The synopsis--the thing that every fiction writer dreads--needs to be written. Yes, that does mean that I've finished my YA novel. You could say that I finished it a long time ago and have spent the last 6+ months editing and polishing something that should have been submitted to agents long ago. You might be right; however, I appear to have a need for my writing to be perfect before I feel comfortable letting go, at least in regards to a novel-length manuscript. Short stories are much easier to polish and submit, and I don't have the same hang-ups about the shorter works that I do about a longer one.
So this synopsis thing...is it really that bad? Maybe not; I'll have to let you know once I've written it. Some agents don't ask for a synopsis, but a lot do, and the query letter is almost more important than the actual manuscript. If your query doesn't grab an agent's attention, he'll move on to the next one and you'll be stuck submitting elsewhere. A writer always hopes that submitting to agents won't be a long, drawn out affair, but sometimes it turns out that way.
Here's what goes into a synopsis:
1. Hook: a paragraph or two similar to the blurb on a book dust jacket. It's gotta grab attention.
2. Introduction of characters: who are these folks you're writing about?
3. The body: the entire story in chronological order.
4. Crisis and resolution: the ending
5. Now go back and rewrite all of that until it's perfect, but don't take 10 years to do it.
Easy, right? Well, we shall see.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
14 January 2014
28 July 2013
the right word at the right time
Swear words are something of a controversy in books. With judicial use, they can convey intense emotion on occasion. Cursing without restraint, however, is not cool. For example, the book I am reading is about a woman learning she has inherited a house in a weird town full of weird people. Her language, when she's upset, frequently includes the 'f' word. It actually gets in the way of the story, if that makes sense. (it does to me)
That's exactly what I want to avoid in my own writing, particularly in Penalty Shot. There are a few words that my mother would not like (sorry, Mom!) but I think I have used them judicially, and they may not survive the final edit. On the whole, though, a few well-thought out strong words can have just the right effect.
The question the author has to ask of him/herself is: does that word convey what I wish to convey in this sentence/paragraph/book? All word choice is important in writing; there is always a right word and a wrong word. I'd like to avoid using as many 'wrong' words at I possibly can.
What do you think?
That's exactly what I want to avoid in my own writing, particularly in Penalty Shot. There are a few words that my mother would not like (sorry, Mom!) but I think I have used them judicially, and they may not survive the final edit. On the whole, though, a few well-thought out strong words can have just the right effect.
The question the author has to ask of him/herself is: does that word convey what I wish to convey in this sentence/paragraph/book? All word choice is important in writing; there is always a right word and a wrong word. I'd like to avoid using as many 'wrong' words at I possibly can.
What do you think?
28 July 2012
here and there
This writing thing...it sure is hit and miss. I've recently dragged out the zombie novel, the one I started for NaNoWriMo a couple of years ago. It's going okay. It has multiple POVs, the first time I've attempted this. I like it. It's kind of fun. I think it's a little easier than the single POV. Maybe. At any rate, I'll be using Remnants in November in an attempt to finish the first draft.
At least I know what I'm writing about is what's being published now. I get so disgusted in the library in the YA section. It's all witch this and wizard that, ghosts and vampires (toothless) and junk like that. A regular story about normal people is pretty hard to find. It's gotten so that I don't even check out any YA books anymore, and that used to be the first place I'd go. If I do choose in that genre, it's from the stacks, an older book.
I've read 99 books since January. Cool, yeah?
At least I know what I'm writing about is what's being published now. I get so disgusted in the library in the YA section. It's all witch this and wizard that, ghosts and vampires (toothless) and junk like that. A regular story about normal people is pretty hard to find. It's gotten so that I don't even check out any YA books anymore, and that used to be the first place I'd go. If I do choose in that genre, it's from the stacks, an older book.
I've read 99 books since January. Cool, yeah?
02 February 2012
Lazarus
*published in Nocturnal Ooze magazine, 2004
The moon hid behind a cloud the night I buried you. Blackness hid my face from those who would not understand, those who might condemn my actions. You lay at my feet, wrapped in a bloody sheet from the bed we shared, while I scrabbled at the hard earth with my bare hands and the autumn wind froze my naked body.
Clods tore the fingernails from my fingers, and my blood mixed with the dark soil. I cried a little then, despite the sureness of the ritual. It was not easy to look upon your poor face, so still and serious in death as you were not in life. You were always quick to smile, quick with a witty word that never failed to make me laugh.
The grave I dug was not deep, but it sufficed. As I rolled your limp body into the hole, one of your hands slipped free of the wrapping and brushed my bare foot. Kneeling down, I gently brought it to my dry lips. Soon, I murmured, kissing your cold skin, soon we will be together again.
When you were covered with dirt, I raised my arms to the night sky and spoke the forbidden words, the words that would raise you from the dead, as Lazarus was raised so long ago. By rights I should have allowed your kin to bury you, to care for your body as family did. But I could not bear the thought of you lying in the cold ground forever.
Your father and mother called me witch, and rightly so. I saw the distaste and contempt on their pudgy faces when you brought me home, so proud someone as beautiful as I could love you.
How could I not love you? You with your shiny black hair, your laughing blue eyes, your hard body that made me tremble. We will wed, you told me, no matter what my father and mother say. How well I remember that day beneath the apple trees! You were so earnest, so sure the obstacles were not unsurpassable. Our love would conquer all. And I believed you.
So we came together, despite your family, despite the townsfolk who hated me. They grew to hate you as well, for you dared call them fools, and worse, for their superstition. You did not believe me a witch, and I did nothing to prove you wrong. You made sure they saw us together, saw how much I needed you, how much you needed me.
When they brought your lifeless body and dumped you on the ground at my feet, I did not cry. Not even when they told me those wretched lies, lies that I knew were not true. An accident, they called it. Never mind that your best friend pulled the trigger that took your life, the same best friend who swore revenge against me when I shunned him. How much the betrayal must have hurt you, for you were ever a trusting soul. Trust me now, my husband. What I do, I do for love of you.
I did not cry as I cursed those men. I cursed their foul man parts, their children, even their fat wives who sneered at me in the marketplace. The earth seemed to shake, and the murderous cowards fled, and I was left with you, my dead husband.
How the tears fell as I stripped the red stained clothes from your beautiful, broken body. I brushed your silky hair, washed the blood off your bruised face, kissed your chilled lips.
My knife was sharp; it did not pain me too much to draw the blade across my leg. Dipping my fingers in the crimson flow, I wrote the sacred symbols on your body and chanted the unholy words. And then I wound your body in the sheet, and dragged you to the burying ground behind our house.
I slipped my dress over my head and that is when I saw the lights. The townspeople came carrying torches, coming for me. I did not run, only waited beside your grave.
There she is, the men shouted, and the torchlight gave their faces an inhuman quality. Burn the witch, burn the witch, they chanted, and I smiled. They could not hurt me. I knew you would save me.
I did not struggle when they grabbed my arms and tied me to the willow tree that grew outside our bedroom window. The kindling they stacked around my feet did not frighten me and I stood defiant and proud.
