It's only November 5th, meaning it's not too late to join the National Novel Writing Month, aka NaNoWriMo! I'm attempting to accomplish this feat this year (writing a 50,000 word novel by the end of November) and I'm going to start my novel as soon as this post is over.
So I think you should all join me in milking our writing skills until they are dry to the bone and produce some truly awful novels! :)
Go here if you feel like joining this shindig.
http://www.nanowrimo.org
Happy writing!
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Translations
It's quite possible these were only well-written in French. It's also quite possible they were extremely poorly written in French and only made sense in my own mind. This is my first-ever attempt at translation, so be gentle! But, of course, I really would like to know if they suck. :) Maybe I can rephrase them and get their thoughts across better - after all, they were written by me so I can change them all I want, even in translation!
under the same sky
under the thoughts of my friends
under the thinkers of the past
under my own thoughts
under all others
-06-09-2008 (translated 09-27-2008)
a small patch of sky
outside my window
as I sit on my bed
I think of all in the world
whom I love
and I think that it is best
that I am here
without the others
yet underneath the same sky
-06-09-2008 (translated 09-27-2008)
under the same sky
under the thoughts of my friends
under the thinkers of the past
under my own thoughts
under all others
-06-09-2008 (translated 09-27-2008)
a small patch of sky
outside my window
as I sit on my bed
I think of all in the world
whom I love
and I think that it is best
that I am here
without the others
yet underneath the same sky
-06-09-2008 (translated 09-27-2008)
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Rewritten Prologue
Okay, I’m back. Sorry for the delay. Had to get my life together. Here is my post I was supposed to do last week.
So, here is a new prologue. I’m rewriting again. This time I’m going to focus more on character development on my main character, as she’s pretty bland in my other drafts. How’s this for a prologue? Is it too cheesy?
My people are the traders of secrets. They offer intrigue and scandal in exchange for physical, political, and emotional barter. They are the revealers of darkness, the exploiters of dirty truths, the cult of demons waiting to cash in on the hidden horrors of your soul.
They can read your mind. They can taste every emotion coming from your heart just as clearly as you can taste the crisp tartness of an apple, or the sour fullness of a hunk of aged cheese. They can sift through your consciousness with nimble ease to find memories even you have repressed or forgotten.
They know everything, and they know nothing at all. For all the wisdom their abilities could give them, they stay ignorant and brainwashed by the decaying religion of their leaders. They are gods with no will, giants with no minds, a powerful crushing force with no ability to think on their own. They are an army of thieves that steal with no remorse, and use their spoils to fuel the men that entrap them in holy coils.
I am the lonely female secret that waits uncovered in their messy world of blackmail. Gifted with their same talents, I wait, I train, I hide. And I wonder if the very nature of my being will require some moral fall, some temptation from the darkness.
Or at least some kind of blood sacrifice
So, here is a new prologue. I’m rewriting again. This time I’m going to focus more on character development on my main character, as she’s pretty bland in my other drafts. How’s this for a prologue? Is it too cheesy?
My people are the traders of secrets. They offer intrigue and scandal in exchange for physical, political, and emotional barter. They are the revealers of darkness, the exploiters of dirty truths, the cult of demons waiting to cash in on the hidden horrors of your soul.
They can read your mind. They can taste every emotion coming from your heart just as clearly as you can taste the crisp tartness of an apple, or the sour fullness of a hunk of aged cheese. They can sift through your consciousness with nimble ease to find memories even you have repressed or forgotten.
They know everything, and they know nothing at all. For all the wisdom their abilities could give them, they stay ignorant and brainwashed by the decaying religion of their leaders. They are gods with no will, giants with no minds, a powerful crushing force with no ability to think on their own. They are an army of thieves that steal with no remorse, and use their spoils to fuel the men that entrap them in holy coils.
I am the lonely female secret that waits uncovered in their messy world of blackmail. Gifted with their same talents, I wait, I train, I hide. And I wonder if the very nature of my being will require some moral fall, some temptation from the darkness.
Or at least some kind of blood sacrifice
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Yes today is Wednesday
And you know what? I'm okay with that. I hope everyone else is okay with it! We can still pretty much orient our posts around the thought of Sunday, but is it alright if we basically post whatever when we actually have it, and critique throughout the week? I don't know! I'm just not in a very structured place in my life right now ... but I can work on it!
She adjusted his bow tie quickly and sloppily as they rushed out to face the grisly day. Running a block, walking a block, then running yet again, they eventually arrived at the mansion. At least, she thought, it looks like a mansion.
"What are we doing here again?" he asked.
"Hey quit your griping. I have to wear a bow tie too."
They each more properly adjusted their own, then stepped up to ring the doorbell.
At this point I would like to take a break to say that you fantasy/fiction writers seem miraculously to have all these weird/cool/original ideas floating around in your head for "stories." Right now in this narrative (taken from the quirky Writing Exercise Lindsay suggested, which I liked) has no direction. I can think of absolutely no ending to my "story." I have lots of literary things floating around in my head, though, predominantly coming from Scout and her brother's adventures in To Kill a Mockingbird. I'm going to have to call it good at a very small paragraph, which was fun to write, and try harder next time.
She adjusted his bow tie quickly and sloppily as they rushed out to face the grisly day. Running a block, walking a block, then running yet again, they eventually arrived at the mansion. At least, she thought, it looks like a mansion.
"What are we doing here again?" he asked.
"Hey quit your griping. I have to wear a bow tie too."
They each more properly adjusted their own, then stepped up to ring the doorbell.
At this point I would like to take a break to say that you fantasy/fiction writers seem miraculously to have all these weird/cool/original ideas floating around in your head for "stories." Right now in this narrative (taken from the quirky Writing Exercise Lindsay suggested, which I liked) has no direction. I can think of absolutely no ending to my "story." I have lots of literary things floating around in my head, though, predominantly coming from Scout and her brother's adventures in To Kill a Mockingbird. I'm going to have to call it good at a very small paragraph, which was fun to write, and try harder next time.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Chapter one of Chalk
Chapter One
Daphne wore go-go boots the day we met—bright red go-go boots that matched her mini-skirted jumper, and chunky barrettes. She looked like a character from a comic strip, or an anime film. I had to force myself to stop staring at her.
I noticed her as I walked into the library my first day of school. I had signed up to be a library aide my freshman year. Daschall, my adopted father, had insisted we move again just a month before, so I had to change schools. For the other kids registration had happened months ago, and there weren’t very many elective options left. It was either be a library aid, or sing in the choir. It wasn’t exactly a hard choice.
Daphne sat on a chair in her loud red clothing and candy cane tights, hugging her knees and hiding her head behind them, like she was afraid someone might see her. To put her at ease I pretended to scan the bookshelf behind me. She tasted of nervous anticipation, so I didn’t want to heighten her anxiety.
