejudice. Yes, Miss Austen has like every kind of love story in there, but it's Elizabeth and Darcy's reluctant adventure into matrimony that leaves us all giddy inside. For me, it just doesn't get old. The pride. The prejudice. The undeniable attraction. Teehee.
As much as I love this "formula," I can't seem to carry it through a whole novel. This has always been an "element" in my books. My characters initially resist, but I can't seem to get them to hold out longer than half the novel (or sometimes like a couple chapters, heh). But I think that's okay—that's one way to change this format up because the story usually takes knew twists once they're together (or want to be together). There are so many ways to spin this format: the love triangle, the separation with unexpected pining, the misunderstanding, the revelation, the stubborness, the possible hybrid of a "forbidden love" element, etc. I'm sure you can all think of excellent examples.
Dang reluctant love! I hate you! Wait...maybe I don't. You didn't say I was ugly? You were talking about someone else? Swoon. Okay, I love you.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Love Stories: Forbidden Love
Okay, I'll admit it. I write love stories. Sure, there are a lot of other elements to my books, but there's always some kind of relationship at the center. So I thought I'd try to look all smart and talk a little about what I've learned from all these books I've written.
I know we all want to think our ideas are the most unique things in the entire world, but there's really only a few kinds of "love stories" out there: the Forbidden, the Reluctant, the Blind, the Deception, the "Traditional." (Huh, the five I'll be covering this week, go figure.)
You can have elements of several in your book, but one will usually dominate. And don't get depressed if these sound familiar to something you've written. These "formulas" have been used for centuries. For some reason, they tug at the human heart—just what you want in a sappy dappy love story. (NOTE: I'm focusing primarily on the romantic element, though every love story has more going on around it.)
So, let's get this show on the road:
Forbidden Love
The Formula: Guy meets girl (or vise versa). Guy can't have girl because outside force forbids it. They get together anyway—drama unfolds in the form of guilt/deception/discovery/punishment. In the end, they either die for their love or they figure out how to be together and they are finally able to love each other freely.
What is it about forbidden love that always has us rooting for the thwarted couple? Really, we know they aren't allowed to be together—that they are going against family wishes, nature, society, or whatever it may be in that particular book. They are being irrational and reckless. It's WRONG...then why is it so right? Do we all, on some level, feel like "love" is made stronger when people forsake their very identity for it? Do we want love to triumph over everything because it so very often doesn't?
Let's jump a looong way back—Romeo & Juliet. I know: it's really a tragedy, they're just horny emo teenagers, blah blah blah. BUT. You wish they were able to stay together, don't you? You know you do. Deep in your gut you just can't help it. Save a few people (like, maybe Ebenezer Scrooge), I'm willing to bet no one was yelling in The Globe, "Juliet, you fool! Pick Paris! Pick Paris!" (I can see the "Team Paris" t-shirts now.)
Fast forward to the ultimate forbidden love on the shelves right now—Twilight. Um, holy crap, it's Romeo and Juliet with a pretty bow ending! I know: it's really a tragedy, they're just horny emo teenagers (okay, one of them is ninety...but work with me here), blah blah blah. BUT. You still want Bella and Edward together—against all your good sense you STILL WANT IT. Ack!
What? The formula STILL works? You bet it does. Whether you like this kind of love story or not—this story sells. A lot, apparently. Everyone likes a good "WHY CAN'T THEY JUST BE TOGETHER?" book. (Alright, that might just be girls.) And if you write love stories, you better bet you'll be using this one at some point.
I did—Allure was my forbidden love story. Keira Connelly falls for a dragon outside of her Clan. They want to be together; they can't. She tries to accept her betrothed; she can't. She finally gives up and picks Rune—abandons her whole life at the risk of death. Things work out after a while. It totally works. I love that story and so did the people who read it (despite it not being polished enough).
So, welcome to the formula. What can you do as a writer to make this not sound like half the books on the shelves? It's all about the characters and world—that "fresh spin" thing. A forbidden love can unravel in so many ways based on the unique characters that fall in love and the world around them. Um, hence the overwhelming success of a vamp falling for his "prey."
Is your MC looking for the forbidden aspect to rebel? Or is your MC a rule abider taken off guard? Does the love interest feel guilty for making your MC risk so much? Or is the love interest reckless and flauting his or her affection? The answers to those question swing the story in vastly different directions, as do all the other things you can bring to a book. Time, place, society, etc. It's about what you can bring to the formula—the new life you can breathe into it.
Sigh, those poor forbidden couples. Oh, the million-dollar angst.
I know we all want to think our ideas are the most unique things in the entire world, but there's really only a few kinds of "love stories" out there: the Forbidden, the Reluctant, the Blind, the Deception, the "Traditional." (Huh, the five I'll be covering this week, go figure.)
You can have elements of several in your book, but one will usually dominate. And don't get depressed if these sound familiar to something you've written. These "formulas" have been used for centuries. For some reason, they tug at the human heart—just what you want in a sappy dappy love story. (NOTE: I'm focusing primarily on the romantic element, though every love story has more going on around it.)
So, let's get this show on the road:
Forbidden Love
The Formula: Guy meets girl (or vise versa). Guy can't have girl because outside force forbids it. They get together anyway—drama unfolds in the form of guilt/deception/discovery/punishment. In the end, they either die for their love or they figure out how to be together and they are finally able to love each other freely.
What is it about forbidden love that always has us rooting for the thwarted couple? Really, we know they aren't allowed to be together—that they are going against family wishes, nature, society, or whatever it may be in that particular book. They are being irrational and reckless. It's WRONG...then why is it so right? Do we all, on some level, feel like "love" is made stronger when people forsake their very identity for it? Do we want love to triumph over everything because it so very often doesn't?
Let's jump a looong way back—Romeo & Juliet. I know: it's really a tragedy, they're just horny emo teenagers, blah blah blah. BUT. You wish they were able to stay together, don't you? You know you do. Deep in your gut you just can't help it. Save a few people (like, maybe Ebenezer Scrooge), I'm willing to bet no one was yelling in The Globe, "Juliet, you fool! Pick Paris! Pick Paris!" (I can see the "Team Paris" t-shirts now.)
Fast forward to the ultimate forbidden love on the shelves right now—Twilight. Um, holy crap, it's Romeo and Juliet with a pretty bow ending! I know: it's really a tragedy, they're just horny emo teenagers (okay, one of them is ninety...but work with me here), blah blah blah. BUT. You still want Bella and Edward together—against all your good sense you STILL WANT IT. Ack!
What? The formula STILL works? You bet it does. Whether you like this kind of love story or not—this story sells. A lot, apparently. Everyone likes a good "WHY CAN'T THEY JUST BE TOGETHER?" book. (Alright, that might just be girls.) And if you write love stories, you better bet you'll be using this one at some point.
I did—Allure was my forbidden love story. Keira Connelly falls for a dragon outside of her Clan. They want to be together; they can't. She tries to accept her betrothed; she can't. She finally gives up and picks Rune—abandons her whole life at the risk of death. Things work out after a while. It totally works. I love that story and so did the people who read it (despite it not being polished enough).
So, welcome to the formula. What can you do as a writer to make this not sound like half the books on the shelves? It's all about the characters and world—that "fresh spin" thing. A forbidden love can unravel in so many ways based on the unique characters that fall in love and the world around them. Um, hence the overwhelming success of a vamp falling for his "prey."
Is your MC looking for the forbidden aspect to rebel? Or is your MC a rule abider taken off guard? Does the love interest feel guilty for making your MC risk so much? Or is the love interest reckless and flauting his or her affection? The answers to those question swing the story in vastly different directions, as do all the other things you can bring to a book. Time, place, society, etc. It's about what you can bring to the formula—the new life you can breathe into it.
Sigh, those poor forbidden couples. Oh, the million-dollar angst.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Bella Luna
I love how Jason Mraz does a little of everything. Right now his song "Lucky" with Colbie Callait is pretty big, but I thought I'd put up one of his lesser known(ish) songs. I love the feel of this song. It makes me want to dance on a beach in the moonlight or something. With fairies and mermaids.
Four chapters left of ninjas! Eek! Then I'm putting it through one more reader. Yes, I'm that paranoid. I'm excited though. The ending builds soooo much better than I remember. I'm officially pleased/confident in my revisions.
Four chapters left of ninjas! Eek! Then I'm putting it through one more reader. Yes, I'm that paranoid. I'm excited though. The ending builds soooo much better than I remember. I'm officially pleased/confident in my revisions.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saturday Sketch 3.7
It's been a long week. This picture pretty much explains it. I've been sick—my kids have been sick. If you would have visited my place this week, you would have found three zombie-like creatures moaning about. I opted not to draw the babies (zombie babies? um, freaky).
I've trudged along with Ninja edits nonetheless. I have about nine chapters left, and I hope to tackle five more tonight. Rawr. Then after that it will hopefully be clean enough for agent eyes. *GLUP*
In other news, I've done the unthinkable. I signed up for Twitter. So if you're on there, come find me or something. It's an interesting thing, like Facebook but solely the updated status thing. Don't hate it; don't love it. It's just...Twitter. Kinda fun. A moderate time sink.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Life Stories, Part Four
Golden Raspberries & Heaven
The best place in the world was the sheepskin beside my grandmother's bed. Crammed in that small place between the window and her pastel sheets, I could lay for hours watching the dust dance in the light. The skin had a foreign, musty smell, but I didn't care because sleeping on clouds wouldn't be softer. Grandma would sing songs I can't remember now—songs now trapped on that bridge between awake and dreams.
"Natalie, dear?" she said one morning as I soaked in the warmth of the sun on the fur. I loved the way she spoke with a subtle accent. Not "tomato," but "tomahto." Years in the states couldn't suck the Kiwi out of her.
"Yes, Grandma?" I popped up by her side with a smile. I couldn't not smile for my grandma. She smiled her wide, toothy grin back—the one that masked years of pain and illness. She had been sick most of her life, the pillbox on her nightstand a constant reminder that she'd never really be better.
"Would you fetch some raspberries from the garden for me?" She put her leathery hand on my freckled face. I nodded. "Be sure to get lots of gold ones."
I bounced from the bed, down the narrow hall, and to the cramped kitchen decorated in creamy colors and old wallpaper. I took a bowl from the dish rack, since I couldn't reach the cupboards without getting a chair. Then I went out the side door to the garden.
My grandpa is a man of the earth—a farmer, a gardener. He grew things for the pure love of it. Back then their backyard was mostly garden. There was only a lawn big enough for a laundry tree to get sun. On the right side of the speck of a brick house was grapevine. In the back were rows of corn, potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, tomatoes, peas, strawberries, watermelon, and more. Behind that were blackberries and a cherry orchard.
