I have to preface this by saying that I do not think switching POVs in a scene without chapter breaks works, no matter what that 'expert' in Writer's Digest says. It smacks of amateur. It reeks. I just got done reading a middle grade novel with five characters and mutiple POVs. It was in third person, and it did work, but I didn't like it. It was very noticable. Maybe not as clunky as a lot of stories like that are, but it did clunk a bit. That is my biggest petpeeve when I review on Writing.com, and probably the main reason I don't review much. There's just too much crapola out there.
EXERCISE 3---POV
Five years. That’s how long it’s been. Five years during which I tried to get on with my life, tried to forget the past. I’ve decided that it’s impossible to forget, and nearly impossible to forgive. I like to think I’ve forgiven him, that I can at least offer him that, but I’m not sure. Ever since his mother told me his release date, I’ve been one big mass of confusion.
Now, though, now I’m going to see him. The thought makes my stomach clench, but whether in nervousness or excitement I’m not sure.
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” Mom said last night. “I just can’t understand it. Why? After what he did to our family, this should be the last thing you want to do.” She pressed her lips together. “I thought you’d forgotten about him.”
“I tried,” I said, but I don’t think she believed me. I did try, no matter what she thinks.
A blue sedan turns down the street, and I know it’s him. I have no idea what his reaction will be. I haven’t spoken to him since the day of the accident. The last time I saw him was at the sentencing, and that was such a horrible experience I’ve done my best to forget that whole day.
I wonder if he kept the letters I sent, letters full of words I can’t even remember now. He never answered, so eventually I stopped writing. I guess he forgot about me. Or wanted to.
Why am I here? Why am I waiting to see him when I should be home studying for my exam in the morning? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
The sedan pulls into the driveway, rocks crunching beneath the tires. I’m standing beneath the elm tree in the yard, frozen, paralyzed, nauseated. The leaves rustle above my head, normally a comforting sound, now only annoying and distracting. Marcy gives me a little wave through the window, her face tight and distressed. I know she doesn’t want me here.
The passenger door opens and my breath catches a little. I see his head first, that blonde hair so short now, and then all of him as he straightens and shuts the door.
He walks around the front of the car, and now he sees me, and he stops. I can’t move, unable to look away from those green eyes. I can’t breathe. All I can see is him.
“Joey,” Marcy says, shooting me an unfriendly glance. “Come on inside. I know you’re tired.”
Ignoring her, he shakes off her hand and walks toward me. The expression on his face—oh, God. I don’t think I can do this.
I turn away, pressing my forehead into the rough tree bark.
I can’t believe she’s here. I must be dreaming. I have to be dreaming. I stare at her auburn hair, shiny against the back of her green shirt. I want to touch it. I want to feel it slide through my fingers, want to—stop. Shut up. Just shut up. Shut up. It’s been five years. Five years since I spoke her name. Since I touched her. Since I killed her brother.
I have to swallow hard to keep from puking. There’s too many memories here. I clench my fists, forgetting the letters I’m holding. Her letters, the only things that kept me from going nuts in that hole. I’d read them over and over, until her words were etched into my mind.
My hand reaches out to brush the back of her arm. That’s it. That’s all I can do. The feel of her skin burns me with memories I’ve spent five years trying to bury.
She turns around slowly, so that bit by bit I see her face. Fear nearly chokes me. What if she hates me? I don’t think—oh, shit, she’s crying.
“I can’t do this. I can’t.” She doesn’t move, though, just scrubs a hand across her eyes as if angry. That’s ok. Anger I can do. Anger’s what I’m all about.
I need to say something, but I can’t. It’s like my jaw’s locked. So I hold out the letters, hoping that will speak for me. Her expression goes from puzzlement to understanding in an instant. More tears slide down her cheeks and she sniffs noisily.
“You…you saved them? I thought…” she trails off, biting her lip. I’m still holding out the letters like an idiot, and eventually she takes them, carefully not touching me.
I know what she thought. And I did try to forget her, I really did. But she’d crept beneath my skin. She’s still there, crawling to the surface.