I say “tasted” because that is the best way to describe the sensation of others’ emotions. I can read minds. Tasting emotions is an aspect of that ability. Instead of the audible words that hum inside someone’s aura when they are thinking with language, emotions manifest themselves as different flavors on my tongue. These flavors are complex and varied. They take years to learn to interpret.
Daphne’s nervous anticipation was a complicated flavor. Anticipation tastes like artificial cherries with a strong sour punch to it. It wasn’t a good compliment to nervousness, which is more like coconut paired with yellow mustard.
The librarian left the pile of books stacked on her desk to approach us.
“Hello, my name is Ms. Hunter. You must be my new aides?”
“I’m Sarah Daschall. It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
Daphne glanced at us both before accepting her cue.
“I’m Daphne,” she said, simply.
“Great, do either of you like to read?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Daphne shrugged.
“Well, good. I’ll try to keep you both as busy as possible, but there might be a lot of downtime too. This library isn’t very large,” she began to explain. She continued explaining our duties for almost five minutes. Daphne politely stared at her as she talked, but she tasted of boredom. I almost laughed then, because boredom happens to taste much like dusty books smell. I had never made the connection before.
As the next few days followed, Ms. Hunter gave us a routine. I could sense that Daphne liked the work. She was always calm near the beginning, then her emotions changed as her eyes became more thoughtful. I wanted to read her thoughts when this happened, but I forced myself to be happy with only the tastes of confusion, delight, and excitement that came from her aura.
The first time Daphne actually talked to me was during our second week. We were shelf reading, and Daphne pulled out an old book. The title on the binding was fading, so I thought she had pulled it to tell Ms. Hunter. But she just looked at it for a second and then asked me if I had read it.
“Ummm, no,” I said.
“It’s good,” she told me, then slid it back into its place on the shelf.
From then on she did this quite often. Sometimes two or three books a day. Her questions were infrequent enough that I didn’t feel the need to shrug her off, or avoid her the way I did the other kids. Moving was too painful if I made friends, and Daschall didn’t want me to get close to anyone anyway. But Daphne was too nervous about our interactions to warrant any concern. She weaseled her way into my heart one book at a time.
One day in mid-November Daphne padded into the library, her feet covered in nothing but the pink and purple tights that when paired with the purple pleated skirt and matching pink cardigan she wore, made her look like a lollipop.
She quickened her pace when she saw me sitting at a desk with a book in hand.
“Where is Ms. Hunter?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.”
Daphne’s head circled, scanning the library.
“Do you have any extra shoes in your gym locker?”
We both glanced down at my feet, clad in tennis shoes. They were the same ones I wore every day. I never needed to change into different ones for gym class.
“Sorry,” I said. I couldn’t help myself. “Where are your shoes?”
Daphne’s eyes searched the library again before she reached into her black messenger bag and pulled out two industrial black boots that, when laced up, must have gone up to the knee on her short legs. A triangular knife about one inch wide poked out of the right toe.
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound less freaked out than I was.
“I must have gotten the suspension wrong when I installed the blade. It’s not supposed to pop out like that unless I push this button on the side. But now it’s stuck, and it won’t go back in.”
She looked up at me, waiting for my reaction.
“Yeah, I hate it when that happens,” I finally said.
She tasted of disbelief—a flighty, vinegar flavor with a hint of mint. But she continued.
“Ms. Jensen said if I brought a weapon to school again I would be expelled. So I have to find some other shoes.”
Ms. Jensen was the principal.
“Again? You mean, this isn’t the first time?” I asked.
Daphne shrugged.
Fair enough, I thought. She didn’t want to tell me, so I wasn’t going to ask. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know anyway.
“Is there any way you could break off the blade?”
She glared at me.
“Okay, so maybe not.”
Then I got an idea.
“Are there any shoes in the lost and found?” I asked.
She grinned, and ran to the check out desk. She disappeared underneath the counter for a few moments, then popped up with a pair of green canvas shoes in her hands.
They didn’t match, but Daphne’s clothes were so strange to begin with, I was sure no one would notice.
She walked back to my desk, and slid the shoes onto her feet. They were too big. She pulled a pile of yarn out of her bag and an orange, metal box cutter. She used the box cutter to sever the yarn so she had two clumps about the same size. She stuffed a clump into the toe of each shoes, then tried them on again.
I saw Ms. Hunter walking into the library.
“Hurry, hide the other shoes!” I said.
Daphne dropped the boots back into her bag, and turned around to face Ms. Hunter.
As Ms. Hunter detailed our duties for the day, Daphne looked over at me and tasted of something my classmates usually felt for each other, but never for me—fondness. Fondness tastes mildly sweet, like a butter cookie. It felt warm coming from Daphne. I smiled at her, and she smiled back, mischievously.
That day when we were cleaning books, the silence that once made me feel safe itched at me to say something. I finally gave in.
“I like your tights today. Where’d you get them?”
I watched her consider my non-descript t-shirt and jeans, then look up at me in confusion.
“I got them at this consignment shop behind the dollar movie theater downtown.”
If there had been another mind reader in the room, or as they are more formally known, a Seer, I would have tasted bitterly of guilt and nervous fear in the moment I bit my lip and made a decision Daschall would have throttled me for.
“Would you… take me there sometime?” I asked her.
I tasted shyness, but more prominently, appreciation. Daphne was grateful for my request. In that moment I realized she was just as lonely as I was.
I almost asked her if we could go that Saturday, but then reminded myself that she hadn’t answered yet. I waited a few moments as she wrung her fingers.
“Sure,” she finally said.
“When are you free?” I asked.
“Oh, whenever,” she replied. I believed her.
“What about tomorrow then, Saturday?”
She smiled and shrugged again.
When I saw her on Saturday at the train stop she was knitting pink yarn into something that looked like the beginnings of a scarf. She stuffed her knitting into a bright yellow cotton bag, then slung it over her shoulder.
“Hey,” I said.
She smiled back. I sensed her nervousness, so I suggested that we begin walking. The cold air bit at my unprotected fingers, and I imagined the way her legs, clad only in butterfly tights from the knee down, must have stung. But the walking calmed her, and as a result, I felt calmer as well.
The sidewalks of the street were seasoned with blue rock salt that crunched under our feet as we walked. The beautiful buildings of the city were far behind us, and the businesses we saw now were dumpy coffee shops and tattoo parlors.
I didn’t normally travel into this part of town. I preferred spending my time in places like parks where the flavor of children’s delight stayed constant in my mouth. Delight is my favorite. Imagine the way raspberries would taste if they had the citrus of pineapple, crystallized like the top layer of crème brulee. That’s delight. There was no delight here. As we passed a grungy, toothless man in a frayed plaid coat, despair filled my mouth instead. I couldn’t wait to get out off these streets and into the store. When the smell of stale popcorn assaulted us I knew we were close.