And then on the left side of the house, closest to the garage-turned-extra-bedroom, were the raspberry bushes. In mid-summer, they were taller than me and drenched in ripe berries. I took a deep breath before I dove in, pushing out the fear of lurking spiders. The air smelled of rich, warm dirt, a scent that still brings me back to my grandfather's garden.
I picked quickly, knowing grandma was looking forward to her morning fruit. The golden yellow raspberries were a family favorite, and I've never seen that variety since. They were sweeter than the red ones, like someone had gone and mixed the roots with pear juice. I couldn't resist popping a few in my mouth as I continued picking. The branches got too dense in one part. I backed out rather than get pricked by the thorns (the big black spider was good motivation too). I moved to another spot and filled the bowl with golden raspberries, then I got a few red ones too. And because I thought she'd like it, I decided to grab a couple strawberries from the patch. Grandpa waved at me as he worked.
I went back inside and washed the fruit. I knew to do that because the first time Grandma asked me to get fruit I didn't—she told me you can't eat unwashed fruit. Then I went back to her room. She was right there like always, sitting up in bed and reading something.
She smiled. "What've you got for me there?"
"Lots of golden ones and some red ones and strawberries." I crawled onto the bed and handed her the bowl. She put one arm around me and put a few goldens in her mouth.
"Mmm, delicious. Share with me?"
I nodded and took a few of the sweet treasures. I watched grandma eat, absorbed the the soft crinkles in her face and the white blond of her hair. In the old pictures, her hair was dark and long, but I only ever remembered seeing it short and blond. Her hand shook just a little as she consumed the berries. My heart warmed—I loved her so much. Why couldn't we live closer? A couple weeks in the summer was never enough. Soon I would have to go, and who would pick berries for Grandma then?
A few months later, I bounced in the car as we approached my grandmother's house again. I was so lucky to be coming back so soon. And Mom was even more lucky because she got to fly out and I had to drive with Dad for a whole day. I jumped out of the car and ran to the front door, ready to wrap my arms around her neck and give her kisses. Grandpa answered though.
"Where's Grandma?" I asked, looking past him, expecting to see her walking down that narrow hallway.
"She's in heaven."
All I can remember after that is tears. I don't remember how long we stayed, what the funeral was like, or how many people were there. But I cried the whole time. I cried over her body, a body that didn't look a thing like my smiling grandma. Months later I would still burst out crying because I missed her, and I'd never get to lay on that sheepskin or pick raspberries for her again.
As I've grown older, the memories still make me cry sometimes, but they are happy tears. I was lucky enough to know her—some of my own siblings can't even say that. Those few memories from my eight-year-old mind are sweet treasures to me, just like golden raspberries.
The best place in the world was the sheepskin beside my grandmother's bed. Crammed in that small place between the window and her pastel sheets, I could lay for hours watching the dust dance in the light. The skin had a foreign, musty smell, but I didn't care because sleeping on clouds wouldn't be softer. Grandma would sing songs I can't remember now—songs now trapped on that bridge between awake and dreams.
"Natalie, dear?" she said one morning as I soaked in the warmth of the sun on the fur. I loved the way she spoke with a subtle accent. Not "tomato," but "tomahto." Years in the states couldn't suck the Kiwi out of her.
"Yes, Grandma?" I popped up by her side with a smile. I couldn't not smile for my grandma. She smiled her wide, toothy grin back—the one that masked years of pain and illness. She had been sick most of her life, the pillbox on her nightstand a constant reminder that she'd never really be better.
"Would you fetch some raspberries from the garden for me?" She put her leathery hand on my freckled face. I nodded. "Be sure to get lots of gold ones."
I bounced from the bed, down the narrow hall, and to the cramped kitchen decorated in creamy colors and old wallpaper. I took a bowl from the dish rack, since I couldn't reach the cupboards without getting a chair. Then I went out the side door to the garden.
My grandpa is a man of the earth—a farmer, a gardener. He grew things for the pure love of it. Back then their backyard was mostly garden. There was only a lawn big enough for a laundry tree to get sun. On the right side of the speck of a brick house was grapevine. In the back were rows of corn, potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, tomatoes, peas, strawberries, watermelon, and more. Behind that were blackberries and a cherry orchard.
And then on the left side of the house, closest to the garage-turned-extra-bedroom, were the raspberry bushes. In mid-summer, they were taller than me and drenched in ripe berries. I took a deep breath before I dove in, pushing out the fear of lurking spiders. The air smelled of rich, warm dirt, a scent that still brings me back to my grandfather's garden.
I picked quickly, knowing grandma was looking forward to her morning fruit. The golden yellow raspberries were a family favorite, and I've never seen that variety since. They were sweeter than the red ones, like someone had gone and mixed the roots with pear juice. I couldn't resist popping a few in my mouth as I continued picking. The branches got too dense in one part. I backed out rather than get pricked by the thorns (the big black spider was good motivation too). I moved to another spot and filled the bowl with golden raspberries, then I got a few red ones too. And because I thought she'd like it, I decided to grab a couple strawberries from the patch. Grandpa waved at me as he worked.
I went back inside and washed the fruit. I knew to do that because the first time Grandma asked me to get fruit I didn't—she told me you can't eat unwashed fruit. Then I went back to her room. She was right there like always, sitting up in bed and reading something.
She smiled. "What've you got for me there?"
"Lots of golden ones and some red ones and strawberries." I crawled onto the bed and handed her the bowl. She put one arm around me and put a few goldens in her mouth.
"Mmm, delicious. Share with me?"
I nodded and took a few of the sweet treasures. I watched grandma eat, absorbed the the soft crinkles in her face and the white blond of her hair. In the old pictures, her hair was dark and long, but I only ever remembered seeing it short and blond. Her hand shook just a little as she consumed the berries. My heart warmed—I loved her so much. Why couldn't we live closer? A couple weeks in the summer was never enough. Soon I would have to go, and who would pick berries for Grandma then?
A few months later, I bounced in the car as we approached my grandmother's house again. I was so lucky to be coming back so soon. And Mom was even more lucky because she got to fly out and I had to drive with Dad for a whole day. I jumped out of the car and ran to the front door, ready to wrap my arms around her neck and give her kisses. Grandpa answered though.
"Where's Grandma?" I asked, looking past him, expecting to see her walking down that narrow hallway.
"She's in heaven."
All I can remember after that is tears. I don't remember how long we stayed, what the funeral was like, or how many people were there. But I cried the whole time. I cried over her body, a body that didn't look a thing like my smiling grandma. Months later I would still burst out crying because I missed her, and I'd never get to lay on that sheepskin or pick raspberries for her again.
As I've grown older, the memories still make me cry sometimes, but they are happy tears. I was lucky enough to know her—some of my own siblings can't even say that. Those few memories from my eight-year-old mind are sweet treasures to me, just like golden raspberries.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Life Stories, Part Three
Childhood Friends
Lam and Phung were my best friends growing up. They were both older than me, but it didn't matter with them. They were like my big sisters, if I were Vietnamese at least. Lam was smart and thoughtful, with kind eyes and a listening ear. Phung was a spark of a girl, caring little for school but ready to defend me to the death or laugh until morning. Everyday after school and most every hour of daylight in summer, we played and talked and sat together. Sometimes I still miss them—they gave me the kind of acceptance I never found at school.
They lived in the four-plex next to ours—four kids plus parents in a small two-bedroom apartment. Their younger bothers, Ghung and Quoc, played with my brother (and oftentimes with us as well). Sometimes their older sister Van would live there, too. She seemed so grown up to my ten-year-old eyes, but she probably wasn't older than twenty. I didn't know a lot about their parents, except that they fled from Vietnam during the war. Lam was born in the Phillipeans as they made their way to America. Their mom, Vi, didn't speak Enligsh and their dad came home every few months wearing cammo. Lam paid the bills for her mom. Vi loved my brother (called him Monkey, since she couldn't quite say Markie), but paid little attention to me.
I learned a lot of things from them I could never learn at home. One time I peeked into a boiling pot on the stove to find a dozen squid bubbling away. As a little white girl, I didn't know people ate food like that, or that it could taste good. I also learned the chickens and ducks that frequented their patio weren't pets, but made for good eating. Cup o' Noodles weren't complete without a fever-inducing dose of Thai chili sauce. And cucumbers were best eaten with crushed chili peppers, salt, and some other spices I didn't recognize. Sometimes I still crave that cool vegetable and spicy heat on summer days.
Vi taught us how to weave nets one summer, and we spent a good deal of time trying to turn yarn into hammocks. Sometimes it worked; sometimes we got bruised bottoms. They taught me why they put fresh fruit on their statue of Buddha, and they asked me why I wasn't allowed to play on Sundays. They tried to teach me Vietnamese, but laughed their heads off everytime I tried to pronounce a word. For the record, I only pronounced one word right one time (it was the word for apple, which I can't remember anymore).
They had two parakeets—Tweety and Tweety Jr. (not kidding). Tweety was this teal female with serious attitude, but pretty aimiable in the end. Tweety Jr. was her beau, and he was the sweetest, most gentle parakeet I've ever met. They had their wings clipped, and we would take them all over the place. They'd sit on our shoulders and sing songs...and occasionally poop. I loved those birds, and they loved each other. One day a cat got Tweety, and we all cried, even the boys. Not a week later, Tweety Jr. committed suicide by jumping off a fence into a couple dogs. We decided he missed Tweety too much.
In the summer we'd have water balloon fights with the boys non-stop. One day we filled up a regular balloon—it must have weighed at least 20 pounds. We asked the upstairs neighbors if we could stake out their balcony so we could drop it on one of the boys. My poor brother made himself the perfect target, standing below us while he looked for "signs of life." Direct hit to his head...he cried all the way home...I still feel a little bad.
In the winter we played Mario Kart—Super Nintendo Mario Kart, old school, baby. Markie was always the best, but I could beat him sometimes and so could Lam. Phung didn't like to play; she wanted us to watch MTV and sometimes we did. Quoc was a sore loser, and sometimes he'd cry and yell if he lost too many times in a row. He was the youngest, and they called him a mama's boy.
But he wasn't the youngest for much longer, because Vi had another baby right before I moved. They named her Cindy, which I thought was funny. They all had Vietnamese names...and then there was Cindy. She must be a teenager now, but I remember how little and sweet she was.