“I know,” I say, feeling like a jerk. “I’m sorry, Cass.” God. Are there any other words as worthless as those? I am sorry. I’ve been sorry since I woke up in the hospital and Mom told me Derek was dead.
I wonder what she’s thinking, staring at the letters clutched in her hand.
If I keep my eyes on the letters, I won’t have to look at him. His feet move closer, swishing through the overgrown grass. My arm brushes against the tree, scratching my skin.
“I’m sorry, Cass,” he says, sending a shiver down my neck. Mom was right: I should never have come, should never have seen him. Because now that I have, all I want is to feel his arms around me again. I want—I want him again.
Finally I raise my head, trying to remember to breathe. I see the past in his green eyes, in the set of his shoulders. There’s a hard cast to his mouth now, and a jagged scar across his cheekbone. I want to kiss the hardness away until only the softness remains. I want to erase the hurt and the regret from his face and bring back the boy I used to love.
“I know you are,” I say softly, stretching out my hand to him. When he hesitates, I try to smile. “It’s okay, Joel. I…I forgive you.” Saying the words is easy—too easy. Can forgiveness really be so simple? I pray it is.
For a second he only stares at me, as if he can’t believe it. Our hands touch, fingers twining together, and then he pulls me into his arms.
“Cass, oh, God, Cass,” he mumbles into my hair, holding me tight against him.
I slide my hands around his waist, press my ear against his chest so that all I hear is the beating of his heart.
**I'm not sure about the last scene. Should keep it when i post this in HWG? Or just the first 2?
Plus, I'm worried that last part is too....melodramatic or something. oh well.
26 October 2007
25 October 2007
No NaNo For Me
No NaNoWriMo for Wendopolis this year. Why? Because I've got to finish "Only You" and I am determined to do so. Taking 30 days off to whip out 50,000 words of shite wont' help me, it will only hinder.
That being said, must get butt in gear.
That being said, must get butt in gear.
24 October 2007
Why do I have to be professional when they're not?
Here's the deal: I submitted a story to an online magazine, Aberrant Dreams, February 26 of this year. Their guidelines state the response time as being 1-5 months. Ok, I'm down with that. So why is it nearly eight months now and I've not heard a word? I've queried as to the status of my submission and gotten no response. Is that professional? I'm thinking not. So my options are to keep waiting or formally withdraw my story and subbing it elsewhere. Am I wrong to be annoyed by this? Yeah, yeah, they get lots of subs, etc, yadda yadda yadda. Fine. But why does that make it okay to jerk me and I'm sure others around? I keep checking ralan.com just in case there's anything about response times for the mag, but nada so far.
Grrrr.
Grrrr.
Exercise 1 and 2
Recently I've begun participating in a group workshop on writing.com. We've begun doing writing exercises, and they've been quite helpful. The first one I didn't do so hot, but the second I did much better:
Exercise 1: Sensory
A sweaty arm brushed against Melanie’s, slicking her skin with alien liquid. She jerked away, only to plunge face-first into a humid forest of chest hair.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, pushing hard with both hands. Curses clanged in her ears as she bounced off more bodies, finally coming to a rest against a wall in the corner. The familiar strains of one of her favorite songs filled the venue, sending shivers down on her. If only she could see!
Gathering her courage, she shoved bodies out of her way, getting punches and curses and once even a squeeze in return. It didn’t matter, though; she had to get closer, had to be in the front. Once he saw her, everything would just fall into place, as it was meant to be.
Stephan began singing, and her urgency increased. It had to be this song. If she didn’t make it up front where he could see her, then all would be lost. But an impenetrable wall of flesh blocked her every move. Tears pricked her eyes as she struggled to breathe in the hot, smoke-filled air.
Then she fell to the filthy floor and began crawling through legs, determined to achieve her goal. A boot crunched down on her hand, another jabbed her leg. Her knee came down in a cold puddle of something she didn’t want to think about, and still more legs, more bodies, more obstacles.
Crying, nose dripping, filthy from head to toe, one questing hand found the way clear as the music became almost unbearably loud. The stage! She’d made it. Now to get Stephan’s attention…
Hands gripped her arms and began dragging her backwards.