Daphne turned right at the next corner. A grimy building with paste-up letters listed the current movies playing. We crossed the street and walked through the parking lot of the theater until we reached a stucco building behind it, painted an olive green. On the side of the building there was a tall sign where the word “Shellie’s” glowed brightly, even though it was 12:15 in the afternoon, and still light outside. Three female mannequins with silver skin stood in the front windows, wearing a strange ensemble of bright, but casual clothing.
Daphne walked in the glass doors, and I followed her.
The place, as far as I could tell, was completely void of people. But it did have piles and racks of outrageous clothing, and a wall stocked with every color and pattern of tights or thigh-highs you could possibly imagine. I found my eyes glued to them.
“The clothes here are fun too. But they are used,” Daphne said, coloring.
“I don’t mind,” I told her. I truly didn’t. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from Daschall’s friends.
Daphne and I began rifling through the endless racks of clothing. I searched for a while before I picked up a maroon, knee-length dress that had a flounce at the hem and a wide neck with scalloped edges. It looked subdued, but edgy. Like something Daphne might wear if she had a boring dad like Daschall. I decided to try it on.
By the time I found my dress, Daphne’s pile of clothes was decidedly more outrageous and larger than mine. I could taste her tart excitement as we headed back to the dressing rooms.
There were two small stalls that had a long curtain of gathered fabric to serve as doors. We both chose a stall, and I began pulling off my clothes. The dress was easy to slide on, until I tried to zip it up in the back, and it hit a snag. I couldn’t undo it myself.
“Daphne?” I called to her. “Would you mind helping me out for a second? I think the zipper on this dress has gotten caught in the fabric.”
I pushed aside the cotton hanging from the doorframe and waited. A second later Daphne emerged from her dressing room in a short, neon green dress. I turned around to show her the problem.
I felt Daphne’s small, cold fingers upon my back as she tried to free the zipper. Then I tasted the salty, savory, and almost floral flavor of desire.
Desire was the ultimate mystery flavor of my childhood. Out of all the basic emotions, it was the hardest to figure out. I tasted it for the first time when I was six. Once I had deciphered the flavor of it, I found it everywhere I went. But no one, it seemed, wanted to talk about it. When I would ask people what they felt when I sensed this emotion, they would always tell me a different answer. Sometimes it was happy, sometimes it was excited, sometimes it was frustrated. There was no consistency. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to ask people what they were feeling. Well, at least not as often as I did when I was younger. It raised questions with our roommates or my teachers which made Daschall sigh, and tell me it was time to move again.
I didn’t figure it out until I went to my first drive-in movie. Daschall was on one of his father/daughter bonding kicks where he was asking me to call him dad. The feature was a kid movie, but there weren’t many kids around. There was a strong flavor of desire, though—more potent than I had ever tasted it. I asked Daschall if I could go to the bathroom, and I went around looking inside the cars where I could sense the feelings were the strongest.
You can imagine what I found.
After peeking through the window of the third car, I realized this emotion I was so curious about happened because of the secret thing grown-ups did when they were alone. When we got home that night I asked Daschall about this clandestine act. He thought for a few moments, and explained it quickly, but thoroughly. Suddenly, everything made sense. I was nine, and properly disgusted by the description of the act, so I stopped wondering about it. But I still tasted it everywhere I went on everyone I knew.
At first, I thought I just imagined it on Daphne, but as it persisted I decided to explain it off by assuming that she was thinking about someone else.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
The vomit taste of embarrassment flooded my mouth. This was the only time I invaded Daphne’s privacy, and intruded into her mind. I concentrated and dipped into her aura as she fiddled with my zipper.
…can’t get this free. This is too awkward. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. She probably doesn’t like girls…
Guilt washed over me. I never should have stolen her thoughts from her like that. I had betrayed her. I found my way out of her mind quickly, while trying to keep my facial expression in check.
“It’s alright, I’ll just take it off. Maybe it will be easier then,” I said, stepping away from her fingers.
I went back into the dressing room to shield my reaction. No one had felt desire for me before. I felt flattered. Daphne was very pretty in her own way. The excitement of being wanted was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant—even though I didn’t feel that way for her. It tingled across my skin and burned in my chest.
I sighed as reality set in. For now it didn’t matter. I knew enough about the nervous nature of attraction and Daphne’s insecurity to be sure that it would take time before she ever did anything about her feelings, if she ever did anything at all. Daschall and I would probably have to move again before then anyway.
All of the sudden I felt very lonely. I was sick of blending in, of staying anonymous. It felt good to be noticed by Daphne. It wasn’t something I was willing to give up. I had to convince Daschall that I couldn’t continue living like this.
I finally stepped out of the dressing room and followed Daphne to the cash register.
Once we were done at Shellie’s, Daphne and I walked back to the train station. As we waited, Daphne tapped her leather shoes on the platform. She jittered for a while, then pulled out her knitting needles and began to click back and forth. She looked over at me to check my reaction.
I didn’t mind. We weren’t talking anyway.
“How does that work?” I asked, gesturing to her knitting.
Before she could respond our train honked loudly and pulled into the station. We stepped into the warmth of the train and felt the continuous bump of the tracks as it pulled us through the city. When we sat down on a bench Daphne set the knitting needles into my lap.
“Oh, I can just watch you,” I said.
She shook her head.
“It’s easier if you do it with your own hands.”
While we rode home Daphne taught me how to knit a garter stitch. Once we got to my stop I tried to give the scarf back to her, but she shook her head once more.
“If you stop now you’ll forget.”
I smiled at her.
“Thanks.”
As usual, she shrugged.
Daphne wore go-go boots the day we met—bright red go-go boots that matched her mini-skirted jumper, and chunky barrettes. She looked like a character from a comic strip, or an anime film. I had to force myself to stop staring at her.
I noticed her as I walked into the library my first day of school. I had signed up to be a library aide my freshman year. Daschall, my adopted father, had insisted we move again just a month before, so I had to change schools. For the other kids registration had happened months ago, and there weren’t very many elective options left. It was either be a library aid, or sing in the choir. It wasn’t exactly a hard choice.
Daphne sat on a chair in her loud red clothing and candy cane tights, hugging her knees and hiding her head behind them, like she was afraid someone might see her. To put her at ease I pretended to scan the bookshelf behind me. She tasted of nervous anticipation, so I didn’t want to heighten her anxiety.
I say “tasted” because that is the best way to describe the sensation of others’ emotions. I can read minds. Tasting emotions is an aspect of that ability. Instead of the audible words that hum inside someone’s aura when they are thinking with language, emotions manifest themselves as different flavors on my tongue. These flavors are complex and varied. They take years to learn to interpret.
