Sownding Dumb

I like to think I have a decent grasp of spelling, punctuation and grammar. I graduated high school. Got an accounting degree and my MBA. So I had to write a lot of papers. Granted, the subject of these papers was usually something like “The Relevancy of Statements of Auditing Standards 99,” or “The Evolution of the Movie Theater Industry.” Not exactly thrilling reads. But still. Papers. With words and everything. I considered myself a decent writer. And I thought my experience would help me when I started writing novels.

            But sometimes, I’m not very smart. And by ‘sometimes,’ I mean, ‘a lot of times.’

            I mispronounced “hors d’oeuvres” and “epitome” for WAY longer than I should have. Like well into my 20’s. And the ridiculous part about that is I could use those words properly in conversation, and I totally knew what I was saying. But the pronunciations didn’t register with me when I read them. Those are just a couple of examples.  

            My terrible memory compounds my problem. Even if I find a pronunciation guide, if I’m not using a word regularly it slips away from me.

            Between these two issues, some ridiculous things have slipped into my writing.

            Are you willing to forgive a few grammatical or spelling errors if the story is good? If the author says, “My interest was peaked” instead of “My interest was piqued?” If so, is there a magic threshold an author crosses before the errors go from mild annoyance to I’m done?

I hate to lose the reader’s trust in my abilities. So I try to read as much as I can. Do crossword puzzles. Write (obviously). But I’m always going to make silly mistakes. My hope is that I'll be able to laugh at them along with whoever so graciously pointed them out to me (hopefully a trusted critique pal!)

 

Then I'd like to learn from them.

 

 

Flash aaaaaa

*sings Queen*

No I'm not here to talk to you about Flash Gordon....nope, I'm here to talk about flash fiction.

I LOVE flash fiction. In fact, before I started writing my novel all I wrote was flash fiction.

Flash fiction is like a super short short story. It's usually no more than a few pages. Most often it's just a page. A story in a tiny box. The challenge is making sure the story makes sense, the characters are alive, and that you build a world in the least amount of words as you can.

It's hard, but if done right, flash fiction can be quite amazing. Done incorrectly, it seems to lack luster and just falls flat. It's a precarious balance to tell a story, but only tell it with the bare bones enough to make the audience interested.

It tests the skill of the writer, and is a great writing practice. Exploring different writing avenues is always great for personal growth as a writer.

I'll leave you with one of my own flash fictions, (I'm quite proud of it).

            She squared her shoulders, as they dragged her to the post. A picture of strength as they tied her into place. Inside she shook as fear grabbed her gut in its fist. The rough wood scratched her back. She looked for anything to focus on, anything to distract her from the fear welling up within her.
            “A cross, where is a cross?” she asked the man arranging the wood around her ankles. The fear smothered her, causing her to gasp. “I need a cross, please”
            He nodded and fashioned a small one from the pieces of wood arrayed for her burning. Focused on the task for the Maiden. He handed it to her, as if it was made from gold. Carefully, she grabbed it. She pressed it to her lips with a murmured prayer before allowing them to tie her hands behind her. The cross she placed in her belt, a comforting presence. A reminder.
            Again she held her head high, firm in that she did no wrong. She was innocent of all charges except belief. But the fear was still there, secretly turning her heart against her.
            “A cross,” her lips whispered as they lit the fire. The flames licked the wood, hungry. In front of her, a cross was held, steady by a friar in brown robes, his eyes sad. Her eyes never left the crucifix even as the tongues of fire caressed her feet. Fear began its whispering.
            She screamed. The fire rose higher, burning her without a care, its dancing light deadly to her flesh. “Lord, save me,” She listened for the Voices who would comfort her, who would soothe her fearful heart, like a balm of healing oil.
            She screamed again and again as the flames engulfed her, embraced her in their arms. Even through the pain, the fear, she held firm, nary moving a muscle. Never doubting her God and his path. If this is what was to be asked of her, she would endure. The smell of burnt hair and flesh filling her nostrils. Her hair and flesh.
            One last scream, “My God!” and she died, eyes fixed on the cross in her belt.
             They spread her ashes on the cool river, watching as they faded into the water. Fear grew in their hearts.
            But Joan never died. Not truly. For a Legend won’t ever die.