“Uh-uh, missy,” a rough voice growled in her ear. “You’re getting too close.”
“Stephan! Stephan! It’s me, Melanie!” She screamed and screamed, clawing at the hands, until the music faded away.
Exercise 2: Character
Melanie leaned against the grimy brick wall, cradling her hand against her chest. She could barely move her fingers, and they hurt like the devil. God, she was such a mess. Brown stains covered her black dress, and there was something that looked like puke ground into the laces of one boot.
But she didn’t care. She was going to see Stephan, talk to him, make him understand that they belonged together. If only she’d been able to reach the stage and get his attention, she sure as shit wouldn’t be standing in an alley behind the Bottleneck, waiting for the concert to end. Concert. What a joke. A stinky, smelly bar with room for only fifty people? That wasn’t a concert, it was a party. A party she’d been kicked out of.
Fuming, she paced back and forth, trying to ignore the way her boots rubbed against her heels. Hot Topic hadn’t carried her size, but she’d bought them anyway, who cared if they were half a size too small? They were kick ass boots that laced clear up to her knees.
The steel door clanged open, making her jump. If it was one of those sonofabitching body guards—
It was Stephan. For a second she couldn’t move, transfixed by the sight of him after so long. He twisted open a bottle of water and took a drink. His hair was black now, instead of the dirty blonde color it was last time. It suited him, she thought.
It was now or never.
“Stephan,” she said, stepping out of the shadows. He jerked, spilling the water on his shirt.
“What the hell?”
“It’s me. Melanie.” He just stared at her blankly. “The Granada? Two years ago?” It never entered her mind that he wouldn’t remember. “You invited me back to your room, remember? You said I was sweet and—” She stopped, feeling like a fool. “Never mind,” she said, turning away.
“Wait a minute. Did you have long brown hair?”
“Yes,” Melanie said slowly, a small spark of hope igniting.
“I remember you now. Yeah, the girl who jumped up on stage and sang ‘Unicorn’ with me, right?” He smiled
“That was me. I wanted to sing with you tonight, but it didn’t work out.” She glanced down at her ruined clothes and shrugged.
“You look different.” Stephan moved closer, making her heart thump. “Your hair’s so short now.” He touched her messy do. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you.”
“So what do you think? Do you like the way I look now?” Melanie held her breath while his eyes studied her from head to toe. He folded his arms, frowning a little.
“The boots are kick ass,” he said finally. “But really, Melanie, you look all the other groupies now, with the tight black dress, black eyeliner, piercings. The reason I liked you so much before was because you were different, with your jeans and long hair and cute top. You stood out from all the other girls.”
Melanie’s eyes stung. She’d done all this for him, thinking he’d like it. “I was so boring,” she said in a small voice. “Ordinary.”
“Sometimes ordinary’s a good thing,” Stephan said, offering her a small smile.
“I guess.” She bit her lip. “You look a lot different, too. The hair, mostly.”
He made a face. “Yeah, the hair, the hair, it’s always the hair.”
“You’ve lost weight, too,” she said, liking his new thinness, wondering what it would feel like to hug him. To kiss him again.
“Well, damn, was I that much of a porker before?” His dark brows came down over his eyes, a petulant cast to his mouth.
“Of course not,” she said quickly, putting her hand on his arm. “You looked great then, you look great now, Stephan. I—I wish…”
The door banged open, and a heavyset guy stuck his head out. Music blared, light spilled out, hurting her eyes.
“Stephan, whatchu doin, man? Everybody’s lookin for you.”
“I’ll be in soon, Dave,” Stephan said, waving him off. Dave glanced at Melanie and smirked before going back inside.
Stephan sighed. “One more concert tomorrow night, and that’s it for awhile. I am so tired.” He loosened his skull-printed tie, sighing again.
“It must get lonely on the road,” Melanie ventured, sliding her hand up his arm, liking the way his skin felt against hers. A shiver went down her spine as she remembered the night they’d spent together before.
“Sometimes,” he agreed, moving away. She dropped her hand, flushing. He didn’t want her. Well, she’d make him want her.