Daphne’s nervous anticipation was a complicated flavor. Anticipation tastes like artificial cherries with a strong sour punch to it. It wasn’t a good compliment to nervousness, which is more like coconut paired with yellow mustard.
The librarian left the pile of books stacked on her desk to approach us.
“Hello, my name is Ms. Hunter. You must be my new aides?”
“I’m Sarah Daschall. It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
Daphne glanced at us both before accepting her cue.
“I’m Daphne,” she said, simply.
“Great, do either of you like to read?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Daphne shrugged.
“Well, good. I’ll try to keep you both as busy as possible, but there might be a lot of downtime too. This library isn’t very large,” she began to explain. She continued explaining our duties for almost five minutes. Daphne politely stared at her as she talked, but she tasted of boredom. I almost laughed then, because boredom happens to taste much like dusty books smell. I had never made the connection before.
As the next few days followed, Ms. Hunter gave us a routine. I could sense that Daphne liked the work. She was always calm near the beginning, then her emotions changed as her eyes became more thoughtful. I wanted to read her thoughts when this happened, but I forced myself to be happy with only the tastes of confusion, delight, and excitement that came from her aura.
The first time Daphne actually talked to me was during our second week. We were shelf reading, and Daphne pulled out an old book. The title on the binding was fading, so I thought she had pulled it to tell Ms. Hunter. But she just looked at it for a second and then asked me if I had read it.
“Ummm, no,” I said.
“It’s good,” she told me, then slid it back into its place on the shelf.
From then on she did this quite often. Sometimes two or three books a day. Her questions were infrequent enough that I didn’t feel the need to shrug her off, or avoid her the way I did the other kids. Moving was too painful if I made friends, and Daschall didn’t want me to get close to anyone anyway. But Daphne was too nervous about our interactions to warrant any concern. She weaseled her way into my heart one book at a time.
One day in mid-November Daphne padded into the library, her feet covered in nothing but the pink and purple tights that when paired with the purple pleated skirt and matching pink cardigan she wore, made her look like a lollipop.
She quickened her pace when she saw me sitting at a desk with a book in hand.
“Where is Ms. Hunter?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.”
Daphne’s head circled, scanning the library.
“Do you have any extra shoes in your gym locker?”
We both glanced down at my feet, clad in tennis shoes. They were the same ones I wore every day. I never needed to change into different ones for gym class.
“Sorry,” I said. I couldn’t help myself. “Where are your shoes?”
Daphne’s eyes searched the library again before she reached into her black messenger bag and pulled out two industrial black boots that, when laced up, must have gone up to the knee on her short legs. A triangular knife about one inch wide poked out of the right toe.
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound less freaked out than I was.
“I must have gotten the suspension wrong when I installed the blade. It’s not supposed to pop out like that unless I push this button on the side. But now it’s stuck, and it won’t go back in.”
She looked up at me, waiting for my reaction.
“Yeah, I hate it when that happens,” I finally said.
She tasted of disbelief—a flighty, vinegar flavor with a hint of mint. But she continued.
“Ms. Jensen said if I brought a weapon to school again I would be expelled. So I have to find some other shoes.”
Ms. Jensen was the principal.
“Again? You mean, this isn’t the first time?” I asked.
Daphne shrugged.
Fair enough, I thought. She didn’t want to tell me, so I wasn’t going to ask. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know anyway.
“Is there any way you could break off the blade?”
She glared at me.
“Okay, so maybe not.”
Then I got an idea.
“Are there any shoes in the lost and found?” I asked.
She grinned, and ran to the check out desk. She disappeared underneath the counter for a few moments, then popped up with a pair of green canvas shoes in her hands.
They didn’t match, but Daphne’s clothes were so strange to begin with, I was sure no one would notice.
She walked back to my desk, and slid the shoes onto her feet. They were too big. She pulled a pile of yarn out of her bag and an orange, metal box cutter. She used the box cutter to sever the yarn so she had two clumps about the same size. She stuffed a clump into the toe of each shoes, then tried them on again.
I saw Ms. Hunter walking into the library.
“Hurry, hide the other shoes!” I said.
Daphne dropped the boots back into her bag, and turned around to face Ms. Hunter.
As Ms. Hunter detailed our duties for the day, Daphne looked over at me and tasted of something my classmates usually felt for each other, but never for me—fondness. Fondness tastes mildly sweet, like a butter cookie. It felt warm coming from Daphne. I smiled at her, and she smiled back, mischievously.
That day when we were cleaning books, the silence that once made me feel safe itched at me to say something. I finally gave in.
“I like your tights today. Where’d you get them?”
I watched her consider my non-descript t-shirt and jeans, then look up at me in confusion.
“I got them at this consignment shop behind the dollar movie theater downtown.”
If there had been another mind reader in the room, or as they are more formally known, a Seer, I would have tasted bitterly of guilt and nervous fear in the moment I bit my lip and made a decision Daschall would have throttled me for.
“Would you… take me there sometime?” I asked her.
I tasted shyness, but more prominently, appreciation. Daphne was grateful for my request. In that moment I realized she was just as lonely as I was.
I almost asked her if we could go that Saturday, but then reminded myself that she hadn’t answered yet. I waited a few moments as she wrung her fingers.
“Sure,” she finally said.
“When are you free?” I asked.
“Oh, whenever,” she replied. I believed her.
“What about tomorrow then, Saturday?”
She smiled and shrugged again.
When I saw her on Saturday at the train stop she was knitting pink yarn into something that looked like the beginnings of a scarf. She stuffed her knitting into a bright yellow cotton bag, then slung it over her shoulder.
“Hey,” I said.
She smiled back. I sensed her nervousness, so I suggested that we begin walking. The cold air bit at my unprotected fingers, and I imagined the way her legs, clad only in butterfly tights from the knee down, must have stung. But the walking calmed her, and as a result, I felt calmer as well.
The sidewalks of the street were seasoned with blue rock salt that crunched under our feet as we walked. The beautiful buildings of the city were far behind us, and the businesses we saw now were dumpy coffee shops and tattoo parlors.
I didn’t normally travel into this part of town. I preferred spending my time in places like parks where the flavor of children’s delight stayed constant in my mouth. Delight is my favorite. Imagine the way raspberries would taste if they had the citrus of pineapple, crystallized like the top layer of crème brulee. That’s delight. There was no delight here. As we passed a grungy, toothless man in a frayed plaid coat, despair filled my mouth instead. I couldn’t wait to get out off these streets and into the store. When the smell of stale popcorn assaulted us I knew we were close.
Daphne turned right at the next corner. A grimy building with paste-up letters listed the current movies playing. We crossed the street and walked through the parking lot of the theater until we reached a stucco building behind it, painted an olive green. On the side of the building there was a tall sign where the word “Shellie’s” glowed brightly, even though it was 12:15 in the afternoon, and still light outside. Three female mannequins with silver skin stood in the front windows, wearing a strange ensemble of bright, but casual clothing.