The cold wind howled, and the fools looked around nervously. They did not realize that nothing could save them now. You had awakened.
I watched you emerge, watched you rip the grave clothes from your body. I rejoiced as you destroyed those who had tried to destroy our love. Blood spattered on my face, on my dress. Finally you dropped what used to be a man and turned to me.
You shuffled slowly to me, and I strained against the cords that bound me. You reached behind me and broke the ropes and I fell into your arms.
The smell of the grave filled my nostrils, but still I kissed you, thrusting my tongue into your cold mouth. Even death could not keep us apart.
I felt your arms on my waist and pressed against you. I looked into your face and saw your dull, sunken eyes, and I was afraid. You did not smile and opened your mouth to speak.
Why have you brought me back from the grave? Your hands gripped my arms painfully. I am in hell, and you put me here.
I tried to speak, but I could not. You grabbed my face, pinching my skin.
There is no love, you told me. Only hatred and loathing and death.
Tears leaked from my eyes and wet your soiled hands, the same hands that once touched me with love. I begged you to think of our unborn child, the babe I carried within me. Even that did not stop you, did not make you remember the love we once shared.
Your fingers tightened around my throat, and I tried to scream. As my vision darkened, you began to smile.
(c)2004 WS Ribelin
The moon hid behind a cloud the night I buried you. Blackness hid my face from those who would not understand, those who might condemn my actions. You lay at my feet, wrapped in a bloody sheet from the bed we shared, while I scrabbled at the hard earth with my bare hands and the autumn wind froze my naked body.
Clods tore the fingernails from my fingers, and my blood mixed with the dark soil. I cried a little then, despite the sureness of the ritual. It was not easy to look upon your poor face, so still and serious in death as you were not in life. You were always quick to smile, quick with a witty word that never failed to make me laugh.
The grave I dug was not deep, but it sufficed. As I rolled your limp body into the hole, one of your hands slipped free of the wrapping and brushed my bare foot. Kneeling down, I gently brought it to my dry lips. Soon, I murmured, kissing your cold skin, soon we will be together again.
When you were covered with dirt, I raised my arms to the night sky and spoke the forbidden words, the words that would raise you from the dead, as Lazarus was raised so long ago. By rights I should have allowed your kin to bury you, to care for your body as family did. But I could not bear the thought of you lying in the cold ground forever.
Your father and mother called me witch, and rightly so. I saw the distaste and contempt on their pudgy faces when you brought me home, so proud someone as beautiful as I could love you.
How could I not love you? You with your shiny black hair, your laughing blue eyes, your hard body that made me tremble. We will wed, you told me, no matter what my father and mother say. How well I remember that day beneath the apple trees! You were so earnest, so sure the obstacles were not unsurpassable. Our love would conquer all. And I believed you.
So we came together, despite your family, despite the townsfolk who hated me. They grew to hate you as well, for you dared call them fools, and worse, for their superstition. You did not believe me a witch, and I did nothing to prove you wrong. You made sure they saw us together, saw how much I needed you, how much you needed me.
When they brought your lifeless body and dumped you on the ground at my feet, I did not cry. Not even when they told me those wretched lies, lies that I knew were not true. An accident, they called it. Never mind that your best friend pulled the trigger that took your life, the same best friend who swore revenge against me when I shunned him. How much the betrayal must have hurt you, for you were ever a trusting soul. Trust me now, my husband. What I do, I do for love of you.
I did not cry as I cursed those men. I cursed their foul man parts, their children, even their fat wives who sneered at me in the marketplace. The earth seemed to shake, and the murderous cowards fled, and I was left with you, my dead husband.
How the tears fell as I stripped the red stained clothes from your beautiful, broken body. I brushed your silky hair, washed the blood off your bruised face, kissed your chilled lips.
My knife was sharp; it did not pain me too much to draw the blade across my leg. Dipping my fingers in the crimson flow, I wrote the sacred symbols on your body and chanted the unholy words. And then I wound your body in the sheet, and dragged you to the burying ground behind our house.
I slipped my dress over my head and that is when I saw the lights. The townspeople came carrying torches, coming for me. I did not run, only waited beside your grave.
There she is, the men shouted, and the torchlight gave their faces an inhuman quality. Burn the witch, burn the witch, they chanted, and I smiled. They could not hurt me. I knew you would save me.
I did not struggle when they grabbed my arms and tied me to the willow tree that grew outside our bedroom window. The kindling they stacked around my feet did not frighten me and I stood defiant and proud.
The cold wind howled, and the fools looked around nervously. They did not realize that nothing could save them now. You had awakened.
I watched you emerge, watched you rip the grave clothes from your body. I rejoiced as you destroyed those who had tried to destroy our love. Blood spattered on my face, on my dress. Finally you dropped what used to be a man and turned to me.
You shuffled slowly to me, and I strained against the cords that bound me. You reached behind me and broke the ropes and I fell into your arms.
The smell of the grave filled my nostrils, but still I kissed you, thrusting my tongue into your cold mouth. Even death could not keep us apart.
I felt your arms on my waist and pressed against you. I looked into your face and saw your dull, sunken eyes, and I was afraid. You did not smile and opened your mouth to speak.
Why have you brought me back from the grave? Your hands gripped my arms painfully. I am in hell, and you put me here.
I tried to speak, but I could not. You grabbed my face, pinching my skin.
There is no love, you told me. Only hatred and loathing and death.
Tears leaked from my eyes and wet your soiled hands, the same hands that once touched me with love. I begged you to think of our unborn child, the babe I carried within me. Even that did not stop you, did not make you remember the love we once shared.
Your fingers tightened around my throat, and I tried to scream. As my vision darkened, you began to smile.
(c)2004 WS Ribelin
31 January 2012
The Passing
“Will it hurt?”
Barlow turned from the window where he’d been watching the moon rise. The vampire sitting in the throne-like chair was young—painfully young, Barlow thought, wincing. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old, maybe less. A pity the one who turned him hadn’t chosen a more mature victim.
“Some,” he said, and the vampire shuddered.
“I don’t want it to hurt.” He shifted in the chair, ran his fingers through his auburn hair. He was dressed like a dandy, all ruffles and velvet, a beautiful young man in the first flush of youth. Closer inspection revealed dark circles beneath the blue eyes, a down-turning to the merry red lips, slumping shoulders.
“You won’t suffer,” Barlow assured the vampire. “I’ll prepare the draught.” It only took a moment to combine the herbs with the holy water. Opening a leather pouch, he withdrew a round wafer, clenching his teeth at the burning in his fingertips. Working quickly but carefully, he dropped the wafer into a goblet and heated the herbs and water on a small brazier. When it was hot, he poured the mixture into the goblet and stirred it with a tin spoon.
The vampire watched all with an expression of curiosity mixed with fear.
“I want to tell you why I’m doing this,” he said, voice shaking. Barlow turned to him, an expression of mild interest on his unlined face.
“That isn’t necessary,” Barlow replied, setting the goblet down on the table. "That you desire peace is all I need to know."
