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?

A new direction

I've totally changed Dream On, including the title. The working title is Penalty Shot.  The POV has changed from Cassidy (boring) to Joel, and instead of being linear, I've tried to make each chapter not that way. Each chapter is titled with a song, and it would be so awesome if I could have s soundtrack playing while the book is being read. 

Music highly influences my writing, no where as much as with this particular story. It started with a song, "See You" by Depeche Mode and morphed into its current life a after many years. 

I remain hopeful that the end is near. 

FAIL

NaNoWriMo was a massive fail this year, for a number of reasons. The main reason is that I made a mistake with my choice of story. I chose the zombie manuscript, which I had started for NaNo two or three years ago and failed, thinking I could make it work this time. The problem was, I had no passion for it. Last year I did all sorts of pre-writing for 'Blood Moon', which I did finish. This time, I was all 'eh'.  And it showed. I just didn't care.

Lesson learned. 


Better luck next time, maybe.

NaNoWriMo DAy 8

Word Count: 14,582

I did a little better today. There isn't this urgency to write like there was last year. Then, I was thinking about the story all day, and had done some massive pre-writing. As I stated in an earlier post (I think) I didn't do that this time.

I'm almost at the end of rewriting, and while I know that I want all the characters to converge outside the city, I'm not quite sure how that will happen. The real bummer is that when I started this thing several years ago, I hadn't heard of The Walking Dead, either the graphic novel or the tv show. Now, I've changed from calling the zombies deadwalkers  (too close to walkers} to rotters (thanks, Kirstin!). Floaters and bloaters were also suggested, but I think I'll pass on those.

The truly ironic thing is that I never used to like zombies (not that I really like them now) and thought every movie/book with them was dumb. Now look at me.

I'm not confident I'll reach 50,000 words, but I'll keep plugging away.

Excerpt:

Jeremiah slips into his coat and buttons it, the silence like a living thing. A living thing with teeth. Marie watches him without speaking, but she doesn’t have to say anything because it’s already been said. Already he’s shrugging off the past hour, letting it slide from his shoulders, from his mind. It has to be this way.

            “Take whatever you want,” she says, her voice low and ragged. “You always do.”

            He doesn’t respond. He won’t allow himself to be drawn into it. Not again. It’s just the way things are. The way they have to be.

            Grabbing his pack, he quickly empties it, organizing the things he’s leaving her in trade and the things he’s taking: ammunition: four boxes of rifle shells and two for his pistols, followed by water (he refills his jug) and some canned vegetables and fruits. He’s not greedy.

            “That’s it, Marie,” he says finally, when he’s ready to leave. “Is there a back way out of here?”

            “If there was another way out of here, I wouldn’t tell you.”  She’s standing in front of the unmade bed, her hair wild, and she’s opening and closing her fists.

            “Marie…”

            “Why’d you have to come here? You just used me, like always.”
            “You’re wrong,” he says, not looking at her. “I just wanted to trade. You wanted something more from me, like you always did.”

            “And what’s wrong with that? Do you think I like being alone? Do you  think I like it when men come in here to trade and end up taking what isn’t for sale? Do you, Jeremiah? No, you couldn’t possibly understand, because you don’t care about anyone but yourself. You never did.”

            Jeremiah shakes his head. It will do no good to argue with this woman, who might be slightly unhinged now, which isn’t surprising. This basement room, while an amazing accomplishment, is not a place to stay mentally healthy. He has had enough of this windowless hole, and he’s had enough of her, too.

            “Well, I’ll see you, Marie.”  He heads toward the door, a little worried about what she’ll do.

            “You bastard.” 

            He turns around just in time to see her grab a pistol and point it at him, the barrel shaking while tears course down her cheeks.

            “Get out,” she screams while he struggles to undo all the locks. “Get out before I blast you to hell where you belong. I hope a rotter bites your head off, Jeremiah Stone.”