Daphne walked in the glass doors, and I followed her.
The place, as far as I could tell, was completely void of people. But it did have piles and racks of outrageous clothing, and a wall stocked with every color and pattern of tights or thigh-highs you could possibly imagine. I found my eyes glued to them.
“The clothes here are fun too. But they are used,” Daphne said, coloring.
“I don’t mind,” I told her. I truly didn’t. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from Daschall’s friends.
Daphne and I began rifling through the endless racks of clothing. I searched for a while before I picked up a maroon, knee-length dress that had a flounce at the hem and a wide neck with scalloped edges. It looked subdued, but edgy. Like something Daphne might wear if she had a boring dad like Daschall. I decided to try it on.
By the time I found my dress, Daphne’s pile of clothes was decidedly more outrageous and larger than mine. I could taste her tart excitement as we headed back to the dressing rooms.
There were two small stalls that had a long curtain of gathered fabric to serve as doors. We both chose a stall, and I began pulling off my clothes. The dress was easy to slide on, until I tried to zip it up in the back, and it hit a snag. I couldn’t undo it myself.
“Daphne?” I called to her. “Would you mind helping me out for a second? I think the zipper on this dress has gotten caught in the fabric.”
I pushed aside the cotton hanging from the doorframe and waited. A second later Daphne emerged from her dressing room in a short, neon green dress. I turned around to show her the problem.
I felt Daphne’s small, cold fingers upon my back as she tried to free the zipper. Then I tasted the salty, savory, and almost floral flavor of desire.
Desire was the ultimate mystery flavor of my childhood. Out of all the basic emotions, it was the hardest to figure out. I tasted it for the first time when I was six. Once I had deciphered the flavor of it, I found it everywhere I went. But no one, it seemed, wanted to talk about it. When I would ask people what they felt when I sensed this emotion, they would always tell me a different answer. Sometimes it was happy, sometimes it was excited, sometimes it was frustrated. There was no consistency. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to ask people what they were feeling. Well, at least not as often as I did when I was younger. It raised questions with our roommates or my teachers which made Daschall sigh, and tell me it was time to move again.
I didn’t figure it out until I went to my first drive-in movie. Daschall was on one of his father/daughter bonding kicks where he was asking me to call him dad. The feature was a kid movie, but there weren’t many kids around. There was a strong flavor of desire, though—more potent than I had ever tasted it. I asked Daschall if I could go to the bathroom, and I went around looking inside the cars where I could sense the feelings were the strongest.
You can imagine what I found.
After peeking through the window of the third car, I realized this emotion I was so curious about happened because of the secret thing grown-ups did when they were alone. When we got home that night I asked Daschall about this clandestine act. He thought for a few moments, and explained it quickly, but thoroughly. Suddenly, everything made sense. I was nine, and properly disgusted by the description of the act, so I stopped wondering about it. But I still tasted it everywhere I went on everyone I knew.
At first, I thought I just imagined it on Daphne, but as it persisted I decided to explain it off by assuming that she was thinking about someone else.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
The vomit taste of embarrassment flooded my mouth. This was the only time I invaded Daphne’s privacy, and intruded into her mind. I concentrated and dipped into her aura as she fiddled with my zipper.
…can’t get this free. This is too awkward. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. She probably doesn’t like girls…
Guilt washed over me. I never should have stolen her thoughts from her like that. I had betrayed her. I found my way out of her mind quickly, while trying to keep my facial expression in check.
“It’s alright, I’ll just take it off. Maybe it will be easier then,” I said, stepping away from her fingers.
I went back into the dressing room to shield my reaction. No one had felt desire for me before. I felt flattered. Daphne was very pretty in her own way. The excitement of being wanted was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant—even though I didn’t feel that way for her. It tingled across my skin and burned in my chest.
I sighed as reality set in. For now it didn’t matter. I knew enough about the nervous nature of attraction and Daphne’s insecurity to be sure that it would take time before she ever did anything about her feelings, if she ever did anything at all. Daschall and I would probably have to move again before then anyway.
All of the sudden I felt very lonely. I was sick of blending in, of staying anonymous. It felt good to be noticed by Daphne. It wasn’t something I was willing to give up. I had to convince Daschall that I couldn’t continue living like this.
I finally stepped out of the dressing room and followed Daphne to the cash register.
Once we were done at Shellie’s, Daphne and I walked back to the train station. As we waited, Daphne tapped her leather shoes on the platform. She jittered for a while, then pulled out her knitting needles and began to click back and forth. She looked over at me to check my reaction.
I didn’t mind. We weren’t talking anyway.
“How does that work?” I asked, gesturing to her knitting.
Before she could respond our train honked loudly and pulled into the station. We stepped into the warmth of the train and felt the continuous bump of the tracks as it pulled us through the city. When we sat down on a bench Daphne set the knitting needles into my lap.
“Oh, I can just watch you,” I said.
She shook her head.
“It’s easier if you do it with your own hands.”
While we rode home Daphne taught me how to knit a garter stitch. Once we got to my stop I tried to give the scarf back to her, but she shook her head once more.
“If you stop now you’ll forget.”
I smiled at her.
“Thanks.”
As usual, she shrugged.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
School
I know! It's a terrible excuse! But I'm bogged down mercilessly in schoolwork and I haven't yet been able to post a Writing Exercise ... would anyone in this group be up for taking turns with me? I post one one week, someone else the following? I'll keep looking through my book for something brilliant while I'm on the bus today though. I'll post something tonight to get us thinking for Sunday ... but again, I'm sorry I haven't been able to before now!
On to the next act...
So...what's next? Meaning, what are we posting this Sunday? Are we going to be posting some of our fiction, or is there going to be a new challenge? Or the most ambitious option: both? In any case I need to get off my butt and write something decent.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
scatterbrained ADD introduction
okay, I kind of tried the "forgetting myself" exercise; and I think it's a good exercise. maybe my inspirational juices are just REALLY dry right now.
what I came up with for myself (I'm not sure how) is an imaginative take on clips that I've probably seen on Meerkat Manor advertisements. you know how meerkats do that standing-on-their-tiptoes kind of move when they're curious about something? well, it starts with that, with them being run off scared by a bigger, more ferocious animal, but then coming back and taking stance like nothing happened. if that makes sense. kind of like how my chihuahua Pippin tries to hold her own against these beagles that my parents have, but really, she doesn't really do anything other than bark and dart around when they try to catch her, and then she struts around afterwards in an "I knew you couldn't take me on" fashion.
is it bad that I liken myself unto my chihuahua? my wannabe gangsta, white chihuahua? don't judge!
I don't think this is going very well.