“Someone told me you write names down, for….for later.”
“Yes. I’ll fetch the Book now.” Barlow hurried into his sleeping chamber, chiding himself. It wasn’t like him to forget the Book. He opened a worn chest at the foot of his pallet and lifted out the Book, purposely averting his eyes from the other things inside.
When he returned to the main room, the young vampire was standing beside the table, gazing into the goblet. He snatched back his hand when Barlow bustled in.
“I’m supposed to drink that?”
Barlow narrowed his eyes. “You came here seeking solace. I am prepared to give it. You must be prepared to receive it. Are you?”
The vampire shrugged. “I just want to know what I’m going to drink,” he persisted. Barlow resisted the urge to rip the vampire’s head off and counted to ten instead.
“Please have a seat,” he said soothingly. The vampire was agitated, which was no good. If he drank the draught now, his passing would be even more painful. “I will of course explain all to you.”
Dubiously, the vampire sat back in the chair. Barlow caressed the leather cover a moment, relishing the smoothness against his skin. He opened it slowly, turning each delicate page with care, until he reached the passage he sought. As usual the irony of the situation was not lost on him. To think he’d spent his mortal life cursing this Book and its followers, only to realize the truth when that life ended.
“ ‘For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad.’”
Barlow looked up into the puzzled face of the vampire. “Do you realize there’s a punishment awaiting those who die in their sins?”
The vampire bowed his head, gripping the armrests with white fingers.
“Even for us, the so-called damned…tell me your name so I may write it here in the Book.” Barlow turned to the blank pages in back. So many, so many names, he mused, running his fingers down the elegant script. Who will write my name?
“I am Lucius,” he murmured in a trembling voice. “Am I truly damned? Is there no forgiveness for even one such as I who longs to repent?”
Barlow nodded. “Yes, Lucius, there is forgiveness; the Book says that whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be given eternal life.”
The boy shook his head. “Eternal life I have, old man! I want eternal peace. I want to be free from the bloodlust. It calls to me, even whilst I sleep. I dream of it, the crimson flow, the tearing of flesh, the sweet goodness—” He made a strangled noise, eyes flaring red.
“How long, Lucius, since you last fed?” Barlow watched the young vampire struggle for composure. His torment was great—why else had he come to Barlow for solace?
“A full day. Please,” he begged, falling to his knees beside Barlow’s chair. “Please, end my torment lest I go mad.”
“Of course, my son,” Barlow said, laying his hand on Lucius’s head. “ ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”
“Can it be true? Can there be peace, even forgiveness for me? I—” He faltered. “I’ve done such terrible things. Surely God has turned His face away from me.”
“Never, Lucius. God holds us all in the palm of His hand.” Barlow reached for the goblet. “Surely as a child you were taught the dogma of Christ, that He turns no one away.”
“I…it’s been so long. I’m not sure…” Lucius’s face twisted and he shook his fist at the ceiling. “God in Heaven! Why do You torture me so? Give me relief, give me peace.”
Barlow gripped the vampire’s thin shoulders. “It is not God who tortures you, Lucius, but another who stalks about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” He held out the warm goblet. “Drink, Lucius. Drink and enter the joy of the Lord.”
Hesitantly, Lucius took the offered cup in both hands, eyes wide with hope. “Truly? When again I open my eyes I will be in Paradise?”
Barlow gazed into the vampire’s face. “Truly, my son. I wouldn’t lie to you.” He could see the indecision and fear in the boy’s face. “Do you fear death so very much?” he asked softly.
Lucius blanched. “I am unworthy. My faith is weak.”
“Then drink, Lucius. In order to have faith, you must first embrace it.”
Lucius raised the cup to his lips and began to drink. After the first swallow his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Smoke curled from between his lips and he clawed at his throat, stretching out a beseeching hand toward the older vampire.
“I am sorry,” Barlow murmured, turning away. Behind him the vampire’s agonies continued, guttural screams and thumping he couldn’t bear to watch. Barlow’s nostrils flared as the odor of burning flesh and hair permeated the air and the sudden silence made his shoulders slump.
Always, always it was like this. If only there was some way to ease the passing, to make that last journey easier. Guilt pricked when he recalled the hope on the boy’s face when assured there would be no pain.
The sounds stopped abruptly. Barlow fetched a whisk broom and tin dustpan, steeled himself, and walked over to the remains of Lucius. Such a waste.
“Bravo, Master Barlow,” a low voice said from behind him. Barlow whirled and saw a black-cloaked figure standing in the shadows. “You nearly had me convinced.”
The figure gave a dry chuckle. “Until the poor sod burst into flames, that is.” The cloak was flung back, revealing a tall, thin man dressed in somber clothes. Although well-cut and of fine cloth, the shirt and trousers said the man wasn’t one of the nobility, but rather a well-off peasant.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” Barlow demanded. “And how is it you know my name?” He peered at the man, trying to discern features. He took the candelabra from the table and held it up.
“Who I am is of no importance, Master Barlow, although I am certain you know of me.” The candle glow illuminated an aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones.
“Vlad,” Barlow murmured, nearly choking. The Impaler. What did he want?
“As for how I know your name, why, do not the very walls whisper of the solace offered by Master Barlow and his draught of peace?” Vlad chuckled again. “Although the reality is somewhat different, no?”
“I…I mean no harm,” Barlow stammered, nearly dropping the candelabra.
“Of course not. You merely offer what solace you can to the tormented fools who actually believe they are not damned.” Vlad’s lips parted, revealing shiny white fangs. “I have been frequently amused, I admit, at the stories that reach me during my travels. Did you know, Master Barlow, that even in the far Orient your service is known?” He walked over to the table and fingered the herbs lying there. His hand paused above the leather bag.
“This, though…this is most disturbing.” He turned pupil-less black eyes upon Barlow. “The Host is not meant for our kind. And yet…I can sense it on you. In you.” Disgust cured the vampire’s lip. He let his hand drop to his side. “I do not understand.”
“Neither do I,” Barlow admitted. “I tried many things before this. Things that left those who trusted me howling in pain, or worse.” He shuddered. “Despite what you saw, the passing is relatively painless. And I am only honoring their desire.”
“Relatively painless compared to what? A wooden stake to the heart?” Vlad sneered. “You need not justify yourself to me, Master Barlow. I know what you are, and you are a sham.” He swept his hand across the table, sending herbs, the leather bag and various bottles crashing to the stone floor.
“You offer what you cannot deliver, as that pile of ashes learned to his everlasting sorrow. Think you he is singing with the angels? You are a fool. He is screaming with the demons, and you sent him there.”
“I—I did not—”
“Better had you taught him to control the bloodlust.” Vlad pointed a black-tipped finger at the cowering vampire. “How many, Master Barlow? How many have you sent to the abyss in the name of God?”
Barlow sagged to the floor amongst his herbs, sick at heart. The truth stabbed like a wooden stake. His faith disintegrated like Lucius’s ashes.