“I—I thought maybe we could get a drink after the show. Catch up a little, you know.” Melanie gave him what she hoped was a sultry smile.
Stephan smiled ruefully. “I can’t, Melanie,” he said, capping the bottle.
“Why not? Don’t you like me? You used to like me a lot.”
“I’m married.”
She stared at him. “What did you say?” she whispered.
“I got married about nine months ago.” He glanced at his watch. “I better get back inside. It was great seeing you again, Melanie.”
“Sure, Stephan,” she mumbled, turning away so she didn’t have to see him leave.
Married?
God, she was such a fool. Brushing a tear from her cheek, she stumbled down the alley to the sidewalk and started walking.
Exercise 1: Sensory
A sweaty arm brushed against Melanie’s, slicking her skin with alien liquid. She jerked away, only to plunge face-first into a humid forest of chest hair.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, pushing hard with both hands. Curses clanged in her ears as she bounced off more bodies, finally coming to a rest against a wall in the corner. The familiar strains of one of her favorite songs filled the venue, sending shivers down on her. If only she could see!
Gathering her courage, she shoved bodies out of her way, getting punches and curses and once even a squeeze in return. It didn’t matter, though; she had to get closer, had to be in the front. Once he saw her, everything would just fall into place, as it was meant to be.
Stephan began singing, and her urgency increased. It had to be this song. If she didn’t make it up front where he could see her, then all would be lost. But an impenetrable wall of flesh blocked her every move. Tears pricked her eyes as she struggled to breathe in the hot, smoke-filled air.
Then she fell to the filthy floor and began crawling through legs, determined to achieve her goal. A boot crunched down on her hand, another jabbed her leg. Her knee came down in a cold puddle of something she didn’t want to think about, and still more legs, more bodies, more obstacles.
Crying, nose dripping, filthy from head to toe, one questing hand found the way clear as the music became almost unbearably loud. The stage! She’d made it. Now to get Stephan’s attention…
Hands gripped her arms and began dragging her backwards.
“Uh-uh, missy,” a rough voice growled in her ear. “You’re getting too close.”
“Stephan! Stephan! It’s me, Melanie!” She screamed and screamed, clawing at the hands, until the music faded away.
Exercise 2: Character
Melanie leaned against the grimy brick wall, cradling her hand against her chest. She could barely move her fingers, and they hurt like the devil. God, she was such a mess. Brown stains covered her black dress, and there was something that looked like puke ground into the laces of one boot.
But she didn’t care. She was going to see Stephan, talk to him, make him understand that they belonged together. If only she’d been able to reach the stage and get his attention, she sure as shit wouldn’t be standing in an alley behind the Bottleneck, waiting for the concert to end. Concert. What a joke. A stinky, smelly bar with room for only fifty people? That wasn’t a concert, it was a party. A party she’d been kicked out of.
Fuming, she paced back and forth, trying to ignore the way her boots rubbed against her heels. Hot Topic hadn’t carried her size, but she’d bought them anyway, who cared if they were half a size too small? They were kick ass boots that laced clear up to her knees.
The steel door clanged open, making her jump. If it was one of those sonofabitching body guards—
It was Stephan. For a second she couldn’t move, transfixed by the sight of him after so long. He twisted open a bottle of water and took a drink. His hair was black now, instead of the dirty blonde color it was last time. It suited him, she thought.
It was now or never.
“Stephan,” she said, stepping out of the shadows. He jerked, spilling the water on his shirt.
“What the hell?”
“It’s me. Melanie.” He just stared at her blankly. “The Granada? Two years ago?” It never entered her mind that he wouldn’t remember. “You invited me back to your room, remember? You said I was sweet and—” She stopped, feeling like a fool. “Never mind,” she said, turning away.
“Wait a minute. Did you have long brown hair?”
“Yes,” Melanie said slowly, a small spark of hope igniting.
“I remember you now. Yeah, the girl who jumped up on stage and sang ‘Unicorn’ with me, right?” He smiled
“That was me. I wanted to sing with you tonight, but it didn’t work out.” She glanced down at her ruined clothes and shrugged.