I don't know where to go from there, so to abruptly change the subject to a more relevant topic, the last time I made serious attempts at writing I was in elementary school, actually being fairly certain I would be a professional writer when I got older. my talents grew from making a Thanksgiving turkey picture book in kindergarten to writing the melodramas of a seven-year old girl who thought of killing this girl she didn't like in school because she stole her favorite necklace (true story five years into the future, except this heinous girl I speak of also stole my favorite Jewel CD and was just a horrible person in general anyway). with the exception of a few anime fanfiction projects I did in middle school that never got further than the first five pages, that's about what my resume consists of.
I really don't write much of anything at all now, but was inspired to pick this hobby/childhood dream back up after reading Sundays at Tiffany's, a particularly gag-inducing romance novel that James Patterson put his name on to fool people into thinking it might be kind of decent. I got so irritated reading it that as some sort of abstract revenge against the genre I vowed I would write an equally horrible romance novel to make fun of the awful clichés and writing that I've always come across when reading romance. I guess there could be some better reason to write a book, but I take what I can.
I've actually started writing this horrible novel (or at least the first page of it), and I've already realized that I can't make myself go through with writing it as planned. Reading through the garbage I'd been writing and recognizing the fact that I'd be re-reading it a million times over in the process of making it longer kind of scared me away from it. but going off of what I'd already written, I managed to salvage what I'd like to think as a likeable, entertaining Tina Fey-esque main character I can play around with in some potentially interesting situations, so I guess I'll be writing a shitty romance novel after all; just not the one I originally intended to make. :)
what I came up with for myself (I'm not sure how) is an imaginative take on clips that I've probably seen on Meerkat Manor advertisements. you know how meerkats do that standing-on-their-tiptoes kind of move when they're curious about something? well, it starts with that, with them being run off scared by a bigger, more ferocious animal, but then coming back and taking stance like nothing happened. if that makes sense. kind of like how my chihuahua Pippin tries to hold her own against these beagles that my parents have, but really, she doesn't really do anything other than bark and dart around when they try to catch her, and then she struts around afterwards in an "I knew you couldn't take me on" fashion.
is it bad that I liken myself unto my chihuahua? my wannabe gangsta, white chihuahua? don't judge!
I don't think this is going very well.
I don't know where to go from there, so to abruptly change the subject to a more relevant topic, the last time I made serious attempts at writing I was in elementary school, actually being fairly certain I would be a professional writer when I got older. my talents grew from making a Thanksgiving turkey picture book in kindergarten to writing the melodramas of a seven-year old girl who thought of killing this girl she didn't like in school because she stole her favorite necklace (true story five years into the future, except this heinous girl I speak of also stole my favorite Jewel CD and was just a horrible person in general anyway). with the exception of a few anime fanfiction projects I did in middle school that never got further than the first five pages, that's about what my resume consists of.
I really don't write much of anything at all now, but was inspired to pick this hobby/childhood dream back up after reading Sundays at Tiffany's, a particularly gag-inducing romance novel that James Patterson put his name on to fool people into thinking it might be kind of decent. I got so irritated reading it that as some sort of abstract revenge against the genre I vowed I would write an equally horrible romance novel to make fun of the awful clichés and writing that I've always come across when reading romance. I guess there could be some better reason to write a book, but I take what I can.
I've actually started writing this horrible novel (or at least the first page of it), and I've already realized that I can't make myself go through with writing it as planned. Reading through the garbage I'd been writing and recognizing the fact that I'd be re-reading it a million times over in the process of making it longer kind of scared me away from it. but going off of what I'd already written, I managed to salvage what I'd like to think as a likeable, entertaining Tina Fey-esque main character I can play around with in some potentially interesting situations, so I guess I'll be writing a shitty romance novel after all; just not the one I originally intended to make. :)
Danger in Africa
The title of this post is an admission of sorts that I want to get out of the way immediately. It was the title of my first novel, which is now very appropriately buried in a blue bin somewhere in my basement, never to be unearthed again. I wrote it in junior high and high school, while begging my writing comrades to read every miserable word of it. I'm telling you this because you are about to become my new writing comrades, and I want warn you of what that entails. I also thought I'd bring it up so we never have to talk of it again. It will now on be referred to in Voldemortesque terms as "The novel that must not be named." It's a part of my past. I think writing it helped me understand the discipline and determination required to finish a novel. But I am very happy to have it behind me.
Although I have written every format and every genre out there, my true passion is fiction. I went through a phase of pure insanity during my last year of high school and first few months of college where I thought I wanted to be a journalist. I wrote a lot essays in college while I studied literature. I even write bad poetry when I get too frustrated with fiction. But when I'm in a good mood and reasonably mentally balanced, I write fiction.
Right now I am working on a novel called Chalk. Chalk is an urban fantasy story about a telepathic girl and her punk-rocker, ass-kicking best friend who take on a bunch of polygamist tyrants in an effort to save God and country. It's a young adult novel for ages 15 and up, and I've been working on it in some form or another for four years. It's not perfect, and it's not the next great American novel, but it is something. My goal is to finish it by the end of the year.
As for my writing story. Well, you can read about it in the anthology My Writing Life which is slated for publication sometime this fall, if you like. The short version is this: I was a very awkward looking teenager (as a few of you know) with no social skills, and I wrote to cope until I grew up and spent a few months estranged from my parents due to my inconvenient Atheism, then managed to write again after meeting my husband, who I very unwisely put on an impossible pedestal until he cheated on me with multiple women a few weeks ago (that last part was omitted from the published version, as it hadn't happened yet when I wrote it).
So, yeah. I'm not exactly feeling like self reflection is a healthy idea right now. But I like all of you and I like to write. So if you don't mind a somewhat deranged and scorned woman in your midst, I'd like to participate in the ever-life changing experience of turning a phrase with a group of interesting women.
There is quote by Isaac Asimov that I find might describe my situation a little more cohesively: "I write for the same reason I breathe-- because if I didn't I would die." There's nothing like a bit of artistic drama to set the mood. Let us click our heels, take a sip of coffee, and get started!
Although I have written every format and every genre out there, my true passion is fiction. I went through a phase of pure insanity during my last year of high school and first few months of college where I thought I wanted to be a journalist. I wrote a lot essays in college while I studied literature. I even write bad poetry when I get too frustrated with fiction. But when I'm in a good mood and reasonably mentally balanced, I write fiction.
Right now I am working on a novel called Chalk. Chalk is an urban fantasy story about a telepathic girl and her punk-rocker, ass-kicking best friend who take on a bunch of polygamist tyrants in an effort to save God and country. It's a young adult novel for ages 15 and up, and I've been working on it in some form or another for four years. It's not perfect, and it's not the next great American novel, but it is something. My goal is to finish it by the end of the year.