We moved a few months before I turned twelve, and I wrote Lam and Phung a few letters. They stopped writing after a while, but then I got a letter from Phung telling me they moved too (and she was changing her name to Marie). We quickly lost contact, as long distance friends often do (or did without the internet). But I still think about them often. I wonder if Lam got to go to college like she talked about, or if Phung snagged a boyfriend (probably, she was gorgeous). I wonder how their lives have changed since those more carefree times. Then sometimes I don't want to know, because those moments were so perfect they might be ruined by what happened after. Either way, Lam and Phung will always be part of me.
Lam and Phung were my best friends growing up. They were both older than me, but it didn't matter with them. They were like my big sisters, if I were Vietnamese at least. Lam was smart and thoughtful, with kind eyes and a listening ear. Phung was a spark of a girl, caring little for school but ready to defend me to the death or laugh until morning. Everyday after school and most every hour of daylight in summer, we played and talked and sat together. Sometimes I still miss them—they gave me the kind of acceptance I never found at school.
They lived in the four-plex next to ours—four kids plus parents in a small two-bedroom apartment. Their younger bothers, Ghung and Quoc, played with my brother (and oftentimes with us as well). Sometimes their older sister Van would live there, too. She seemed so grown up to my ten-year-old eyes, but she probably wasn't older than twenty. I didn't know a lot about their parents, except that they fled from Vietnam during the war. Lam was born in the Phillipeans as they made their way to America. Their mom, Vi, didn't speak Enligsh and their dad came home every few months wearing cammo. Lam paid the bills for her mom. Vi loved my brother (called him Monkey, since she couldn't quite say Markie), but paid little attention to me.
I learned a lot of things from them I could never learn at home. One time I peeked into a boiling pot on the stove to find a dozen squid bubbling away. As a little white girl, I didn't know people ate food like that, or that it could taste good. I also learned the chickens and ducks that frequented their patio weren't pets, but made for good eating. Cup o' Noodles weren't complete without a fever-inducing dose of Thai chili sauce. And cucumbers were best eaten with crushed chili peppers, salt, and some other spices I didn't recognize. Sometimes I still crave that cool vegetable and spicy heat on summer days.
Vi taught us how to weave nets one summer, and we spent a good deal of time trying to turn yarn into hammocks. Sometimes it worked; sometimes we got bruised bottoms. They taught me why they put fresh fruit on their statue of Buddha, and they asked me why I wasn't allowed to play on Sundays. They tried to teach me Vietnamese, but laughed their heads off everytime I tried to pronounce a word. For the record, I only pronounced one word right one time (it was the word for apple, which I can't remember anymore).
They had two parakeets—Tweety and Tweety Jr. (not kidding). Tweety was this teal female with serious attitude, but pretty aimiable in the end. Tweety Jr. was her beau, and he was the sweetest, most gentle parakeet I've ever met. They had their wings clipped, and we would take them all over the place. They'd sit on our shoulders and sing songs...and occasionally poop. I loved those birds, and they loved each other. One day a cat got Tweety, and we all cried, even the boys. Not a week later, Tweety Jr. committed suicide by jumping off a fence into a couple dogs. We decided he missed Tweety too much.
In the summer we'd have water balloon fights with the boys non-stop. One day we filled up a regular balloon—it must have weighed at least 20 pounds. We asked the upstairs neighbors if we could stake out their balcony so we could drop it on one of the boys. My poor brother made himself the perfect target, standing below us while he looked for "signs of life." Direct hit to his head...he cried all the way home...I still feel a little bad.
In the winter we played Mario Kart—Super Nintendo Mario Kart, old school, baby. Markie was always the best, but I could beat him sometimes and so could Lam. Phung didn't like to play; she wanted us to watch MTV and sometimes we did. Quoc was a sore loser, and sometimes he'd cry and yell if he lost too many times in a row. He was the youngest, and they called him a mama's boy.
But he wasn't the youngest for much longer, because Vi had another baby right before I moved. They named her Cindy, which I thought was funny. They all had Vietnamese names...and then there was Cindy. She must be a teenager now, but I remember how little and sweet she was.
We moved a few months before I turned twelve, and I wrote Lam and Phung a few letters. They stopped writing after a while, but then I got a letter from Phung telling me they moved too (and she was changing her name to Marie). We quickly lost contact, as long distance friends often do (or did without the internet). But I still think about them often. I wonder if Lam got to go to college like she talked about, or if Phung snagged a boyfriend (probably, she was gorgeous). I wonder how their lives have changed since those more carefree times. Then sometimes I don't want to know, because those moments were so perfect they might be ruined by what happened after. Either way, Lam and Phung will always be part of me.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Life Stories, Part Two
Getting "Fake" Asked
I sat in my designated spot for PE roll call. Back in junior high, I was a fan of PE. I liked to run, and the teacher was pretty laid back when it came to coordination. If you tried, you got an A. I could do that.
Robbie sat next to me like usual—he was one of those popular sidekicks. You know the type: the best friend of the "hot" guy. He was vulgar and blunt (totally suffered from short man syndrome), and yet we got along. I found him strangely funny and entertaining. We only ever talked in PE, and I think that was plenty for both of us.
"So, eighth grade night dance is coming up soon," Robbie said.
"That's right, you taking your girlfriend?" I knew he had a girlfriend; he frequently talked about making out and stuff. I had no idea why he'd bring up the dance to me.
"Yeah, she's gonna look so hot." (I restrained my eye roll.) "Are you going with anyone?"
"Oh, uh, no..." I stumbled for a politically correct answer. See, I wasn't allowed to date until I was sixteen (and frankly, I didn't want to date), but I didn't like to explain all that and either look like I was preaching or more of a nerd than I already was. "I'm just going with friends."
"Actually, Barry was wondering if you'd go with him."
I proceeded to choke on my own tongue. Barry? Like, Mr. Popular guy that all the girls were swooning over Barry? Sure, I knew Barry—I went to CHURCH with Barry. He wasn't supposed to date until sixteen either, which led me to my eventual statement. "Haha, Robbie, funny joke."
Robbie shook his head and laughed. "No! He really wants to go with you!"
"Yeah, right." I could just see what would happen if I said yes. Robbie would go tell Barry, who didn't actually like me, and then the whole school would think I liked him and make fun of me. He didn't really want to go to the dance with me, and I'd be a huge joke. (Been there, done that.)
"No, I'm serious!" I didn't answer. I thought Robbie was my friend, so much for that. He was just taking pity on the dork girl. "So does that mean you're saying no?"
"I'm not allowed to go on dates," I finally relented. "Barry couldn't have asked me, because he knows that." Thankfully, our teacher was done with roll so I got up and headed for the track. Unfortunately, Robbie followed.
"I'm not lying, he really wants to go with you. He likes you!" Robbie said when he caught up to me. "So will you go?"
I sighed. Robbie was being such a jerk; he wasn't going to trick me. "No."
"Fine, he' going to be really sad."
"Whatever." I broke out in a sprint and Robbie stopped following. I ran and ran, trying to get the conversation out of my head. The whole thing was so ridiculous, and the more I thought about it the angrier I got. I wasn't going to talk to Robbie anymore—no friend would try and trick me like that.
I went to the dance with my friends. Turned out Barry did go with a date, which made me uneasy because maybe...maybe he did want to take me. Then a few months later at a church dinner, I found a paper on my seat that read: Barry + Natalie. My stomach twisted. Had Robbie been telling the truth?
I threw the note away. It didn't matter if it was the truth or not, because I still didn't want to date. Going would have compromised my values and led him on. I didn't really like Barry anyway, so it turned out okay in the end.
I sat in my designated spot for PE roll call. Back in junior high, I was a fan of PE. I liked to run, and the teacher was pretty laid back when it came to coordination. If you tried, you got an A. I could do that.
Robbie sat next to me like usual—he was one of those popular sidekicks. You know the type: the best friend of the "hot" guy. He was vulgar and blunt (totally suffered from short man syndrome), and yet we got along. I found him strangely funny and entertaining. We only ever talked in PE, and I think that was plenty for both of us.
"So, eighth grade night dance is coming up soon," Robbie said.
"That's right, you taking your girlfriend?" I knew he had a girlfriend; he frequently talked about making out and stuff. I had no idea why he'd bring up the dance to me.
"Yeah, she's gonna look so hot." (I restrained my eye roll.) "Are you going with anyone?"
"Oh, uh, no..." I stumbled for a politically correct answer. See, I wasn't allowed to date until I was sixteen (and frankly, I didn't want to date), but I didn't like to explain all that and either look like I was preaching or more of a nerd than I already was. "I'm just going with friends."
"Actually, Barry was wondering if you'd go with him."
I proceeded to choke on my own tongue. Barry? Like, Mr. Popular guy that all the girls were swooning over Barry? Sure, I knew Barry—I went to CHURCH with Barry. He wasn't supposed to date until sixteen either, which led me to my eventual statement. "Haha, Robbie, funny joke."
Robbie shook his head and laughed. "No! He really wants to go with you!"
"Yeah, right." I could just see what would happen if I said yes. Robbie would go tell Barry, who didn't actually like me, and then the whole school would think I liked him and make fun of me. He didn't really want to go to the dance with me, and I'd be a huge joke. (Been there, done that.)
"No, I'm serious!" I didn't answer. I thought Robbie was my friend, so much for that. He was just taking pity on the dork girl. "So does that mean you're saying no?"
"I'm not allowed to go on dates," I finally relented. "Barry couldn't have asked me, because he knows that." Thankfully, our teacher was done with roll so I got up and headed for the track. Unfortunately, Robbie followed.
"I'm not lying, he really wants to go with you. He likes you!" Robbie said when he caught up to me. "So will you go?"
I sighed. Robbie was being such a jerk; he wasn't going to trick me. "No."
"Fine, he' going to be really sad."
"Whatever." I broke out in a sprint and Robbie stopped following. I ran and ran, trying to get the conversation out of my head. The whole thing was so ridiculous, and the more I thought about it the angrier I got. I wasn't going to talk to Robbie anymore—no friend would try and trick me like that.
I went to the dance with my friends. Turned out Barry did go with a date, which made me uneasy because maybe...maybe he did want to take me. Then a few months later at a church dinner, I found a paper on my seat that read: Barry + Natalie. My stomach twisted. Had Robbie been telling the truth?
I threw the note away. It didn't matter if it was the truth or not, because I still didn't want to date. Going would have compromised my values and led him on. I didn't really like Barry anyway, so it turned out okay in the end.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Life Stories, Part One
It's no secret I'm about as perky as lumpy pudding these days. So instead of dwelling on that, I thought I'd just share some crazy stories about myself the rest of the week.