            He slams the door closed just as a bullet slams into the metal door not two inches from his head. It doesn’t punch through, but leaves a large blister, which is quickly joined by six more.

            Moving as quickly as he dares, he heads for where he thinks the stairs are, but a shuffling noise from that direction causes him to duck down another hallway. He presses silently against the wall, knife in hand, because being quiet is the only way he’ll get out of this place. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he sees a group of what he is sure are rotters shuffle past. How the hell did they get down here?

            When they start pounding on Marie’s door, Jeremiah knows he can’t walk away. Pulling out his rifle, he steps out into the hallway. To his horror, the door bursts open beneath the assault, as if she hadn’t reengaged the locks.

            Light floods out, illuminating the ragged figures as they move into the room. When he bursts inside the room, the first thing he sees is Marie sprawled across the bed, the mattress beneath her soaked red, but not from the rotters who are fighting over which one gets the prize. The smell of gunpowder is strong, and when he spots the pistol beside her hand, he melts back into the hallway, not sure if he should feel better because her death wasn’t as horrible as it could have been, or if he should feel like crap because she killed herself.

            Just another sin to add to the load he already carries, he figures, climbing the steps two at a time. He’s definitely going to hell.

 

NaNoWriMo Day 7

Word Count: 12,396

I wrote a little over 1,000 words today. I hope to do better tomorrow morning.

NaNoWriMo Day 6

Didn't  get much writing done today, due to lying in be a little too long.

Word Count: 11,463

I plan to do much better tomorrow!

NaNoWriMo Day 5

Word count for today: 10,565

It's going well. Some passages I don't change much, because I can't write it any better, while others have been completely redone or even cut.   I remain optimistic.

Excerpt:

Jack snatches the sheet off the bed and opens the window, punching the screen out. As it falls, he quickly knots the threadbare sheet around one leg of the bed, convinced that it’s not in his best interest not to meet this Reverend Moon, whoever he is.  Relying on his luck, because it’s all he has, Jack swings his legs over the windowsill and begins lowering himself down the side of the house just as the door bangs open.

            Two men thrust their heads out through the window, looking down at him silently, with vacant expressions. Jack finds their stares unnerving, and loosens his grip on the sheet so that he slides down even faster, his bare feet barely touching the smooth siding of the house.

            One of the men disappears from the window and Jack gets a bad feeling in his gut. Sure enough, the tension in the sheet abruptly slackens, sending him hurtling down. Luckily the window above the back yard, which although has dead and dying grass and plants, is still a softer landing than the sidewalk would have been.

            Jack rolls as he lands, his fingers grabbing at the sheet, which has followed him down. Jumping to his feet, he jets out of the yard, the air cold on his skin. There’s a wooden privacy fence surrounding the yard but that poses no problem, because the gate is wide open and he hurtles through it and then he’s on the street, still running as hard as he can, the sheet flapping behind him like a white tail.

            By the time he slows, stitch in his side and his lungs burning, the house is far behind him and he’s in the warehouse district again, which is really annoying because no way in hell does  he want to meet up with those Lord of the Flies jokers again.

            Tying the fabric toga-style around him (yay for frat parties), Jack pauses to get his bearings. There’s a faint scent of the river beneath the usual reek of rot and sewage, and it’s toward this he starts walking. He could really use some fresh (fresher) air, and then maybe he can find a way out of this damned warehouse district and into the main city where there’s hopefully some food.

            It’s not long before clothing tops even his desire for food, the wind whipping through the buildings, his feet sore from walking on the cracked cement. It’s slow going, because if he cuts his foot, he’s dead.

            “Come on, Lady Luck,” he mutters, hunching his shoulders. “Don’t fail me now.”

            As if the fickle lady has heard him, he rounds a corner and stumbles, nearly falling headlong onto the street. Cursing, he regains his footing and looks around to see what it is.

            “Oh, God.” Jack turns away from the corpse, the sight of its half-eaten face making his empty belly churn, but not before the practical side of him notes the size of the unneeded clothing.