As for my writing story. Well, you can read about it in the anthology My Writing Life which is slated for publication sometime this fall, if you like. The short version is this: I was a very awkward looking teenager (as a few of you know) with no social skills, and I wrote to cope until I grew up and spent a few months estranged from my parents due to my inconvenient Atheism, then managed to write again after meeting my husband, who I very unwisely put on an impossible pedestal until he cheated on me with multiple women a few weeks ago (that last part was omitted from the published version, as it hadn't happened yet when I wrote it).
So, yeah. I'm not exactly feeling like self reflection is a healthy idea right now. But I like all of you and I like to write. So if you don't mind a somewhat deranged and scorned woman in your midst, I'd like to participate in the ever-life changing experience of turning a phrase with a group of interesting women.
There is quote by Isaac Asimov that I find might describe my situation a little more cohesively: "I write for the same reason I breathe-- because if I didn't I would die." There's nothing like a bit of artistic drama to set the mood. Let us click our heels, take a sip of coffee, and get started!
I am death's mourner
Cosette is dying. If death should so choose to spare her, with all of my watering efforts . . . then, I shall think twice before again applying a name, and a gender, to my houseplants.
When I was between the ages of 10 and 12 I bred gerbils. It began as a money-making endeavor with my two best friends. Pooling our own meager resources, we acquired a female gerbil named Scratchy, a male named Midnight, a cage (from Sierra's garage) with a pretty torn-up lid, a water bottle, food, and cedar-chip bedding. The scent of all this combined will forever bring back countless memories whenever I walk through pet stores.
Somehow, despite my owning a cat, I was designated as the keeper of the gerbils. It was supposed to be a money-making endeavor because we knew enough about the birds and the bees to assume that if we put a male and female in the same cage, eventually there would come babies, which the pet store would then be willing to purchase for about $3 each. Laura and Sierra had both lost interest before Scratchy became pregnant for the first time. I will never forget the feel of her growing belly in my tiny hands. Yes, I am now jaded enough to know that these precious baby gerbils were re-purchased for snake food. But also I was so shaped by this experience that this thought is not as traumatizing as you may imagine.
This eco-system in my bedroom taught me more about the "jungle out there" or the "dog-eat-dog world" than any textbook ever could. When gerbils died, the others ate them. When the smallest members of a litter could not fight the crowd for food or water . . . too bad. There was no such thing as incest either, and when male children grew to a certain size, they could no longer be kept in the same cage as their father, if there were other females as well. Each time I tried to force this eco-system to be slightly more fit to my human interpretation of how the world should be, I was thwarted miserably, coming eventually to learn that they were animals . . . and, that I was as well. Each of those gerbils had a name - and a personality. Every single one was different! I remember standing in front of their cages and marveling that they were so small, so different from me, and yet that I could learn so much about individualism, and nature, from them.
And now you're wondering about writing! Well, I am a poet. I am certainly not claiming to be a spectacular one! But if any of you have read a small children's book about Frederick the mouse, that explains my identification quite well. I can be death's mourner - for gerbils, or houseplants, or stolen bikes - so feelingly that words come out unrestrained onto paper and that, whether it turns out to be intelligible to anyone else or not, is how I define poetry. Luckily I'm not only a morbid poet. The incredible wonders and joys of this life and world tear poetry from my core as well. I believe I identify as "a poet" because I generally can't help what I write. I don't tend to draft. I tend to think, and when thoughts roll around enough in a certain way, I grab madly all around me for paper or word processor and, out the words come. I want feedback here because we are all writing such different genres, that it will be fascinating to see what everyone's interpretations will be. When I do edit, or "help" what I write, I only am that much more in love with what it was that spilled unrestrained onto my paper. That helping process, is what actually feels creative to me, and that is what I am looking forward to cultivating.
When I was between the ages of 10 and 12 I bred gerbils. It began as a money-making endeavor with my two best friends. Pooling our own meager resources, we acquired a female gerbil named Scratchy, a male named Midnight, a cage (from Sierra's garage) with a pretty torn-up lid, a water bottle, food, and cedar-chip bedding. The scent of all this combined will forever bring back countless memories whenever I walk through pet stores.
Somehow, despite my owning a cat, I was designated as the keeper of the gerbils. It was supposed to be a money-making endeavor because we knew enough about the birds and the bees to assume that if we put a male and female in the same cage, eventually there would come babies, which the pet store would then be willing to purchase for about $3 each. Laura and Sierra had both lost interest before Scratchy became pregnant for the first time. I will never forget the feel of her growing belly in my tiny hands. Yes, I am now jaded enough to know that these precious baby gerbils were re-purchased for snake food. But also I was so shaped by this experience that this thought is not as traumatizing as you may imagine.
This eco-system in my bedroom taught me more about the "jungle out there" or the "dog-eat-dog world" than any textbook ever could. When gerbils died, the others ate them. When the smallest members of a litter could not fight the crowd for food or water . . . too bad. There was no such thing as incest either, and when male children grew to a certain size, they could no longer be kept in the same cage as their father, if there were other females as well. Each time I tried to force this eco-system to be slightly more fit to my human interpretation of how the world should be, I was thwarted miserably, coming eventually to learn that they were animals . . . and, that I was as well. Each of those gerbils had a name - and a personality. Every single one was different! I remember standing in front of their cages and marveling that they were so small, so different from me, and yet that I could learn so much about individualism, and nature, from them.
And now you're wondering about writing! Well, I am a poet. I am certainly not claiming to be a spectacular one! But if any of you have read a small children's book about Frederick the mouse, that explains my identification quite well. I can be death's mourner - for gerbils, or houseplants, or stolen bikes - so feelingly that words come out unrestrained onto paper and that, whether it turns out to be intelligible to anyone else or not, is how I define poetry. Luckily I'm not only a morbid poet. The incredible wonders and joys of this life and world tear poetry from my core as well. I believe I identify as "a poet" because I generally can't help what I write. I don't tend to draft. I tend to think, and when thoughts roll around enough in a certain way, I grab madly all around me for paper or word processor and, out the words come. I want feedback here because we are all writing such different genres, that it will be fascinating to see what everyone's interpretations will be. When I do edit, or "help" what I write, I only am that much more in love with what it was that spilled unrestrained onto my paper. That helping process, is what actually feels creative to me, and that is what I am looking forward to cultivating.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Introductions
I thought perhaps our first post next Sunday could be our "Introductions" as Lindsay mentioned, and, these can come in any format people are interested in, really. But, as I was looking for a first Writing Exercise to post, I came across this one: Take it or leave it! As mentioned before, anyone interested in the Writing Exercises can do them, or even try them and not end up posting that attempt but post something else, or just decide entirely to do their own thing ... that's the joy of writing!