The Stage Floor
We'd rolled the vats of black paint to the middle of the stage (you always start in the middle) and started rolling on the paint. There were maybe three or four of us left and it wasn't going fast. If you've ever been a drama techie, you know there's one thing that happens right before opening night. The stage floor gets a fresh coat of paint. You can't do it sooner because the actors will just scuff it up in dress rehearsal.
My dear friend Jaymi was getting impatient. "Can we just dump the paint and spread it out?"
"Sure." I wanted to get it done, and that sounded faster. So we poured out the paint in big globs on the floor.
Things got...interesting. We'd spread out most of the paint, but then the rollers wouldn't reach some of the left over globs. We couldn't just leave them there. Jaymi started taking off her shoes.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"We have to spread it out better." She rolled up her pant legs, then walked through the black paint, leaving little footprints in our work. There was nothing else to be done, so I followed her example, as did the other techies.
The cold paint squished between my toes as I trekked out to a marooned glob with my paint roller in hand. I was grateful I'd worn my ugliest jeans, because I could smell trouble in the strong chemical aroma.
Squilch. Boom! I whipped around and burst out laughing. Jaymi had slipped in the paint, her tooshie now black.
"Shut up!" she said. Everyone just laughed harder...at least until she dipped her hands in paint and came after us. She got my pants, and it quickly degenterated from there. A couple hours later, the stage floor was painted, and so were we.
The Stage Floor
We'd rolled the vats of black paint to the middle of the stage (you always start in the middle) and started rolling on the paint. There were maybe three or four of us left and it wasn't going fast. If you've ever been a drama techie, you know there's one thing that happens right before opening night. The stage floor gets a fresh coat of paint. You can't do it sooner because the actors will just scuff it up in dress rehearsal.
My dear friend Jaymi was getting impatient. "Can we just dump the paint and spread it out?"
"Sure." I wanted to get it done, and that sounded faster. So we poured out the paint in big globs on the floor.
Things got...interesting. We'd spread out most of the paint, but then the rollers wouldn't reach some of the left over globs. We couldn't just leave them there. Jaymi started taking off her shoes.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"We have to spread it out better." She rolled up her pant legs, then walked through the black paint, leaving little footprints in our work. There was nothing else to be done, so I followed her example, as did the other techies.
The cold paint squished between my toes as I trekked out to a marooned glob with my paint roller in hand. I was grateful I'd worn my ugliest jeans, because I could smell trouble in the strong chemical aroma.
Squilch. Boom! I whipped around and burst out laughing. Jaymi had slipped in the paint, her tooshie now black.
"Shut up!" she said. Everyone just laughed harder...at least until she dipped her hands in paint and came after us. She got my pants, and it quickly degenterated from there. A couple hours later, the stage floor was painted, and so were we.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Energizer Bunny
If there's one thing I've learned about writing and attempting to publish, it would be how much stamina it takes to push through. See, it's not "Oh, I tried once and failed, so it's over." It's trying. A perpetual state of TRYING. Trying to find a good idea. Trying to finish that WIP. Trying to get all the revisions right. Trying to get an agent. Trying to get a book deal. Trying to get readers. Trying to write a sequel. Trying not to go insane. Try, try, try.
It's exhausting. It really is—there's no way to sugar coat it. It's like running a marathon, but you don't know how long you have left. Could be 3 miles. Could be 20. The only sure thing is that if you stop, you won't get to the end...wherever that may be.
I feel like I've been running a long time—I've hit that wall runners talk about (no, I don't run...technical difficulties). They say if you make it past that wall, you get another boost of energy that holds you through the rest of the run. But the wall hurts...I'm out of breath...and I just want to stop. Maybe I'll give it another few minutes. There could be a water cup around that bend—or even the finish line. Nope. Nothing. Maybe the next bend...
But I can't go forever, can I? Is there a breaking point? I'm not sure. I'm no energizer bunny, and I have a strange feeling I'm just going to run out of steam one day. Let's hope I get somewhere first.
It's exhausting. It really is—there's no way to sugar coat it. It's like running a marathon, but you don't know how long you have left. Could be 3 miles. Could be 20. The only sure thing is that if you stop, you won't get to the end...wherever that may be.
I feel like I've been running a long time—I've hit that wall runners talk about (no, I don't run...technical difficulties). They say if you make it past that wall, you get another boost of energy that holds you through the rest of the run. But the wall hurts...I'm out of breath...and I just want to stop. Maybe I'll give it another few minutes. There could be a water cup around that bend—or even the finish line. Nope. Nothing. Maybe the next bend...
But I can't go forever, can I? Is there a breaking point? I'm not sure. I'm no energizer bunny, and I have a strange feeling I'm just going to run out of steam one day. Let's hope I get somewhere first.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Show: Lenka
This is just an adorable song. Currently, I find myself listening to it for one particular line:
I've got to let it go and just enjoy the show.
I think we all need that reminder sometimes. Recently, I've had to remember that A LOT. I've been losing perspective lately, feeling like my life isn't what I want it to be. But really, it is. Sure, I'm not published (or even close) and all that junk, but I'm doing what I love anyway. For right now, I'm determined to focus on the fact that I love to write. That's enough reason for me to keep going, even if it doesn't always feel like that.
I've got to let it go and just enjoy the show.
I think we all need that reminder sometimes. Recently, I've had to remember that A LOT. I've been losing perspective lately, feeling like my life isn't what I want it to be. But really, it is. Sure, I'm not published (or even close) and all that junk, but I'm doing what I love anyway. For right now, I'm determined to focus on the fact that I love to write. That's enough reason for me to keep going, even if it doesn't always feel like that.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Saturday Sketch 3.6 (Contest Winner)
I had the privilege of getting to know Adam's two protagonists from his WIP Air Pirates, you know, since he won my Worst Ending Contest. I couldn't resist drawing both, so see how great it is to win a prize from me? I even over achieve on my prizes!
Air Pirates sounds like one awesome adventure of a novel—pirates, airships, mystical stone from "dead" mother. Um, I'm on board! Arg, matey!
First off we have Hagai, a lazy bookworm who gets said mystical stone for his 21st birthday. Said stone also brings down a world of trouble, since pirates want it for its, uh, powers. (I haven't actually read this book, I totally shouldn't be trying to summarize! Sorry, Adam. Set me straight if needed.)
Then we have Sam, a cunning pirate who forms an unsteady alliance with Hagai. Skilled swordsman, ex-elite solider. *swoon* Um, I already have a crush on him. He's hot and mysterious and all that. Mmm.
Air Pirates sounds like one awesome adventure of a novel—pirates, airships, mystical stone from "dead" mother. Um, I'm on board! Arg, matey!
First off we have Hagai, a lazy bookworm who gets said mystical stone for his 21st birthday. Said stone also brings down a world of trouble, since pirates want it for its, uh, powers. (I haven't actually read this book, I totally shouldn't be trying to summarize! Sorry, Adam. Set me straight if needed.)
Then we have Sam, a cunning pirate who forms an unsteady alliance with Hagai. Skilled swordsman, ex-elite solider. *swoon* Um, I already have a crush on him. He's hot and mysterious and all that. Mmm.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Command Center
I know it's not much, but I'm so proud of my new "desk." Before I was camped out on the couch. Not awesome. Kora kept attacking my poor computer. So I finally moved things around and crammed a card table in a corner. Now I have a place for my stuff...at least until she grows a few more inches.
It's been great. I have a place to write and draw. None of my things are sticky. Now I just need some fancy drawers to put my pencils in and some kind of whiteboard to write reminders on. (I'm a forgetful person who likes to call it "distracted.)
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Worst Ending Contest: The Winner Is...
There were A LOT of bad endings here, but I think one clear winner:
Adam!
Yay! Adam, let's talk about your totally awesome prize and such. You definitely earned it.
Let me take a moment to explain my choice, since I think it sheds a light on what readers might expect from an ending. In reading all the entries (which were pretty dang horrible), certain themes came up that made an ending bad:
1. Too unexpected
Kiersten's Star Wars one is not only unexpected, but nasty. No one would ever buy that as the end (hopefully). Carrie's devastating end for Little Women is also pretty freaking ridiculous, hehe. When something comes out of left field, people just aren't satisfied. That's not to say twists are bad, but that they at least have to be LOGICAL.
2. Negates the entire purpose of the story
Jen had a great example here with Harry Potter waking up from a dream—lame! Getting invested in 700 pages to find out the whole thing was a trippy dream sucks. Nick also had a classic one with Gandalf making Frodo and Sam go to Mordor for nothing. Can you imagine? We got invested for what?
3. No actual resolution
Carrie's Rumplestiltsken falls here—he changes his name to Michael Jackson! Ah! That opens up a whole new can of worms. And H-Duck brought up that terrible scenario where the poor dwarf is flung into a portal never to be heard from again. What the crap? That's it?
4. Goes against "the genre"
Like it or not, genres have formulas. Uh, that's what makes them genres. If you're reading romance, you're expecting somewhat of a happy ending where the couple gets together. Renee's devastating end to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy would have enraged women everywhere! And as completely hilarious as Jessie's ending to Twlight is, talk about a downer! Carrie's violent end to a children's book also kinda breaks that genre expectation.
Well, Adam's awful ending had it all. It was completely unexpected, it negated the entire purpose of the book, it didn't provide an actual resolution since three dudes were now fighting over the ring, AND it went against the genre (in fantasy usually the good guys prevail, bad guys win here). To add on top of all that, he introduced NEW characters in the last scene! The horror! AND he swore in a book I'm pretty sure has none of the sort. Talk about BAD. So congrats, Adam. You can write one terrible ending.
Adam!
Yay! Adam, let's talk about your totally awesome prize and such. You definitely earned it.
Let me take a moment to explain my choice, since I think it sheds a light on what readers might expect from an ending. In reading all the entries (which were pretty dang horrible), certain themes came up that made an ending bad:
1. Too unexpected
Kiersten's Star Wars one is not only unexpected, but nasty. No one would ever buy that as the end (hopefully). Carrie's devastating end for Little Women is also pretty freaking ridiculous, hehe. When something comes out of left field, people just aren't satisfied. That's not to say twists are bad, but that they at least have to be LOGICAL.
2. Negates the entire purpose of the story
Jen had a great example here with Harry Potter waking up from a dream—lame! Getting invested in 700 pages to find out the whole thing was a trippy dream sucks. Nick also had a classic one with Gandalf making Frodo and Sam go to Mordor for nothing. Can you imagine? We got invested for what?
3. No actual resolution
Carrie's Rumplestiltsken falls here—he changes his name to Michael Jackson! Ah! That opens up a whole new can of worms. And H-Duck brought up that terrible scenario where the poor dwarf is flung into a portal never to be heard from again. What the crap? That's it?