“There is no god of the Bible for our kind,” Vlad said quietly. “There is only the god of blood, who lives inside every one of us. To serve him is to live.”
Long after Vlad had left as silently as he had arrived, Barlow lay on the floor, trying in vain to recapture his belief.
Gone. All gone. His eyes fell upon the leather bag. Stretching out his fingers, he pulled it close and undid the drawstring. Only two Hosts remained. Barlow reached inside and withdrew a pale disc.
His skin began to smoke as it began burning through his skin. Grimacing, he raised it to his mouth and placed it on his tongue.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
(c)2007 WS Ribelin
Barlow turned from the window where he’d been watching the moon rise. The vampire sitting in the throne-like chair was young—painfully young, Barlow thought, wincing. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old, maybe less. A pity the one who turned him hadn’t chosen a more mature victim.
“Some,” he said, and the vampire shuddered.
“I don’t want it to hurt.” He shifted in the chair, ran his fingers through his auburn hair. He was dressed like a dandy, all ruffles and velvet, a beautiful young man in the first flush of youth. Closer inspection revealed dark circles beneath the blue eyes, a down-turning to the merry red lips, slumping shoulders.
“You won’t suffer,” Barlow assured the vampire. “I’ll prepare the draught.” It only took a moment to combine the herbs with the holy water. Opening a leather pouch, he withdrew a round wafer, clenching his teeth at the burning in his fingertips. Working quickly but carefully, he dropped the wafer into a goblet and heated the herbs and water on a small brazier. When it was hot, he poured the mixture into the goblet and stirred it with a tin spoon.
The vampire watched all with an expression of curiosity mixed with fear.
“I want to tell you why I’m doing this,” he said, voice shaking. Barlow turned to him, an expression of mild interest on his unlined face.
“That isn’t necessary,” Barlow replied, setting the goblet down on the table. "That you desire peace is all I need to know."
“Someone told me you write names down, for….for later.”
“Yes. I’ll fetch the Book now.” Barlow hurried into his sleeping chamber, chiding himself. It wasn’t like him to forget the Book. He opened a worn chest at the foot of his pallet and lifted out the Book, purposely averting his eyes from the other things inside.
When he returned to the main room, the young vampire was standing beside the table, gazing into the goblet. He snatched back his hand when Barlow bustled in.
“I’m supposed to drink that?”
Barlow narrowed his eyes. “You came here seeking solace. I am prepared to give it. You must be prepared to receive it. Are you?”
The vampire shrugged. “I just want to know what I’m going to drink,” he persisted. Barlow resisted the urge to rip the vampire’s head off and counted to ten instead.
“Please have a seat,” he said soothingly. The vampire was agitated, which was no good. If he drank the draught now, his passing would be even more painful. “I will of course explain all to you.”
Dubiously, the vampire sat back in the chair. Barlow caressed the leather cover a moment, relishing the smoothness against his skin. He opened it slowly, turning each delicate page with care, until he reached the passage he sought. As usual the irony of the situation was not lost on him. To think he’d spent his mortal life cursing this Book and its followers, only to realize the truth when that life ended.
“ ‘For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad.’”
Barlow looked up into the puzzled face of the vampire. “Do you realize there’s a punishment awaiting those who die in their sins?”
The vampire bowed his head, gripping the armrests with white fingers.
“Even for us, the so-called damned…tell me your name so I may write it here in the Book.” Barlow turned to the blank pages in back. So many, so many names, he mused, running his fingers down the elegant script. Who will write my name?
“I am Lucius,” he murmured in a trembling voice. “Am I truly damned? Is there no forgiveness for even one such as I who longs to repent?”
Barlow nodded. “Yes, Lucius, there is forgiveness; the Book says that whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be given eternal life.”
The boy shook his head. “Eternal life I have, old man! I want eternal peace. I want to be free from the bloodlust. It calls to me, even whilst I sleep. I dream of it, the crimson flow, the tearing of flesh, the sweet goodness—” He made a strangled noise, eyes flaring red.
“How long, Lucius, since you last fed?” Barlow watched the young vampire struggle for composure. His torment was great—why else had he come to Barlow for solace?
“A full day. Please,” he begged, falling to his knees beside Barlow’s chair. “Please, end my torment lest I go mad.”
“Of course, my son,” Barlow said, laying his hand on Lucius’s head. “ ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”
“Can it be true? Can there be peace, even forgiveness for me? I—” He faltered. “I’ve done such terrible things. Surely God has turned His face away from me.”
“Never, Lucius. God holds us all in the palm of His hand.” Barlow reached for the goblet. “Surely as a child you were taught the dogma of Christ, that He turns no one away.”
“I…it’s been so long. I’m not sure…” Lucius’s face twisted and he shook his fist at the ceiling. “God in Heaven! Why do You torture me so? Give me relief, give me peace.”
Barlow gripped the vampire’s thin shoulders. “It is not God who tortures you, Lucius, but another who stalks about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” He held out the warm goblet. “Drink, Lucius. Drink and enter the joy of the Lord.”
Hesitantly, Lucius took the offered cup in both hands, eyes wide with hope. “Truly? When again I open my eyes I will be in Paradise?”
Barlow gazed into the vampire’s face. “Truly, my son. I wouldn’t lie to you.” He could see the indecision and fear in the boy’s face. “Do you fear death so very much?” he asked softly.
Lucius blanched. “I am unworthy. My faith is weak.”
“Then drink, Lucius. In order to have faith, you must first embrace it.”
Lucius raised the cup to his lips and began to drink. After the first swallow his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Smoke curled from between his lips and he clawed at his throat, stretching out a beseeching hand toward the older vampire.
“I am sorry,” Barlow murmured, turning away. Behind him the vampire’s agonies continued, guttural screams and thumping he couldn’t bear to watch. Barlow’s nostrils flared as the odor of burning flesh and hair permeated the air and the sudden silence made his shoulders slump.
Always, always it was like this. If only there was some way to ease the passing, to make that last journey easier. Guilt pricked when he recalled the hope on the boy’s face when assured there would be no pain.
The sounds stopped abruptly. Barlow fetched a whisk broom and tin dustpan, steeled himself, and walked over to the remains of Lucius. Such a waste.
“Bravo, Master Barlow,” a low voice said from behind him. Barlow whirled and saw a black-cloaked figure standing in the shadows. “You nearly had me convinced.”
The figure gave a dry chuckle. “Until the poor sod burst into flames, that is.” The cloak was flung back, revealing a tall, thin man dressed in somber clothes. Although well-cut and of fine cloth, the shirt and trousers said the man wasn’t one of the nobility, but rather a well-off peasant.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” Barlow demanded. “And how is it you know my name?” He peered at the man, trying to discern features. He took the candelabra from the table and held it up.
“Who I am is of no importance, Master Barlow, although I am certain you know of me.” The candle glow illuminated an aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones.
“Vlad,” Barlow murmured, nearly choking. The Impaler. What did he want?
“As for how I know your name, why, do not the very walls whisper of the solace offered by Master Barlow and his draught of peace?” Vlad chuckled again. “Although the reality is somewhat different, no?”