One Plus One Equals a Mercedes-Benz
I always tell my students, especially the sixth-graers, the ones who are becoming very worldly-wise: Turn off your logical brain that says 1 + 1 = 2. Open up your mind to the possibility that 1 + 1 can equal 48, a Mercedes-Benz, an apple pie, a blue horse. Don't tell your autobiography with facts, such as "I am in sixth grade. I am a boy. I live in Owatonna. I have a mother and father." Tell me who you really are: "I am the frost on the window, the cry of a young wolf, the thin blade of grass."
Forget yourself. Disappear into everything you look at - a street, a glass of water, a cornfield. Everything you feel, become totally that feeling, burn all of yourself with it. Don't worry - your ego will quickly become nervous and stop such ecstasy. But if you can catch that feeling or smell or sight the moment you are one with it, you probably will have a great poem.
Then we fall back on the earth again. Only the writing stays with the great vision. That's why we have to go back again and again to books - good books, that is. And read again and again the visions of who we are, how we can be. The struggle we go through as human beings, so we can again and again have compassion for ourselves and treat each other kindly.
-Natalie Goldberg
This exercise came from a book called Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. It's one of the shorter ones! But if I do more from her, I'll take out fun pieces from them, just to get us thinking. When I was around 10 years old, my father bought me this book and we began, once a week, to read one "exercise" and then put our pen/pencil to the paper for 10 - 15 minutes, timed writing. Don't pick up the pen from the page. If this piece ends up being some sort of "introduction," great! You can tone it/edit it later, and post it next week. If it just gets you revved up to write something else - anything else! Then, that's great too. We're just here to write!
One Plus One Equals a Mercedes-Benz
I always tell my students, especially the sixth-graers, the ones who are becoming very worldly-wise: Turn off your logical brain that says 1 + 1 = 2. Open up your mind to the possibility that 1 + 1 can equal 48, a Mercedes-Benz, an apple pie, a blue horse. Don't tell your autobiography with facts, such as "I am in sixth grade. I am a boy. I live in Owatonna. I have a mother and father." Tell me who you really are: "I am the frost on the window, the cry of a young wolf, the thin blade of grass."
Forget yourself. Disappear into everything you look at - a street, a glass of water, a cornfield. Everything you feel, become totally that feeling, burn all of yourself with it. Don't worry - your ego will quickly become nervous and stop such ecstasy. But if you can catch that feeling or smell or sight the moment you are one with it, you probably will have a great poem.
Then we fall back on the earth again. Only the writing stays with the great vision. That's why we have to go back again and again to books - good books, that is. And read again and again the visions of who we are, how we can be. The struggle we go through as human beings, so we can again and again have compassion for ourselves and treat each other kindly.
-Natalie Goldberg
This exercise came from a book called Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. It's one of the shorter ones! But if I do more from her, I'll take out fun pieces from them, just to get us thinking. When I was around 10 years old, my father bought me this book and we began, once a week, to read one "exercise" and then put our pen/pencil to the paper for 10 - 15 minutes, timed writing. Don't pick up the pen from the page. If this piece ends up being some sort of "introduction," great! You can tone it/edit it later, and post it next week. If it just gets you revved up to write something else - anything else! Then, that's great too. We're just here to write!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Schedule
So, it has been decided that this blog will be the place for weekly posts of various natures.
For those interested, a weekly writing exercises will be posted by Elaine, but can also be posted by other parties who are so inclined. Just contact Elaine. Responding to these exercises can be a form of post, or you can simply post a section or whole of your latest project instead.
I propose Sunday as the day for posts, as well as the day for putting up the following week's writing exercise. Elaine will post the first exercise tomorrow, and everyone's first posts will be on August 31st.
It also seems that the monthly meeting is a popular idea. Because it might be complicated to do it a night when the library is open, and Sunday nights don't work for various reasons, I'm proposing that this shindig happen the first or last Saturday of every month. Friday evening is also an option. What works for everyone?
Just as a fun introduction, it would be cool to have everyone post a blog about their writing experience and current projects so we can all get to know each other and get jazzed about the upcoming quality writing.
For those interested, a weekly writing exercises will be posted by Elaine, but can also be posted by other parties who are so inclined. Just contact Elaine. Responding to these exercises can be a form of post, or you can simply post a section or whole of your latest project instead.
I propose Sunday as the day for posts, as well as the day for putting up the following week's writing exercise. Elaine will post the first exercise tomorrow, and everyone's first posts will be on August 31st.
It also seems that the monthly meeting is a popular idea. Because it might be complicated to do it a night when the library is open, and Sunday nights don't work for various reasons, I'm proposing that this shindig happen the first or last Saturday of every month. Friday evening is also an option. What works for everyone?
Just as a fun introduction, it would be cool to have everyone post a blog about their writing experience and current projects so we can all get to know each other and get jazzed about the upcoming quality writing.
In Which a Silly Idea is Exploited for Intellectual Value
So, I'm proposing that we actually do this thing. The question is: what is this thing?
We could use this blog in a few different ways. We could use it to take turns posting a writing exercise a week, which all writers could try with varying levels of success and post their results. Or we could post a project a week for feedback. For instance, Elaine could post a poem or a witty observation about France, Stephanie and I could post a chapter or a page of our novels, and Bailey could post a list of ideas for her next fantasy adventure. Or whatever.
Or we could only use this blog to commiserate with each other when our characters rebel and end up killing random people with box cutters, or fall in love with someone they're supposed to despise. Or we could use it to boast about publishing contracts and the like.
I also like the idea of having an actual concrete meeting once a month. We could go to Alchemy or Beans and Brew where Stephanie and I can get coffee, Elaine can get Chai, and Bailey can get a frozen chocolate drink of some kind. Maybe there will even be cupcakes involved.
I don't know. Do any of these ideas sound appealing? What do other people want? I'm game for anything.
We could use this blog in a few different ways. We could use it to take turns posting a writing exercise a week, which all writers could try with varying levels of success and post their results. Or we could post a project a week for feedback. For instance, Elaine could post a poem or a witty observation about France, Stephanie and I could post a chapter or a page of our novels, and Bailey could post a list of ideas for her next fantasy adventure. Or whatever.
Or we could only use this blog to commiserate with each other when our characters rebel and end up killing random people with box cutters, or fall in love with someone they're supposed to despise. Or we could use it to boast about publishing contracts and the like.
I also like the idea of having an actual concrete meeting once a month. We could go to Alchemy or Beans and Brew where Stephanie and I can get coffee, Elaine can get Chai, and Bailey can get a frozen chocolate drink of some kind. Maybe there will even be cupcakes involved.
I don't know. Do any of these ideas sound appealing? What do other people want? I'm game for anything.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Do You Jest?
Well, yes. This is a jest. But it's a half-way serious jest that may involve a bit of real writing.
Any ideas?
Any ideas?
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