4. Goes against "the genre"
Like it or not, genres have formulas. Uh, that's what makes them genres. If you're reading romance, you're expecting somewhat of a happy ending where the couple gets together. Renee's devastating end to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy would have enraged women everywhere! And as completely hilarious as Jessie's ending to Twlight is, talk about a downer! Carrie's violent end to a children's book also kinda breaks that genre expectation.
Well, Adam's awful ending had it all. It was completely unexpected, it negated the entire purpose of the book, it didn't provide an actual resolution since three dudes were now fighting over the ring, AND it went against the genre (in fantasy usually the good guys prevail, bad guys win here). To add on top of all that, he introduced NEW characters in the last scene! The horror! AND he swore in a book I'm pretty sure has none of the sort. Talk about BAD. So congrats, Adam. You can write one terrible ending.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
My Little Characters
Ben was born determined to figure out the world. You can see his mind working out problems—blocks, cars, trains, dinosaurs, computers—he knows it all. He takes things apart. He puts them back together. He can always find something to do...which means trouble. Fiercely independent, he is. He doesn't need help, doesn't want it. He may be only three, but he's already a grumpy old man. Happy to spend his days in busy solitude. Scrutinizing the world with a keen eye.
Kora is bottled sunshine. Sweet and smiling, but not to be dismissed without getting burned. From day one her favorite thing has been other people. Their faces, clothes, and attention are far more entertaining than any toy. She'll steal anyone's heart with one clever smile—and she knows it. A shameless flirt at the age of one, she'll work a room better than a con artist. But as seemingly sweet as she is, don't think she won't hesitate to tell you when you've "crossed the line." Girl's got attitude.
I have a lot of characters in my life—books full of people—but I have to say that these two are definitely my favorite. Can't wait to see how their stories turn out. Too bad I can't write happy endings for them; I can only hope they write their own.
Reminder: Contest is still open! Feel free to enter or reenter. The prize is fabulous.
Kora is bottled sunshine. Sweet and smiling, but not to be dismissed without getting burned. From day one her favorite thing has been other people. Their faces, clothes, and attention are far more entertaining than any toy. She'll steal anyone's heart with one clever smile—and she knows it. A shameless flirt at the age of one, she'll work a room better than a con artist. But as seemingly sweet as she is, don't think she won't hesitate to tell you when you've "crossed the line." Girl's got attitude.
I have a lot of characters in my life—books full of people—but I have to say that these two are definitely my favorite. Can't wait to see how their stories turn out. Too bad I can't write happy endings for them; I can only hope they write their own.
Reminder: Contest is still open! Feel free to enter or reenter. The prize is fabulous.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Revision Reference
I'm calling my last year "The Year of First Drafts" (or TYFD), since I wrote 6.5 books...half of which are still pretty much first drafts. I wrote furiously, too many ideas crowding my itty bitty brain. There are still too many ideas up there, but the pressure has been relieved. For the most part, I feel like I can breathe/think again. Except now I have all these first drafts to review...plus the four or five ideas still floating around...
Naturally, this year is turning out to be "The Year of Revision" (TYR). I've been revising one project or another since January: spit shining Allure, putting Void in first person, paper editing Relax, I'm a Ninja, and I just finished a light edit of what I had on my WIP Hammered. TYR has been a lot of work so far...not nearly as fun as TYFD. But I have learned a lot.
I thought I'd share some of the more subtle things I've picked up in editing. The little ticks that bog down my own writing, and maybe bog down yours too. I've addressed some of these before, but I thought a comprehensive post was in order.
Hedging
Force your characters to commit to their actions. Unless it is truly a halfway action, let those verbs speak. This happens when I use quantifiers in unnecessary places. Common offenders: almost, nearly, about, just, only
Example: She almost ran to the door. => She ran to the door.
Example of necessary quantifier: He almost spat in her face, but decided against it.
Tags
I'm still trying to break my love affair with dialogue tags, especially those that describe exactly how my character said what they said. I think these are my own writer notes in first draft—reminding myself how the character is reacting as I get to know them. Revision has removed 70% of them.
Example: "Thanks a lot," she said vehemently as she placed her hands on her hips. => "Thanks a lot." She put her hands on her hips.
Progressive
This is another way I don't let my characters fully commit to their actions. I throw them into weird, unnecessary progressive setups. These can be eliminated for the most part.
Example: I started writing the number. => I wrote the number.
Example of Necessary: I started writing the number, but he interrupted.
Chattiness
Mostly a first person issue, but still something to be wary of in third, especially if you have a more casual style. My "chattiness" usually comes out in rampant interjections, but it can also be found in fragments, slang, and unconventional punctuation/formatting. None of this is "bad;" it just needs to be kept in balance. Otherwise the prose will be too choppy.
Example: Sure, I was about to go all postal on her, but it wasn't my fault, ya know? => I was about to go postal on her, but it wasn't my fault!
Repetitiveness
I've found most of my repetitiveness to be in "explaining" what my characters just said. This is one of the newest quirks I've discovered; I really didn't know I did this. Let the characters talk; trust that the reader will get it. People who read are smart.
Example: "He won't be bloody still, right?" Stu asked. The guy was squeamish about blood to say the least. Ketchup made him woozy...even fruit punch. => "He won't be bloody, right?" Stu asked. Ketchup made him woozy...even fruit punch.
Stating Observations
Sometimes I stay so firmly in my character's head that I overuse their POV, if that makes any sense. Some of these can be removed. Common offenders: looked, seemed, knew, thought, wondered.
Example: The nurse looked like she was about to laugh. => The nurse was about to laugh.
Example: I knew I didn't have to sing, but I wanted to. => I didn't have to sing, but I wanted to.
Overstaging
When I'm writing, I picture the scene unfolding in a certain way and usually over explain what people are doing while they talk. Common offenders: to, from, away, at (+me/her/him/etc.)
Example: "Did you get dropped on your head as a baby?" He stared at me, right through me it seemed.
I glared right back at him, though he couldn't see. "Actually, yes. I almost died. Thanks for bringing it up."
"Oh." He turned away from me, looking at the black board in front of him.
=> "Did you get dropped on your head as a baby?" He stared through me.
I glared right back, though he couldn't see. "Actually, yes. I almost died. Thanks for bringing it up."
"Oh." He turned back to the black board.
Personal Ticks
We all have them: favorite words and phrases, descriptors we use as a crutch when we blank, common interjections, typical sentence structures, etc. They differ with each writer, but it's important to know your own so you can even them out in revisions. I'll share a few of mine that I'm always on the lookout for:
a little, just, even, dude, okay, cool, incredible, suddenly, awesome, totally, "started+verb," compound sentences, em dashes, and italics/caps for emphasis.
Happy editing, everyone.
Naturally, this year is turning out to be "The Year of Revision" (TYR). I've been revising one project or another since January: spit shining Allure, putting Void in first person, paper editing Relax, I'm a Ninja, and I just finished a light edit of what I had on my WIP Hammered. TYR has been a lot of work so far...not nearly as fun as TYFD. But I have learned a lot.
I thought I'd share some of the more subtle things I've picked up in editing. The little ticks that bog down my own writing, and maybe bog down yours too. I've addressed some of these before, but I thought a comprehensive post was in order.
Hedging
Force your characters to commit to their actions. Unless it is truly a halfway action, let those verbs speak. This happens when I use quantifiers in unnecessary places. Common offenders: almost, nearly, about, just, only
Example: She almost ran to the door. => She ran to the door.
Example of necessary quantifier: He almost spat in her face, but decided against it.
Tags
I'm still trying to break my love affair with dialogue tags, especially those that describe exactly how my character said what they said. I think these are my own writer notes in first draft—reminding myself how the character is reacting as I get to know them. Revision has removed 70% of them.
Example: "Thanks a lot," she said vehemently as she placed her hands on her hips. => "Thanks a lot." She put her hands on her hips.
Progressive
This is another way I don't let my characters fully commit to their actions. I throw them into weird, unnecessary progressive setups. These can be eliminated for the most part.
Example: I started writing the number. => I wrote the number.
Example of Necessary: I started writing the number, but he interrupted.
Chattiness
Mostly a first person issue, but still something to be wary of in third, especially if you have a more casual style. My "chattiness" usually comes out in rampant interjections, but it can also be found in fragments, slang, and unconventional punctuation/formatting. None of this is "bad;" it just needs to be kept in balance. Otherwise the prose will be too choppy.
Example: Sure, I was about to go all postal on her, but it wasn't my fault, ya know? => I was about to go postal on her, but it wasn't my fault!
Repetitiveness
I've found most of my repetitiveness to be in "explaining" what my characters just said. This is one of the newest quirks I've discovered; I really didn't know I did this. Let the characters talk; trust that the reader will get it. People who read are smart.
Example: "He won't be bloody still, right?" Stu asked. The guy was squeamish about blood to say the least. Ketchup made him woozy...even fruit punch. => "He won't be bloody, right?" Stu asked. Ketchup made him woozy...even fruit punch.
Stating Observations
Sometimes I stay so firmly in my character's head that I overuse their POV, if that makes any sense. Some of these can be removed. Common offenders: looked, seemed, knew, thought, wondered.
Example: The nurse looked like she was about to laugh. => The nurse was about to laugh.
Example: I knew I didn't have to sing, but I wanted to. => I didn't have to sing, but I wanted to.
Overstaging
When I'm writing, I picture the scene unfolding in a certain way and usually over explain what people are doing while they talk. Common offenders: to, from, away, at (+me/her/him/etc.)
Example: "Did you get dropped on your head as a baby?" He stared at me, right through me it seemed.
I glared right back at him, though he couldn't see. "Actually, yes. I almost died. Thanks for bringing it up."
"Oh." He turned away from me, looking at the black board in front of him.
=> "Did you get dropped on your head as a baby?" He stared through me.
I glared right back, though he couldn't see. "Actually, yes. I almost died. Thanks for bringing it up."
"Oh." He turned back to the black board.
Personal Ticks
We all have them: favorite words and phrases, descriptors we use as a crutch when we blank, common interjections, typical sentence structures, etc. They differ with each writer, but it's important to know your own so you can even them out in revisions. I'll share a few of mine that I'm always on the lookout for:
a little, just, even, dude, okay, cool, incredible, suddenly, awesome, totally, "started+verb," compound sentences, em dashes, and italics/caps for emphasis.
Happy editing, everyone.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Contest: Worst Way to End a Book
That's right, friends, I want the worst endings you can come up with. You can rewrite the ending of an existing book or make up your own. Whatever. I just want to see some pathetic, disappointing, illogical, ridiculous, and hilarious ways to end stories.