“I…I mean no harm,” Barlow stammered, nearly dropping the candelabra.
“Of course not. You merely offer what solace you can to the tormented fools who actually believe they are not damned.” Vlad’s lips parted, revealing shiny white fangs. “I have been frequently amused, I admit, at the stories that reach me during my travels. Did you know, Master Barlow, that even in the far Orient your service is known?” He walked over to the table and fingered the herbs lying there. His hand paused above the leather bag.
“This, though…this is most disturbing.” He turned pupil-less black eyes upon Barlow. “The Host is not meant for our kind. And yet…I can sense it on you. In you.” Disgust cured the vampire’s lip. He let his hand drop to his side. “I do not understand.”
“Neither do I,” Barlow admitted. “I tried many things before this. Things that left those who trusted me howling in pain, or worse.” He shuddered. “Despite what you saw, the passing is relatively painless. And I am only honoring their desire.”
“Relatively painless compared to what? A wooden stake to the heart?” Vlad sneered. “You need not justify yourself to me, Master Barlow. I know what you are, and you are a sham.” He swept his hand across the table, sending herbs, the leather bag and various bottles crashing to the stone floor.
“You offer what you cannot deliver, as that pile of ashes learned to his everlasting sorrow. Think you he is singing with the angels? You are a fool. He is screaming with the demons, and you sent him there.”
“I—I did not—”
“Better had you taught him to control the bloodlust.” Vlad pointed a black-tipped finger at the cowering vampire. “How many, Master Barlow? How many have you sent to the abyss in the name of God?”
Barlow sagged to the floor amongst his herbs, sick at heart. The truth stabbed like a wooden stake. His faith disintegrated like Lucius’s ashes.
“There is no god of the Bible for our kind,” Vlad said quietly. “There is only the god of blood, who lives inside every one of us. To serve him is to live.”
Long after Vlad had left as silently as he had arrived, Barlow lay on the floor, trying in vain to recapture his belief.
Gone. All gone. His eyes fell upon the leather bag. Stretching out his fingers, he pulled it close and undid the drawstring. Only two Hosts remained. Barlow reached inside and withdrew a pale disc.
His skin began to smoke as it began burning through his skin. Grimacing, he raised it to his mouth and placed it on his tongue.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
(c)2007 WS Ribelin
15 January 2012
Let Them Eat Cake
A rather sick story from 2004, published in Nocturnal Ooze Magazine (now defunct)
It was October 30, our father’s birthday. Traditionally, all of us kids gathered at the family mansion to celebrate the day, birthday cake and all. It was something I had always dreaded, especially since Mother had passed on. Father had become even harder to deal with. But now, God rot him, he was dead as well, and today was the reading of the will.
Missy hadn’t wanted to read the will on that day, saying something about bad luck. She always was the nervous one. Not that he didn’t make me nervous. On the contrary, I think I walked around with a permanent hunch to my shoulders, anticipating a blow or sharp word.
Anyway, James and I managed to convince our sister that Father’s birthday was the logical choice, as it would be exactly a year since he departed and also, he’d set it up with his lawyer that way, so it didn’t really matter what any of us wanted.
I arrived last, as befitting my position as the youngest, parking my late model clunker next to the others in the driveway. Father had been firm in his belief that his children make it on their own with no help from him or his money. Selfish bastard.
Rain pelted the top of my head, plastering my hair to my skull. I couldn’t help glancing over at the family cemetery, my eyes drawn to the last stone on the end. Strange. The grave looked disturbed…I shook the thought right out of my head. That was such impossibility it did not even deserve attention. The rain was playing a trick, that was all.
Inside I handed my dripping coat to the butler whose name I could never remember, and walked down the hallway, my heels loud on the polished floor.
The library door opened beneath my hand, and the familiar smells of cigars and old leather filled my nostrils.
James and Missy were there, standing in opposite corners, unhappy looks on their round faces.
“What the hell took you so long?” James demanded, raking a hand through his thinning hair. He looked the business man in his three piece suit.
“I’m here now, so let’s get started,” I said, and took a seat. Missy gave me a horrified look.
“What are you doing? You can’t sit in that chair,” she hissed, eyes almost popping out of her head.
“Sure I can. Who’s going to stop me? Father doesn’t need it anymore.” I grinned, and my sister made a noise and covered her face.
“L…leave her alone,” James said, and I shrugged. I stroked the smooth leather of the armrest, thinking I might have to take it with me. I could use a chair like that in my office.
“Ahem.” Mr. Jennings cleared his throat. “If we could get started now?” Mr. Jennings had been my father’s lawyer for the last thirty years, and he was one cold S.O.B.
My sibling pulled out chairs as far away from me as possible, and Mr. Jennings stood by the fireplace and opened a folder.
“Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? You three are here because of your inheritance.”
“Of course we are,” James said, leaning forward. “So let’s get on with it.” He rested his palms on his thighs and waited.
“Very well,” Jennings said, placing a pair of reading glasses on his patrician nose.
“As you know, I’ve been your father’s legal advisor for a very long time. And, if I may take the liberty, I have also been his main confidant.” I rolled my eyes, trying to look bored. My shoulders were tight, though, because I knew my father wouldn’t pass up one last chance to screw us over.
“His last request to me was… how shall I put it?” Jennings paused and looked at each of us in turn. His eyes were so black the pupil wasn’t visible. Creepy.
“Come on, Jennings,” I interrupted, tired of the melodrama. “Out with it. What do we have to do to get our hands on the cash?”
Jennings wrinkled his nose at my crudeness. “Simply eat a birthday cake,” he said, and motioned behind him. The butler hurried in carrying a large silver tray. On the tray was a cake. A cake covered with blood-red frosting.
“Eat that cake? That’s it?” Missy sounded amazed, and relieved. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and actually smiled at me. I didn’t return it
“That’s it,” Jennings said, smiling unpleasantly. “Although there is one thing you should know about this particular cake.”
“What’s that?” James asked warily. He, too, suspected something. Our father was fond of practical jokes, the malicious kind that made people cry.
“Your father insisted on being a part of the cake, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Jennings laughed, and James grabbed his arm, wrinkling the elegant black suit.
“Quit playing games, old man, and tell us.” Jennings narrowed his eyes and yanked back his arm. James didn’t back down, though, and I felt a moment of admiration for my brother. There was a backbone in there somewhere after all.
“Very well. In order for the three of you to receive the money, you must consume the entire cake--every single crumb.”
“And if we don’t?” Missy asked, eyes darting nervously. She twisted a strand of her mousy brown hair around a finger, a childhood habit our father had tried in vain to break. One of the only times he’d ever failed.
“Then your share will be divided between the remaining siblings, provided they meet the terms.”
“So there’s a chance one of us could get all 50 million,” I said slowly, and Jennings nodded.
“Minus my fees, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and there is just one more thing,” Jennings said, and he was really enjoying this. “As I said before, your father wanted to be a part of this, and he is. He’s at the center of the cake.”
“At the center….you don’t mean….” James stuttered, face white.