A Taste from the Past

About a week or so ago, I went to my first Ren Faire.

I should have went years ago. It was a blast. Even though I was almost swallowed up by mud and it rained half the time, I still enjoyed myself.

I've always been fascinated by the medieval era of history. True it wasn't the best of times for the people living it, and I wouldn't like to live back in those times, but it doesn't diminish the intrigue of it for me. I was basically a kid in a candy store at the faire, getting a chance to peek into a part of that past.

Now albeit it wasn't all completely historically accurate but....I loved the freedom that the players felt to make up their own stories.

I actually got to see jousting, up close and real with splinters from the lances flying and mud from the horses hooves coming at my face. I cheered and booed along with the crowd.

I saw a jester and laughed at his jokes and all around silliness.

I saw minstrels, singing ballads and traditional love songs.
                                                

I saw so many people, dressed up and enjoying themselves that it was hard not to join in.
                                                 

I also saw a TARDIS but that's besides the point.


It made me think about why I love the time period. What is it about that part of the past that drew people? And I think it is because of the stories. We have stories of knights and dragons, fairy tales, outlaws....so many stories. It was an age of magic and logic.

I highly recommend going to a Ren Faire yourself, its a lot of fun.

Chelsea watches Anime

I've been watching a lot of anime lately.

Oh have I not mentioned that I love anime? Well I do, and I know not everybody does. (Believe me it takes a while to get used to it, I didn't really like it at first. Now I can't imagine not liking it.)

Kirito from Sword Art Online

Let me explain anime to you.

Anime is basically a Japanese cartoon, but not just for kids. There's an anime for everyone and I mean...everyone.

There are many different types of anime, from shonin, which is basically fights and geared toward boys and shojo, which are romantic and geared more toward girls. And within that are many different subtypes. 

And most animes have typical characters: the hero/heroine, the sidekick, the goofy character, ect ect ect. (Sometimes with hard to pronounce and even harder to spell names)

But what I love most about animes is the character development and storytelling.

Each of the main characters, even though they start out simple and typical, grow into their own through each episode. You get back stories, sometimes tragic, confessions, epiphanies, and breakdowns. 

Even though you may see a twist coming, or know what exactly is going to happen, the story is still told in such a way that you enjoy it.

Anime helps me in my quest to be a good writer, believe it or not. By seeing how other cultures/people tell stories broadens my own storytelling style. Plus, by studying character development that I believe the Japanese do so well in their animes, aids my own characters in their developments. It's something I aspire to do in my writing, to tell good stories.

But that aside, I just really love the characters and the adorableness....

Mokona from Tsubasa

Self-Publishing

The concept of self-publishing both fascinates and terrifies me.

 

I have come to terms with the very real possibility that no matter how hard I work or how much I revise or query, I might never land an agent. And even if I do, that might not translate into a book deal.

 

And if that is the case, I can’t decide what I would do. Trunk my novel and write another one? How do I know if this is ‘the one’? What if I think this isn’t ‘the one,’ so I write another book, and it’s even less of ‘the one’ than the first?! If I feel good about my book but I can’t find a home for it, should I self-publish?

 

I’m a very analytical/research oriented person. I comb blogs and websites, looking for little nuggets of information to store away that I can use later (yanno, once I finish revising my book). I’ve giggled my way through Evil Editor posts, cringed at the poor souls who needed a shot with the clue gun in the Snarkives, and read everything Mr. Nathan Bransford has ever been gracious enough to share about the agent/publishing world. And I’ve come to realize there is no ‘right’ or ‘good’ answer to the best way to publish a book.

 

Self-publishing sounds not just difficult (although I’ve never given up on something just because it’s difficult), but like it involves a set of skills that I just do not possess and do not feel comfortable trying to locate via the internet. Clearly many authors have done it (finding varying degrees of success).

 

But I don’t know if it’s really right for me.