Entries due Wednesday at midnight MST. Multiple submissions are welcome.
And since it's a contest, I guess there needs to be a prize. The person with the terrible ending I love most will receive a full color drawing (an example) of their choice. Your MC, a ninja, a diamond encrusted unicorn—you name it and I will draw it (as long as it's PG-13), post it for this Saturday's Sketch, and MAIL it to you so you can frame it and hug it every night before bed.
Entries due Wednesday at midnight MST. Multiple submissions are welcome.
And since it's a contest, I guess there needs to be a prize. The person with the terrible ending I love most will receive a full color drawing (an example) of their choice. Your MC, a ninja, a diamond encrusted unicorn—you name it and I will draw it (as long as it's PG-13), post it for this Saturday's Sketch, and MAIL it to you so you can frame it and hug it every night before bed.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Saturday Sketch 3.5
Yay! I've finished my paper revision of Relax, I'm a Ninja! It's off to the next round of readers (hope y'all are enjoying it, eek). In honor of the occasion, I give you a full figure sketch of Tosh(iro) Ito, my uber awesome nerd/ninja MC. Now I'm just chillin'. Okay, I'm actually reading/casually editing Hammered. I can't help myself.
Oh, and happy Pi Day! (Ya know, 3.14...3/14 today, heh. Did I mention I was a dork?) We're going over to my lovely in-laws' house for pie. Mmm.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Purge Writing: Invisible Girl
This chick is driving me nuts. She's floating in my head tempting me to ignore revisions and play in firstdraftland again. She doesn't even have a NAME yet, and she's super strong. This means there will be a book at some point. Because I am crazy enough to write this.
Transparent:
The second I was born, I almost died. Doctor dropped me. It's not his fault though. When I smacked the floor and let out a screeching cry, all anyone could see was the semi-transparent umbilical cord, taut and bloody. Poor guy scooped me up, grasping at my invisible body in shock. They guessed I came out breech, because my spine was fractured and the bruising to my head wasn't enough to kill me.
I spent a year in the hospital—not because of injuries. They had to study me; Mom and Dad wanted a cure. They wanted a normal baby. You know, one that flies or can read minds. Instead they got the first invisible child ever. I was famous. The faceless baby.
There was no curing to be had; the supernatural specialists tried everything. The only contraption in the whole place that could capture an image was the x-ray machine. So they had a lot of pictures of my bones and a few face molds. When they gave up trying to bring pigment to my body, my parents took me home. They still got mobbed by paparazzi. Yes, they took pictures of an "empty" car seat, a blanket covering the girl who would never be seen.
Sixteen years later, all I know about myself is that I am five foot eight, a hundred and forty pounds, and the owner of one rocking wardrobe (when all people see is your clothing, it's important, trust me). The most recent mold of my face suggests a nose it's a shame no one can see. The button kind people pay for. My lips are lacking, but I can't know for sure. I took in a mouthful of plaster once and have clamped my lips shut since. Eye color? No clue. Skin? I try to keep it soft, at least. Sometimes I pretend I have freckles, but I could be purple for all I know. Hair? Wavy, wiry. Possibly curly if I had any clue how to style it.
It's not so bad, right? That's what people say if I complain. Brady Mitchell can't see me blush every time he passes me in the halls. And no one can ever say I'm ugly...though no one will ever tell me I'm pretty either. I can literally disappear when I don't feel like dealing with Mom. It's easy to be comfortable naked when no one can see. And I don't have to shave my legs. I hear that sucks.
And yet sometimes I dream about someone who can see me. Someone who could tell me what my eyes look like open. Someone who could describe the tint of my skin. Just so I could know. It's hard enough figuring out who I am on the inside. Maybe it would be easier if I knew who I was on the outside.
Transparent:
The second I was born, I almost died. Doctor dropped me. It's not his fault though. When I smacked the floor and let out a screeching cry, all anyone could see was the semi-transparent umbilical cord, taut and bloody. Poor guy scooped me up, grasping at my invisible body in shock. They guessed I came out breech, because my spine was fractured and the bruising to my head wasn't enough to kill me.
I spent a year in the hospital—not because of injuries. They had to study me; Mom and Dad wanted a cure. They wanted a normal baby. You know, one that flies or can read minds. Instead they got the first invisible child ever. I was famous. The faceless baby.
There was no curing to be had; the supernatural specialists tried everything. The only contraption in the whole place that could capture an image was the x-ray machine. So they had a lot of pictures of my bones and a few face molds. When they gave up trying to bring pigment to my body, my parents took me home. They still got mobbed by paparazzi. Yes, they took pictures of an "empty" car seat, a blanket covering the girl who would never be seen.
Sixteen years later, all I know about myself is that I am five foot eight, a hundred and forty pounds, and the owner of one rocking wardrobe (when all people see is your clothing, it's important, trust me). The most recent mold of my face suggests a nose it's a shame no one can see. The button kind people pay for. My lips are lacking, but I can't know for sure. I took in a mouthful of plaster once and have clamped my lips shut since. Eye color? No clue. Skin? I try to keep it soft, at least. Sometimes I pretend I have freckles, but I could be purple for all I know. Hair? Wavy, wiry. Possibly curly if I had any clue how to style it.
It's not so bad, right? That's what people say if I complain. Brady Mitchell can't see me blush every time he passes me in the halls. And no one can ever say I'm ugly...though no one will ever tell me I'm pretty either. I can literally disappear when I don't feel like dealing with Mom. It's easy to be comfortable naked when no one can see. And I don't have to shave my legs. I hear that sucks.
And yet sometimes I dream about someone who can see me. Someone who could tell me what my eyes look like open. Someone who could describe the tint of my skin. Just so I could know. It's hard enough figuring out who I am on the inside. Maybe it would be easier if I knew who I was on the outside.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Inadequacy
Alright, it's time to just say it. Maybe owning up to my current problems, however embarrassing they may be, will help me get over it. Because I've tried just about everything else.
I'm not nearly as strong as I act. My inner editor, the insidious AAC, has commandeered my brain. I can't bring myself to think my writing is more than crap, let alone good. (Michelle calls this Isuckitis...well named.)
Take this sentence: "I couldn't think of anything to say to her."
Translated in my head: "Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap."
I've edited my brains out. Cut 10k from my MS. I look back, and it still isn't there, and then I start to think it's NEVER going to be there. And why am I doing this again? Why do I want this? It's just a silly childhood dream to be published. I don't need all this frustration—this is why I was afraid to try in the first place! This sucks. It's NOT fun anymore. Not even close.
And yet I'm sitting here with my MS pages cradled in my lap, tearing up because I love this story so much and I can't seem to do it justice. I jot down another word change, cross out a sentence, combine a paragraph, write a "better" description...I just keep going...why am I going? Why am I editing when even the changes don't quite make it what it deserves to be? How in the world can I keep putting myself through this?
I am inadequate; it's the truth. Always will be (bear with me here, I have a point). I'm sure every writer has felt that way at one point—probably more than once. My fingers can't type the perfect words to represent the people and worlds in my head. I try so very hard, knowing I'll never quite get there. Oh, I know I'll get better, but that unreachable perfection, those exact words I want, will never grace my pages without a considerable amount of pain, fear, work, and error. And even after blood red pages, it still won't be "perfect."
I could give up...hell, I should give up, shouldn't I? I'm grasping for an unattainable ideal. Because let's face it, even if I work my whole life I will never, ever write the "perfect" book. I will always see a flaw—there will always be a flaw. Crap. I'm human. (Even if I pretend to be a cyborg.)
Then I realize that my writing is just like me: a living, breathing thing that grows everyday. Sometimes I can be beautiful, sweet, kind—near perfect. Other times I'm ugly, rude, hateful. My writing is the same way. I'm a literal work in progress, and my Creator hasn't given up on me. I shouldn't give up on what I've created either. If he can accept my "best effort," then surely I can accept that of my own flawed writing.
I'm not nearly as strong as I act. My inner editor, the insidious AAC, has commandeered my brain. I can't bring myself to think my writing is more than crap, let alone good. (Michelle calls this Isuckitis...well named.)
Take this sentence: "I couldn't think of anything to say to her."
Translated in my head: "Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap."
I've edited my brains out. Cut 10k from my MS. I look back, and it still isn't there, and then I start to think it's NEVER going to be there. And why am I doing this again? Why do I want this? It's just a silly childhood dream to be published. I don't need all this frustration—this is why I was afraid to try in the first place! This sucks. It's NOT fun anymore. Not even close.
And yet I'm sitting here with my MS pages cradled in my lap, tearing up because I love this story so much and I can't seem to do it justice. I jot down another word change, cross out a sentence, combine a paragraph, write a "better" description...I just keep going...why am I going? Why am I editing when even the changes don't quite make it what it deserves to be? How in the world can I keep putting myself through this?
I am inadequate; it's the truth. Always will be (bear with me here, I have a point). I'm sure every writer has felt that way at one point—probably more than once. My fingers can't type the perfect words to represent the people and worlds in my head. I try so very hard, knowing I'll never quite get there. Oh, I know I'll get better, but that unreachable perfection, those exact words I want, will never grace my pages without a considerable amount of pain, fear, work, and error. And even after blood red pages, it still won't be "perfect."
I could give up...hell, I should give up, shouldn't I? I'm grasping for an unattainable ideal. Because let's face it, even if I work my whole life I will never, ever write the "perfect" book. I will always see a flaw—there will always be a flaw. Crap. I'm human. (Even if I pretend to be a cyborg.)
Then I realize that my writing is just like me: a living, breathing thing that grows everyday. Sometimes I can be beautiful, sweet, kind—near perfect. Other times I'm ugly, rude, hateful. My writing is the same way. I'm a literal work in progress, and my Creator hasn't given up on me. I shouldn't give up on what I've created either. If he can accept my "best effort," then surely I can accept that of my own flawed writing.
It's Been Too Long
With this revising, I haven't written in two weeks. That probably doesn't sound like a big deal to some, but I usually write something everyday. I'm getting so antsy! I want to write so bad, but I need to stay focused on this revision. Arg. So close, and yet so far away. And I just found a little plot hole I need to spackle in, so hopefully I can get that ironed out.
But even when I'm finished with the ninjas, I won't be able to jump right back in with my cyborgs. I can barely remember what I wrote! So I'll have to reread...which means I'll compulsively edit the 30k I already have down...which means I'll probably not write for yet another week. Crap!