“Yes, I do mean. The cake was baked with your father’s head in the center.”
Missy screamed, fingers tangled in her hair. James’s mouth was an O of disgusted surprise. Me? It didn’t surprise me. Or at least not much. It was just the kind of nasty, tasteless joke my father had always enjoyed playing on his children.
Fascinated, I went closer, unable to take my eyes off of it. Even Missy crept closer, hand pressed to her mouth.
Across the top of the cake, piped in white frosting, was a message: Love, Daddy. I wondered who had actually dug up the grave and baked this nauseating dessert.
“He can’t do this, can he?” Missy pleaded, tugging on Jennings’ sleeve.
“Madam, he can do whatever the hell he wants.”
“I hope its chocolate,” I said, feeling a grin playing around my mouth.
“I can’t do this,” Missy whispered desperately, digging at her face with her lacquered fingernails.
I picked up the knife the butler had provided and brought it down right through the center of the cake. The blade made a loud clunk and Missy moaned and swayed.
James looked at me grimly. “Let’s get to it.”
“Righto, brother. One piece of birthday cake coming up.” I sliced him a thick piece and tossed it on one of my mother’s antique china plates. James picked up the plate and stared at it. Chocolate had never been his favorite.
“It’s your mother’s recipe,” Jennings commented, and Missy did faint then, falling to the carpet with a muffled thump. Neither of us looked around.
“I’m going to win,” James told me, eating his piece in two bites. I ate mine in one and dug into the cake with my hands, stuffing my mouth. The cake had a funny taste, but I’d eat anything for fifty million dollars. Hell, I’d lick the plate clean for that kind of money.
“You haven’t the balls,” I said, and he tore off half the cake, exposing part of the head. Rotted skin, now cooked through and through, clung in places to the forehead. The bone shone wetly in the dim light and I heard James swallow hard.
“What’s the matter? Gonna toss your cookies?”
“Bite me.” My brother grabbed another handful, and this time what was left of our father’s face stared out at us. Yellowing teeth grinned through bits of chocolate, and I laughed.
“Hey, look! Dad’s enjoying the cake, too!”
“You’re disgusting,” James said, nostrils flaring. He kept swallowing, choking down the vomit I knew rose in his throat every time he took a bite.
I have to give my brother credit, though. It wasn’t until a long, grey hair got caught in his teeth that he gave in and puked all over the priceless Persian rug. But I didn’t mind; you can buy a lot of rugs with fifty million dollars.
Now my father’s skull sits in the center of my desk in the library. It is very shiny and very smooth. And when I take it in my hands and lovingly run my tongue over the coolness, it tastes ever so slightly of chocolate.
(c)2004 WS Ribelin
It was October 30, our father’s birthday. Traditionally, all of us kids gathered at the family mansion to celebrate the day, birthday cake and all. It was something I had always dreaded, especially since Mother had passed on. Father had become even harder to deal with. But now, God rot him, he was dead as well, and today was the reading of the will.
Missy hadn’t wanted to read the will on that day, saying something about bad luck. She always was the nervous one. Not that he didn’t make me nervous. On the contrary, I think I walked around with a permanent hunch to my shoulders, anticipating a blow or sharp word.
Anyway, James and I managed to convince our sister that Father’s birthday was the logical choice, as it would be exactly a year since he departed and also, he’d set it up with his lawyer that way, so it didn’t really matter what any of us wanted.
I arrived last, as befitting my position as the youngest, parking my late model clunker next to the others in the driveway. Father had been firm in his belief that his children make it on their own with no help from him or his money. Selfish bastard.
Rain pelted the top of my head, plastering my hair to my skull. I couldn’t help glancing over at the family cemetery, my eyes drawn to the last stone on the end. Strange. The grave looked disturbed…I shook the thought right out of my head. That was such impossibility it did not even deserve attention. The rain was playing a trick, that was all.
Inside I handed my dripping coat to the butler whose name I could never remember, and walked down the hallway, my heels loud on the polished floor.
The library door opened beneath my hand, and the familiar smells of cigars and old leather filled my nostrils.
James and Missy were there, standing in opposite corners, unhappy looks on their round faces.
“What the hell took you so long?” James demanded, raking a hand through his thinning hair. He looked the business man in his three piece suit.
“I’m here now, so let’s get started,” I said, and took a seat. Missy gave me a horrified look.
“What are you doing? You can’t sit in that chair,” she hissed, eyes almost popping out of her head.
“Sure I can. Who’s going to stop me? Father doesn’t need it anymore.” I grinned, and my sister made a noise and covered her face.
“L…leave her alone,” James said, and I shrugged. I stroked the smooth leather of the armrest, thinking I might have to take it with me. I could use a chair like that in my office.
“Ahem.” Mr. Jennings cleared his throat. “If we could get started now?” Mr. Jennings had been my father’s lawyer for the last thirty years, and he was one cold S.O.B.
My sibling pulled out chairs as far away from me as possible, and Mr. Jennings stood by the fireplace and opened a folder.
“Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? You three are here because of your inheritance.”
“Of course we are,” James said, leaning forward. “So let’s get on with it.” He rested his palms on his thighs and waited.
“Very well,” Jennings said, placing a pair of reading glasses on his patrician nose.
“As you know, I’ve been your father’s legal advisor for a very long time. And, if I may take the liberty, I have also been his main confidant.” I rolled my eyes, trying to look bored. My shoulders were tight, though, because I knew my father wouldn’t pass up one last chance to screw us over.
“His last request to me was… how shall I put it?” Jennings paused and looked at each of us in turn. His eyes were so black the pupil wasn’t visible. Creepy.
“Come on, Jennings,” I interrupted, tired of the melodrama. “Out with it. What do we have to do to get our hands on the cash?”
Jennings wrinkled his nose at my crudeness. “Simply eat a birthday cake,” he said, and motioned behind him. The butler hurried in carrying a large silver tray. On the tray was a cake. A cake covered with blood-red frosting.
“Eat that cake? That’s it?” Missy sounded amazed, and relieved. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and actually smiled at me. I didn’t return it
“That’s it,” Jennings said, smiling unpleasantly. “Although there is one thing you should know about this particular cake.”
“What’s that?” James asked warily. He, too, suspected something. Our father was fond of practical jokes, the malicious kind that made people cry.
“Your father insisted on being a part of the cake, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Jennings laughed, and James grabbed his arm, wrinkling the elegant black suit.
“Quit playing games, old man, and tell us.” Jennings narrowed his eyes and yanked back his arm. James didn’t back down, though, and I felt a moment of admiration for my brother. There was a backbone in there somewhere after all.
“Very well. In order for the three of you to receive the money, you must consume the entire cake--every single crumb.”
“And if we don’t?” Missy asked, eyes darting nervously. She twisted a strand of her mousy brown hair around a finger, a childhood habit our father had tried in vain to break. One of the only times he’d ever failed.
“Then your share will be divided between the remaining siblings, provided they meet the terms.”
“So there’s a chance one of us could get all 50 million,” I said slowly, and Jennings nodded.