“You look different.” Stephan moved closer, making her heart thump. “Your hair’s so short now.” He touched her messy do. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you.”
“So what do you think? Do you like the way I look now?” Melanie held her breath while his eyes studied her from head to toe. He folded his arms, frowning a little.
“The boots are kick ass,” he said finally. “But really, Melanie, you look all the other groupies now, with the tight black dress, black eyeliner, piercings. The reason I liked you so much before was because you were different, with your jeans and long hair and cute top. You stood out from all the other girls.”
Melanie’s eyes stung. She’d done all this for him, thinking he’d like it. “I was so boring,” she said in a small voice. “Ordinary.”
“Sometimes ordinary’s a good thing,” Stephan said, offering her a small smile.
“I guess.” She bit her lip. “You look a lot different, too. The hair, mostly.”
He made a face. “Yeah, the hair, the hair, it’s always the hair.”
“You’ve lost weight, too,” she said, liking his new thinness, wondering what it would feel like to hug him. To kiss him again.
“Well, damn, was I that much of a porker before?” His dark brows came down over his eyes, a petulant cast to his mouth.
“Of course not,” she said quickly, putting her hand on his arm. “You looked great then, you look great now, Stephan. I—I wish…”
The door banged open, and a heavyset guy stuck his head out. Music blared, light spilled out, hurting her eyes.
“Stephan, whatchu doin, man? Everybody’s lookin for you.”
“I’ll be in soon, Dave,” Stephan said, waving him off. Dave glanced at Melanie and smirked before going back inside.
Stephan sighed. “One more concert tomorrow night, and that’s it for awhile. I am so tired.” He loosened his skull-printed tie, sighing again.
“It must get lonely on the road,” Melanie ventured, sliding her hand up his arm, liking the way his skin felt against hers. A shiver went down her spine as she remembered the night they’d spent together before.
“Sometimes,” he agreed, moving away. She dropped her hand, flushing. He didn’t want her. Well, she’d make him want her.
“I—I thought maybe we could get a drink after the show. Catch up a little, you know.” Melanie gave him what she hoped was a sultry smile.
Stephan smiled ruefully. “I can’t, Melanie,” he said, capping the bottle.
“Why not? Don’t you like me? You used to like me a lot.”
“I’m married.”
She stared at him. “What did you say?” she whispered.
“I got married about nine months ago.” He glanced at his watch. “I better get back inside. It was great seeing you again, Melanie.”
“Sure, Stephan,” she mumbled, turning away so she didn’t have to see him leave.
Married?
God, she was such a fool. Brushing a tear from her cheek, she stumbled down the alley to the sidewalk and started walking.
09 October 2007
NaNoWriMo
I guess I'm going to do it this year again. I'm not real sure what I'm going to write on, and that's not a good thing at all. I do have several ideas, though, but nothing firm as yet.
Idea #1: write a series of short stories using song titles as a springboard
Idea #2: blast out a very rough draft of the fantasy novel hubby and I've been talking about
Idea #3: write about Billy the Kid
Idea #4: expand 'Dragonfly'
so......of the four, #1 and #2 sound the most plausible. I like the idea of Billy the Kid, but that's probably more of a short story. #4 was my first idea a few months ago. I'm not liking it that much.
so we will see...
Idea #1: write a series of short stories using song titles as a springboard
Idea #2: blast out a very rough draft of the fantasy novel hubby and I've been talking about
Idea #3: write about Billy the Kid
Idea #4: expand 'Dragonfly'
so......of the four, #1 and #2 sound the most plausible. I like the idea of Billy the Kid, but that's probably more of a short story. #4 was my first idea a few months ago. I'm not liking it that much.
so we will see...
07 October 2007
writing crap
I looked over that novella I wrote last month, A Tangled Web, and omg it totally sucks. it is SOOO bad. but, hey, i was writing. That counts for a lot. I mean, if I waited and only wrote something good, geeze, I'd never write anything at all. I guess in order to create something good you have to give yourself permission to write crap.
I think I've had that permission for quite a while.
I think I've had that permission for quite a while.
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