Is anyone else like this? Do you feel unproductive when you're not writing new material? For some reason I don't feel productive when I'm editing, though I know it's essential. I'm not moving forward like I do when I'm first drafting. That's probably why I get down and grumpy (like an addict going through withdrawals).
Can't wait to put some new words on paper soon!
But even when I'm finished with the ninjas, I won't be able to jump right back in with my cyborgs. I can barely remember what I wrote! So I'll have to reread...which means I'll compulsively edit the 30k I already have down...which means I'll probably not write for yet another week. Crap!
Is anyone else like this? Do you feel unproductive when you're not writing new material? For some reason I don't feel productive when I'm editing, though I know it's essential. I'm not moving forward like I do when I'm first drafting. That's probably why I get down and grumpy (like an addict going through withdrawals).
Can't wait to put some new words on paper soon!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Closing In
I'm 50 pages away from finishing my revisions on Relax, I'm a Ninja. Woot. So far, I've cut one full chapter, and combined chapters twice. It's been an interesting process, cutting so much (almost 10k words). I miss the scenes, and in my brain they've happened so it's hard to remember that when people won't see those parts...even if they were unnecessary/repetitive.
But the manuscript is stronger now. I've removed a lot of Tosh's Captain Obvious statements. Man, he was a PRO at redundance. He thinks he's so clever. (Notice I'm blaming this on him and not myself, and I'm sticking with it.) And I've added more description to round out the prose.
Overall, I'm sure this baby reads much better now. The story arch is streamlined. And the characters are just awesome. At least I hope so, since this was a heck of a lot of work. Hopefully my next round of readers can help me polish it even more.
Seriously, bless agent feedback. So grateful that a few took the time to steer me in the right direction. Even if it was momentarily devastating.
So...back to entering paper edits for me. Hope you're all having a lovely day in blogland.
But the manuscript is stronger now. I've removed a lot of Tosh's Captain Obvious statements. Man, he was a PRO at redundance. He thinks he's so clever. (Notice I'm blaming this on him and not myself, and I'm sticking with it.) And I've added more description to round out the prose.
Overall, I'm sure this baby reads much better now. The story arch is streamlined. And the characters are just awesome. At least I hope so, since this was a heck of a lot of work. Hopefully my next round of readers can help me polish it even more.
Seriously, bless agent feedback. So grateful that a few took the time to steer me in the right direction. Even if it was momentarily devastating.
So...back to entering paper edits for me. Hope you're all having a lovely day in blogland.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sparkly Unicorns
I keep running into these intense, semi-dreary, high stakes books. It's not that they're bad in anyway—just a touch depressing and CRAZY toying with my emotions. And let's face it, I'm an extremely emotional person whether I want to be or not. I identify too much with fictional characters, leaving me with sleepless nights and heartaches, lol.
Anyway...this got me thinking about my own writing, naturally. Before all these depressing/intense/chilling/ACK-you're-killing-me-here books, I thought my stuff was pretty dramatic and intense. Turns out I'm fairly light-hearted in the end. Even my darkest piece, Sealed, has a healthy dose of dry sarcasm.
Of course things escalate in my books. Of course there is conflict. But it seems I can't manage the high stakes feel of death and doom. And I'm TOTALLY okay with that! In fact, I like fluffy bunnies. I think the world needs more butterfly rainbows and puppies dressed like people.
I think, in the end, this is why I write with fantastical/paranormal/futuristic elements. I reserve the right to bring in a diamond encrusted Unicorn if needed, just to lighten the mood. I'm perfectly fine leaving the unbelievably high stakes to other writers (what? the MC must fight for her life AND save the world AND choose between two lovers AND find a cure for her mom's illness AND bake a batch of snickerdoodles for the town fair? In ONE book? AHHH!).
As of now, I'm on the look out for "Squee" books—the ones that make your heart tingle with glittery joy and smile like a little girl playing dress up. I need happy, cute, bubbly. Feel free to leave suggestions.
Goal for my next book: CUTE, and quirky...with pink kittens that sing "Don't Worry, Be Happy."
Anyway...this got me thinking about my own writing, naturally. Before all these depressing/intense/chilling/ACK-you're-killing-me-here books, I thought my stuff was pretty dramatic and intense. Turns out I'm fairly light-hearted in the end. Even my darkest piece, Sealed, has a healthy dose of dry sarcasm.
Of course things escalate in my books. Of course there is conflict. But it seems I can't manage the high stakes feel of death and doom. And I'm TOTALLY okay with that! In fact, I like fluffy bunnies. I think the world needs more butterfly rainbows and puppies dressed like people.
I think, in the end, this is why I write with fantastical/paranormal/futuristic elements. I reserve the right to bring in a diamond encrusted Unicorn if needed, just to lighten the mood. I'm perfectly fine leaving the unbelievably high stakes to other writers (what? the MC must fight for her life AND save the world AND choose between two lovers AND find a cure for her mom's illness AND bake a batch of snickerdoodles for the town fair? In ONE book? AHHH!).
As of now, I'm on the look out for "Squee" books—the ones that make your heart tingle with glittery joy and smile like a little girl playing dress up. I need happy, cute, bubbly. Feel free to leave suggestions.
Goal for my next book: CUTE, and quirky...with pink kittens that sing "Don't Worry, Be Happy."
Monday, March 9, 2009
My New Love Affair
I'm in love—it's true. I'm all glossy-eyed twitterpated. I'm mentally frolicking in a field of daisies and clovers. I haven't felt this kind of spark since I discovered my rabid passion for cheese or my enthusiasm for Anime or my obsession with writing weird books (oh wait, and the orange belt).
Oh, Google Earth, my sweet lover, how you've added a new AWESOME dimension to my otherwise flat google maps. Ever since I've downloaded you, we've spent hours exploring the globe (okay, mostly San Francisco, but still, we'll be vacationing many places, cupcake).
I can't believe what you've opened up for me and my writing. You make my life complete. I can plug in locations and get EXACT visuals of the places in my books. Thus, I can describe real settings with complete accuracy—and yet I've never been there (except a few times as a little kid). Pictures, directions, landmarks, 360 DEGREE VIEWS...oh, Google Earth, you are too good. I don't know if I can thank Stephanie enough for the recommendation on her uber blog. How did I ever live without you?
*whispers sweet nothings to Google Earth*
(seriously guys, download Google Earth if you write in "real" settings. so, so cool.)
In other news, some of my art is being featured on Michelle's blog today. I did a visual for her novel Monarch. And Carrie Harris is having a hilarious contest on her blog—so pop on over there and try to win that prize!
Oh, Google Earth, my sweet lover, how you've added a new AWESOME dimension to my otherwise flat google maps. Ever since I've downloaded you, we've spent hours exploring the globe (okay, mostly San Francisco, but still, we'll be vacationing many places, cupcake).
I can't believe what you've opened up for me and my writing. You make my life complete. I can plug in locations and get EXACT visuals of the places in my books. Thus, I can describe real settings with complete accuracy—and yet I've never been there (except a few times as a little kid). Pictures, directions, landmarks, 360 DEGREE VIEWS...oh, Google Earth, you are too good. I don't know if I can thank Stephanie enough for the recommendation on her uber blog. How did I ever live without you?
*whispers sweet nothings to Google Earth*
(seriously guys, download Google Earth if you write in "real" settings. so, so cool.)
In other news, some of my art is being featured on Michelle's blog today. I did a visual for her novel Monarch. And Carrie Harris is having a hilarious contest on her blog—so pop on over there and try to win that prize!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Sunday Song: Many The Miles
If you haven't heard of Sara Bareilles, you've been living under a huge mossy rock. Sorry, it's true. Let me help you crawl out from under today. I could listen to this girl sing all day. I love every song. She's got soul.
Today I'm posting Many the Miles. It seems like the appropriate pick for what I've been going through in my head lately.
Some people say I live my life in fast forward, but I've never bought into the idea that I can't live my dreams right now. I've heard several times that you can't be a "good" writer until you're at least 30. What the heck? Why not? I work my butt off. I've also been told that I was supposed to wait another 10 years to get married and then another 5 to have kids. Um, WHY? Why can't I live my dream now? There is nothing that makes me happier than having my babes right now.
Life is short—and I don't know when mine is going to be finished. I can't bear to waste the precious time I have on things that aren't important to me. And even though I sometimes "lose sight of the good life," I always bounce back. As Ms. Bareilles says, "love comes in." Love somehow fixes everything.
Today I'm posting Many the Miles. It seems like the appropriate pick for what I've been going through in my head lately.
Some people say I live my life in fast forward, but I've never bought into the idea that I can't live my dreams right now. I've heard several times that you can't be a "good" writer until you're at least 30. What the heck? Why not? I work my butt off. I've also been told that I was supposed to wait another 10 years to get married and then another 5 to have kids. Um, WHY? Why can't I live my dream now? There is nothing that makes me happier than having my babes right now.
Life is short—and I don't know when mine is going to be finished. I can't bear to waste the precious time I have on things that aren't important to me. And even though I sometimes "lose sight of the good life," I always bounce back. As Ms. Bareilles says, "love comes in." Love somehow fixes everything.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Saturday Sketch 3.4
Kiersten gets a treat today. I decided to draw Evie "Green" from her totally awesome book Paranormalcy. I LOVE Evie, and I'm sure that everyone who's met her loves her too. She is just adorable and kick-butt at the same time.
I'm doing well, if anyone was wondering. It's amazing what a week can do for your mood. Totally back to normal over here—just plugging away on edits and such. Went to B&N to pick up The Graveyard Book and a few others. I have way too long a reading list now. I'm going to have to take a month and just read them all. That sounds like fun.
NOTE: Dread Pirate Sara did a video trailer for my book Void! Go check it out, it's so fun.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Revisions: A Visual
I've been deep in revisions this week, which is a trying yet rewarding process. I'm a little less than half way through, but I'm so pleased with the way Relax, I'm a Ninja is looking. So to sum up: It REALLY sucks to get fulls rejected, but it can have beneficial effects to your writing. And wonderful life lessons to boot. I'm feeling a lot better now, thanks to fatty food, wonderful family and friends, some hilarious blogs, and a cathartic drawing session.
Now I'm going to take you on a visual trip of the lessons I learned this week, one that should demonstrate how important revisions really are. I know most writers hate revising (I'm right there), but the result is incredible.
1. The First Draft.
It's pretty, isn't it? I mean, it's way more than the rough sketch I started with. It's clean and finished and awesome. I always get excited when I finish a picture—such an accomplishment. But as lovely as it is, I know it can be so much more if I want it to be. I could take this sketch further...I could add some color.