“Minus my fees, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and there is just one more thing,” Jennings said, and he was really enjoying this. “As I said before, your father wanted to be a part of this, and he is. He’s at the center of the cake.”
“At the center….you don’t mean….” James stuttered, face white.
“Yes, I do mean. The cake was baked with your father’s head in the center.”
Missy screamed, fingers tangled in her hair. James’s mouth was an O of disgusted surprise. Me? It didn’t surprise me. Or at least not much. It was just the kind of nasty, tasteless joke my father had always enjoyed playing on his children.
Fascinated, I went closer, unable to take my eyes off of it. Even Missy crept closer, hand pressed to her mouth.
Across the top of the cake, piped in white frosting, was a message: Love, Daddy. I wondered who had actually dug up the grave and baked this nauseating dessert.
“He can’t do this, can he?” Missy pleaded, tugging on Jennings’ sleeve.
“Madam, he can do whatever the hell he wants.”
“I hope its chocolate,” I said, feeling a grin playing around my mouth.
“I can’t do this,” Missy whispered desperately, digging at her face with her lacquered fingernails.
I picked up the knife the butler had provided and brought it down right through the center of the cake. The blade made a loud clunk and Missy moaned and swayed.
James looked at me grimly. “Let’s get to it.”
“Righto, brother. One piece of birthday cake coming up.” I sliced him a thick piece and tossed it on one of my mother’s antique china plates. James picked up the plate and stared at it. Chocolate had never been his favorite.
“It’s your mother’s recipe,” Jennings commented, and Missy did faint then, falling to the carpet with a muffled thump. Neither of us looked around.
“I’m going to win,” James told me, eating his piece in two bites. I ate mine in one and dug into the cake with my hands, stuffing my mouth. The cake had a funny taste, but I’d eat anything for fifty million dollars. Hell, I’d lick the plate clean for that kind of money.
“You haven’t the balls,” I said, and he tore off half the cake, exposing part of the head. Rotted skin, now cooked through and through, clung in places to the forehead. The bone shone wetly in the dim light and I heard James swallow hard.
“What’s the matter? Gonna toss your cookies?”
“Bite me.” My brother grabbed another handful, and this time what was left of our father’s face stared out at us. Yellowing teeth grinned through bits of chocolate, and I laughed.
“Hey, look! Dad’s enjoying the cake, too!”
“You’re disgusting,” James said, nostrils flaring. He kept swallowing, choking down the vomit I knew rose in his throat every time he took a bite.
I have to give my brother credit, though. It wasn’t until a long, grey hair got caught in his teeth that he gave in and puked all over the priceless Persian rug. But I didn’t mind; you can buy a lot of rugs with fifty million dollars.
Now my father’s skull sits in the center of my desk in the library. It is very shiny and very smooth. And when I take it in my hands and lovingly run my tongue over the coolness, it tastes ever so slightly of chocolate.
(c)2004 WS Ribelin
26 November 2011
End in sight
NaNoWriMo novel stands at 46,764 words right now. I haven't gotten tired of it yet, like I did the one I did in '06. That one was pretty much crap. This one, Blood Moon (working title) isn't too bad. Of course it's going to need tweaking, but I noticed this year that I was more carefuly with word choice and all of that grammar stuff that the NaNo people tell you not to worry about. I worry about it. I think the difference may be a better storyline. I may post an excerpt here.
29 July 2011
I did it
I sent a query letter to an agent about my YA novel. This is a big step for me, because I've been just taking the easy way--just drifting along, telling myself what I write isn't good enough.
Now I'm going to take another look at that Peter Pan story and see what I can do with it.
Go me!
Now I'm going to take another look at that Peter Pan story and see what I can do with it.
Go me!
27 February 2009
2009
Thing are beginning to slow down a bit. I have a short story I am working on, not steadily, but it's constantly in my mind. Hopefully I will be able to work on it today. I know I have to make time to write, because if I wait for it to happen it never will.
Working title: "Dear Betsy"
or "Parasitic"
It's about conjoined/parasitic twins. I know they aren't the same thing, but I hope to put those two types together somehow and come out with something disturbing. Not necessarily horror, but disturbing. Yeah, disturbing would be good.
Working title: "Dear Betsy"
or "Parasitic"
It's about conjoined/parasitic twins. I know they aren't the same thing, but I hope to put those two types together somehow and come out with something disturbing. Not necessarily horror, but disturbing. Yeah, disturbing would be good.
10 April 2008
Consider the Audience
So the reception was good. I was a little nervous about getting up in front and reading my story, but by the time it was my turn there weren't very many people still there. The listeners liked it, got several very nice compliments including one from a lady encouraging me to get it published. :-)
Then I was invited to read some of my work at a Teen Poetry Slam at the library a couple of days ago. Expecting a room full of teens, I decided to read some of my more 'adult' works--"Let Them Eat Cake", "Lazarus", "A Knight's Work". Should have just read "The Washwoman's Daughter" because there was barely anyone there. And then the second place winner in poetry read a cutesy story about Buzzy Bear, and that's when I knew I wasn't going to read. Also there was a grade schooler there as well.
Eh, no biggie. I ought to look around town for an open mike night, although I'd hate to go by myself!
Then I was invited to read some of my work at a Teen Poetry Slam at the library a couple of days ago. Expecting a room full of teens, I decided to read some of my more 'adult' works--"Let Them Eat Cake", "Lazarus", "A Knight's Work". Should have just read "The Washwoman's Daughter" because there was barely anyone there. And then the second place winner in poetry read a cutesy story about Buzzy Bear, and that's when I knew I wasn't going to read. Also there was a grade schooler there as well.
Eh, no biggie. I ought to look around town for an open mike night, although I'd hate to go by myself!
31 March 2008
I'm A Winner
Ok, a second-place winner. My story, "The Washwoman's Daughter," won second place in The Big Read contest. yay! Sunday I will read my story at a reception and it will be published in the local newspaper.
This really comes at a good time, because I've been feeling rather discouraged about my writing. Not to mention I haven't even looked at the novel for well over a month.
Guess it's time to suck up the self-pity and get to writing.
IF NOT NOW, THEN WHEN?
This really comes at a good time, because I've been feeling rather discouraged about my writing. Not to mention I haven't even looked at the novel for well over a month.
Guess it's time to suck up the self-pity and get to writing.
IF NOT NOW, THEN WHEN?
10 December 2007
Soooo, How's That Goal Thing Going?
Ugh.
I've been writing a lot every day, just not on the novel. It's like I wrote those big scenes and filled in a bit, and then I didn't know where to go from there. Probably just need to recharge and think about it. So I've been working on the vignette thingie I did for the LiveJam contest on writing.com. At least I'm writing.
I may post some of it here, just for laughs. Maybe.
I've been writing a lot every day, just not on the novel. It's like I wrote those big scenes and filled in a bit, and then I didn't know where to go from there. Probably just need to recharge and think about it. So I've been working on the vignette thingie I did for the LiveJam contest on writing.com. At least I'm writing.