2. Revision Round One
I've added color! Isn't it great? I spent a lot of time making what I thought was great that much better. Oh so pretty—I'm done right? I'm going to send it to some friends and see what they think. They are going to LOVE it.
*sends awesome colored picture to friends*
Hmm, they liked it, but they said I should have added some background or something. I guess they're right. It could be even better if I do full color. Yeah, that would ROCK! I'm going to put my ninja self up against the universe in all her glowing glory. Sweet!
3. Revision Round Two (or fifteen, whatever)
Boy, I hate drawing backgrounds. They take SO LONG! Does it really need a background? It looks good enough right now—I don't have to do the whole thing do I? Nah, it's fine. I'll just stop. It looks GREAT. I'm going to send it to some people, see if I can get it in an art magazine or something. They'll love it for sure.
*sends it out*
Hmm, they TOTALLY called me on that half-crap background, but they sure like the figure. They can tell I have some kind of talent if I'd just finish what I started. Dang it, why didn't I realize that my little minuscule copout would be such a big deal. Fine fine, I'll finish that stupid background.
4. The FINAL Product
Wow, I didn't realize my simple sketch could be this good. I was happy with the black and white...the colored figure...the copout background. Who would have guessed I was capable of this? I sure didn't know. I honestly thought I was doing my best, turns out all I needed was someone to show me how much better I could be.
So the universe may have broken my bo staff, but at least it gave me these shiny twin swords in return. Now I just have to figure out how to use them—then I'll be kicking Fate's butt again. Rawr!
Now I'm going to take you on a visual trip of the lessons I learned this week, one that should demonstrate how important revisions really are. I know most writers hate revising (I'm right there), but the result is incredible.
1. The First Draft.
It's pretty, isn't it? I mean, it's way more than the rough sketch I started with. It's clean and finished and awesome. I always get excited when I finish a picture—such an accomplishment. But as lovely as it is, I know it can be so much more if I want it to be. I could take this sketch further...I could add some color.
2. Revision Round One
I've added color! Isn't it great? I spent a lot of time making what I thought was great that much better. Oh so pretty—I'm done right? I'm going to send it to some friends and see what they think. They are going to LOVE it.
*sends awesome colored picture to friends*
Hmm, they liked it, but they said I should have added some background or something. I guess they're right. It could be even better if I do full color. Yeah, that would ROCK! I'm going to put my ninja self up against the universe in all her glowing glory. Sweet!
3. Revision Round Two (or fifteen, whatever)
Boy, I hate drawing backgrounds. They take SO LONG! Does it really need a background? It looks good enough right now—I don't have to do the whole thing do I? Nah, it's fine. I'll just stop. It looks GREAT. I'm going to send it to some people, see if I can get it in an art magazine or something. They'll love it for sure.
*sends it out*
Hmm, they TOTALLY called me on that half-crap background, but they sure like the figure. They can tell I have some kind of talent if I'd just finish what I started. Dang it, why didn't I realize that my little minuscule copout would be such a big deal. Fine fine, I'll finish that stupid background.
4. The FINAL Product
Wow, I didn't realize my simple sketch could be this good. I was happy with the black and white...the colored figure...the copout background. Who would have guessed I was capable of this? I sure didn't know. I honestly thought I was doing my best, turns out all I needed was someone to show me how much better I could be.
So the universe may have broken my bo staff, but at least it gave me these shiny twin swords in return. Now I just have to figure out how to use them—then I'll be kicking Fate's butt again. Rawr!
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Cake
I'm currently eating the rest of my son's birthday cake straight from the pan. Make what you will of that. I'll probably be lying low the rest of the week as I revise ninjas and attempt to pull myself out of a really dark place.
I can't imagine anyone would need to get hold of me, but if you do feel free to use the email on my profile page. I'll see it. I'll be back for Saturday Sketch, can't miss that.
Update 12:43 PM: Now eating a ridiculous amount of leftover shepherd's pie. Contemplating seducing husband into bringing home hot wings and fries. Revisions? Eh, eating is funner.
Update 6:54 PM: Double cheeseburger, onion rings, cherry limeade, AND Ben & Jerry's. My husband is the BEST.
I can't imagine anyone would need to get hold of me, but if you do feel free to use the email on my profile page. I'll see it. I'll be back for Saturday Sketch, can't miss that.
Update 12:43 PM: Now eating a ridiculous amount of leftover shepherd's pie. Contemplating seducing husband into bringing home hot wings and fries. Revisions? Eh, eating is funner.
Update 6:54 PM: Double cheeseburger, onion rings, cherry limeade, AND Ben & Jerry's. My husband is the BEST.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
They Rub Off On Me
My main characters rub off on me when I'm writing. As if I haven't proved my insanity enough. But it's true. When I was writing Keira, I was feisty, confident, and determined (but still not a dragon, unfortunately). Writing Adrie brought out more swear words than I'd like to admit (thank goodness that only lasted a 15 days). And channeling Tosh released my inner dweeb and brought out my awesome ninja skills (oh wait...not really, I'm that all the time).
Danie in Hammered is giving me her GAD (generalized anxiety disorder) and OCD. I already have these tendencies, and they're only getting stronger as I put myself in her place. It's making the story very difficult to write—I'm panicking over messing it up, obsessing over the plot and if it's the right way to go. I KNOW I'm blowing it out of proportion just like she would (we're both trying to tell ourselves it's not a big deal).
I love this story, and yet I can't write it right now with my issues AND editing ninjas. Too much criticism floating around in my head. I miss it; I really hope I can get back to it soon.
In hopes of breaking through my anxiety, I'm going to be bold and post the first chapter:
Chapter 1
Danie in Hammered is giving me her GAD (generalized anxiety disorder) and OCD. I already have these tendencies, and they're only getting stronger as I put myself in her place. It's making the story very difficult to write—I'm panicking over messing it up, obsessing over the plot and if it's the right way to go. I KNOW I'm blowing it out of proportion just like she would (we're both trying to tell ourselves it's not a big deal).
I love this story, and yet I can't write it right now with my issues AND editing ninjas. Too much criticism floating around in my head. I miss it; I really hope I can get back to it soon.
In hopes of breaking through my anxiety, I'm going to be bold and post the first chapter:
Chapter 1
Monday, March 2, 2009
When I Go Hardcore
The gloves are off, people. Now that I have all the feedback from my betas (and a certain wonderful agent), Relax, I'm A Ninja is getting the spit shine of its life. I did actually train and work as an editor in college. Sometimes I forget my editing abilities when I get in creative mode, but the shrewd editor is out now. I thought you might like a peek into her process.
1. Chapter Outline
First, I organize the MS into chapter groups and file them in sections. Then I skim through the MS and write out what happens in each chapter. Not anything in depth, just enough for me to see the story arc and any repetitive elements. Then I write notes about what can be shortened, chapters that may need combing/splitting/refocusing, thing to cut, sections to move, etc. Anything that an overall look will accomplish before getting to the nitty gritty. Because if I am going to chop a whole chapter, I don't want to waste time editing it first.2. Hardcore Editing
I'm about 200% better at editing on paper. I don't know, I'm just one of those people. Everything is clearer when I have a red pen in my hand. I prune, cut, move, change, add, organize, and punctuate properly until the papers bleed. During this time, I only let myself do a couple chapters a day because it takes up so much time. I'll admit right now I haven't done this for every single one of my books. I've done it for those I've submitted to agents (Sevene, zombies, dragons, ninjas).3. Entering Changes
After I edit my two or three chapters, I enter the changes into the computer that day (or the next). I don't like to leave them all for when I finish because it feels too overwhelming. If I can focus on one section at a time, I can handle the enormity of process. When I enter a change, I highlight it in the paper MS to confirm it's been put in. That way I don't lose track or have to reread to make sure I got them all.After I'm done, I usually send it to one or two more readers to make sure the changes are cohesive and I didn't leave out anything important. After I revise from those comments, I'll do one more read to catch any other small ticks and typos.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The Minnow & The Trout
I am having such a hard time picking just one song these days. My list of Sunday Song options grows faster than I can post them. Goodness, I could probably post a song daily and not have a problem.
Today I chose The Minnow & The Trout by A Fine Frenzy. Alison Sudol (A Fine Frenzy) is an incredible artist. One of those real song writers. I was going to say this song reminds me of Hammered. But when I started thinking about it, this song can apply to all my books. Acknowledging our differences but also rejoicing in our similarities is a thread that can be found in all my writing. It's something I really believe in. I'm providing the lyrics today as well. And check out her other songs; they are all gorgeous.
The Minnow & The Trout
Help me out,
Said the minnow to the trout
I was lost and found
Myself swimming in your mouth
Oh, help me chief,
I've got plans for you and me
I swear upon this riverbed,
I'll help you feel young again
Oh, not your everyday circumstance
The hummingbird
Taking coffee with the ants,
And I said
(Chorus)
Please, I know that we're different
But we were one cell in the sea in the beginning
And what we're made of was all the same once
We're not that different after all
Help me up, said the eagle to the duck
I've fallen from my nest so high above
Oh, help me fly, I am too afraid to try
Now saddled with a fear of heights
I'm praying you can set me right
Oh, not your everyday circumstance
The elephant
Sharing peanuts with the rats,
And I said
(Chorus)
We are tied in history,
Wide-connected like a family
We are tied in history,
Wide-connected like a family, a family...
(Chorus)
Today I chose The Minnow & The Trout by A Fine Frenzy. Alison Sudol (A Fine Frenzy) is an incredible artist. One of those real song writers. I was going to say this song reminds me of Hammered. But when I started thinking about it, this song can apply to all my books. Acknowledging our differences but also rejoicing in our similarities is a thread that can be found in all my writing. It's something I really believe in. I'm providing the lyrics today as well. And check out her other songs; they are all gorgeous.
The Minnow & The Trout
Help me out,
Said the minnow to the trout
I was lost and found
Myself swimming in your mouth
Oh, help me chief,
I've got plans for you and me
I swear upon this riverbed,
I'll help you feel young again
Oh, not your everyday circumstance
The hummingbird
Taking coffee with the ants,
And I said
(Chorus)
Please, I know that we're different
But we were one cell in the sea in the beginning
And what we're made of was all the same once
We're not that different after all
Help me up, said the eagle to the duck
I've fallen from my nest so high above
Oh, help me fly, I am too afraid to try
Now saddled with a fear of heights
I'm praying you can set me right
Oh, not your everyday circumstance
The elephant
Sharing peanuts with the rats,
And I said
(Chorus)
We are tied in history,
Wide-connected like a family
We are tied in history,
Wide-connected like a family, a family...
(Chorus)
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