I may post some of it here, just for laughs. Maybe.
03 December 2007
Daily Goal
I'm not so hot at keeping goals, but this is one I must. I need/want to write 1,000 words at the very minimum every day. Yesterday I wrote 1300 words (yay!) but today it will be a little more difficult. I've written a bit here and there, but since I just finished the big scene with Cassidy and her mother, and then with Cassidy and Joel (still needs some tweaking), I have to do some thinking. That's where the other stuff comes in handy, the Dream On bits and pieces that I probably won't ever finish but it gives me practice and gets me into Joel's head. That can be kind of a problem, though, me knowing him so very well that sometimes when I'm writing, I forget that the reader knows nothing about why Joel's family left KC, or how he feels about his brother and why it's hard for him to trust. He's an interesting character, but I wish Cassidy was half as interesting. The characters with all the problems seem to be the most interesting. Must be all the drama.
27 November 2007
I Know How It's Going To End!
Yay!! I received some extremely helpful feedback for my book today. I am excited about it today, plus I know how it will end.
Some things I need to change/work on/add:
1. the Talk between Cassidy and her mother
2. Cassidy needs to lighten up
3. Joel needs to talk more
4. Show more of Derek's problems
5. Physical description of Jenny and Allan
6. More setting and description (ugh)
7. Show Joel's feelings for Cass
8. Tentative renewal of friendship b/w Cass and Janie
So now I'm excited and I know for sure it isn't crap and that's a wonderful feeling! Still waiting for feedback from the rest of my writing group, so we will see.
I will finish this thing and see it in print!!
Some things I need to change/work on/add:
1. the Talk between Cassidy and her mother
2. Cassidy needs to lighten up
3. Joel needs to talk more
4. Show more of Derek's problems
5. Physical description of Jenny and Allan
6. More setting and description (ugh)
7. Show Joel's feelings for Cass
8. Tentative renewal of friendship b/w Cass and Janie
So now I'm excited and I know for sure it isn't crap and that's a wonderful feeling! Still waiting for feedback from the rest of my writing group, so we will see.
I will finish this thing and see it in print!!
20 November 2007
The Big O
For so long the desire to write has been missing. Now, though, there's this urge, this urgent feeling inside of me that is only soothed by my fingers on the keyboard. And then the feeling changes to one of satisfaction, of knowing that this is what I'm supposed to be doing. My mind, no, my entire being fills with the knowledge that yes, I am writing again and it feels so right, so good, so wonderful. And I wonder how I could have gone for so long without the therapy words avail me, without the sheer joy I get when it all comes together into a cohesive and coherent story. I think it's the best thing in the world.The only thing better would be seeing my name on the dust jacket of a novel. Right now, I can see that happening. I read an interview where Richard Z. Kruspe compares creating music with orgasm and I'm going to have to agree that any sort of creative process gives that feeling.
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.
07 July 2007
Over 10,000 words
Yes, that's right! I wrote over 10,000 words in June! Go, me!!!
This 500 words a day group is really helping me write regularly.
I've started working on 'Only You' again; it's going pretty well at the moment. Derek's problems are becoming apparent to Cassie, her dad has moved out of the house, her feelings for Joel are intensifying, and a renewed friendship with Janie is on the horizon. I just thought of that last point earlier today. I think Tommy Marco will dump Janie for whatever reason, and so will Imelda and that group. Janie will be on the outside, and at first Cassie is glad she's getting a taste of her own medicine, but Cassie's mean spiritedness won't last very long, and she'll extend an olive branch.
As for the Joel thing...it's getting there. I want to show his relationship with his parents, his intense anger, his feelings for her...plus, Rich and his friends are going to jump him one night as he walks home from Cassie's house. Audra causes more problems, and Cassie will realize that Audra is a person, not just someone to hate. I think I need to put Craig Hopper in a bit, probably at youth group.
It is SO nice to finally be over the bump.
This 500 words a day group is really helping me write regularly.
I've started working on 'Only You' again; it's going pretty well at the moment. Derek's problems are becoming apparent to Cassie, her dad has moved out of the house, her feelings for Joel are intensifying, and a renewed friendship with Janie is on the horizon. I just thought of that last point earlier today. I think Tommy Marco will dump Janie for whatever reason, and so will Imelda and that group. Janie will be on the outside, and at first Cassie is glad she's getting a taste of her own medicine, but Cassie's mean spiritedness won't last very long, and she'll extend an olive branch.
As for the Joel thing...it's getting there. I want to show his relationship with his parents, his intense anger, his feelings for her...plus, Rich and his friends are going to jump him one night as he walks home from Cassie's house. Audra causes more problems, and Cassie will realize that Audra is a person, not just someone to hate. I think I need to put Craig Hopper in a bit, probably at youth group.
It is SO nice to finally be over the bump.
03 May 2007
Laaaazy!
I have been so lazy this last week. Crit not finished. MUST do that! I guess I'm dragging my feet because it's hard work. And I'm lazy. :) It's not that I don't like the story, because I do. So, must get butt in gear.
Need to start flash for the seventeenth. "They were all sworn to secrecy" is the starting sentence.
Plus, haven't even worked on 'Only You' . AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!!!!!!!1
Need to start flash for the seventeenth. "They were all sworn to secrecy" is the starting sentence.
Plus, haven't even worked on 'Only You' . AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!!!!!!!1
18 April 2007
The End Could Be in Sight
Maybe. I've been working on the 2nd draft of 'Dream On', which takes place after Joel's return to whatever the name of the town is. Topeka, I guess. It appears to be gearing up for an emotional confrontation with his father, who is in the hospital after suffering a heart attack. It might be too quick, though, but the important thing is to get it down, and then I can go back and add all the rest of the stuff. Maybe even combine 'Only You' with it. Who knows? All I know is that I need to finish this story, because these characters won't leave me alone. I think about them all the time, imagining what they will do next, etc.
~need to finish 'Glory Hand' and think of a different name by the end of the month.
~need to print off GOR's story and start crit, to be done by end of month.
~must write 500 words every day
~must finish 'Lip-Smacking Monkeys' by next Thursday
~need to finish 'Glory Hand' and think of a different name by the end of the month.
~need to print off GOR's story and start crit, to be done by end of month.
~must write 500 words every day
~must finish 'Lip-Smacking Monkeys' by next Thursday
14 April 2007
ohmygosh My character has a theme song!
i've been listening to this song by apoptygma berzerk, "unicorn" and today I looked up the lyrics.
"You hold the candle I once lit
You shine your light
When you forgive I cry
You run your fingers through my hair
And tell me it´s worthwhile,
it´s all worthwhile
Even when I hate myself
Even when I feel your pain
when you cry
Even when my heart is cold
You assure me it´s worthwhile,
it´s all worthwhile
You see what can´t be seen
You repair the damage done to me.."
And the tune....wow. The song is Joel, all his pain and angst and sorrow and hopelessness. Yet there's that little bit of hope, that tiny bit of light shining from her...which would be Cassie. This song is their relationship.
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