The Most Asked

A week or so ago, I went to dinner with some friends, one of which I only see once a year. After the initial catching up, he asked the inevitable question.

"What's your book about?"

I really don't like this question. Yet it is the one most asked.

And now you are going, "Woah Chels, YOU ask this question!"

Why, yes, yes I do and then I open up the cover and read the little synopsis and decide whether or not I want to read it. I understand the question; I understand why it is asked. But I hate it.

And here's why.

When people ask this question are they wanting to know the events/characters/plot or do they want to know what the book is about?

Because it's often after I read I book that I realize that what it is about and what is in the inside of the cover are two different things.

My book is about the the bond of brotherhood, of friendship no matter what happens. But that's not what my friend wanted to know. Nope, he wanted to know what happens in the book, so as to decide whether or not it would be interesting or not.

In that case my answer is: Well, two boys go sailing around on the ocean searching for Book of Merlin, and along the way discover secrets about themselves.

(They of course wanted more details, but I told them they would have to wait till it's published)

I guess what really bothers me about the whole "What's it about?" question is that most of the time I feel like people are pushing me. (I hate being pushed. It kicks my stubborn into gear and then I'm a pain in the butt to everyone involved) I don't know exactly what my book is about because I haven't finished writing it yet! It could change from one page to the next. My only concern is getting my thoughts onto paper, writing the story as I go. 

(Now I realize that this is my writing style and does not work nor apply to everyone. But I honestly think it is because I write this way that I have such a problem with people asking what my stories are about)

Holding Still

I refused to turn around.  I held perfectly still.  Looking through the castle window, my shoulders were tense.  The muscles in my back, my arms, my whole body for that matter, were strong enough to fight any battle or run for days but I refused to move. Any other man in his right mind would leave but unlike most of them, I resisted the easiest path.

What would she have me do? She’d tell me if she could. But I’d burn at the stake before I would speak another word to her.

Damn her.

Even with my eyes closed, I could almost feel her standing next to me.  Her words, her touch, her kiss, everything about her made sense. Even the smell her hair and the sound of her breath, were now a part of me.  But I would fight this need for her.  I flexed my hands into fists. I wanted to hit something, someone.  Make it hurt so I wouldn’t have to because it hurt to love her. She was my one weakness. Warriors were as good as dead, if they allowed themselves even a hint of vulnerability. She could bring me to my knees with one word.  Well, three actually.

Why did she have to speak?   

They claimed she was dying.  I raced through the night, a demon possessed, eager to be by her side.  When I arrived, I could have inquired about her from a servant, not come bashing into the room ready for battle. But bashing I came. I had to see her for myself.  Thank the Northern stars, she was alive. The healers had bound her wounds and said her fever would pass by evening.  Kneeling at her bedside I whispered her name, not daring to touch her hand. Her eyes remained closed. Seat covered her body as her mind raced with fever but she spoke.  She responded to my voice, saying the three words that stopped time.

My breath caught.  Her omission created the greatest foe I would ever face and the battle began.  My love for her and the logic that been beat into me since birth, took opposing corners. 

‘Create no ties that will stay your sword’ had been shouted to me since I was young. Then it became the twisted, hypocritical words of comfort when the nights were cold and the days were lonely.  I foolishly believed they made me stronger.  Enemies had power over only me. No threats of harm to loved ones could ever hinder my actions.  Even my faint family memories had long been pushed aside, rarely haunting me. Then she slipped into my life and wisps of doubt began to tangle around my determination to live a warrior’s life.

I could have denied my feelings for her longer, perhaps I still would.  My ability to bury any tender feelings was almost equal to my skill with a blade.  How else could I run a man through with my sword? Watch as his life bled out and then sleep at night having no regrets? It was by putting my feelings in the dark, quiet corner of my mind and thinking only of the coming battle.  Then she, with her clever whit and soft, slow kisses, pulled me back into the light.

I rose from her bed and walked to the window.  The morning sun was growing strong.  I wanted to run, leaving her and this place far behind.  But I didn’t move. I just stood. 

What if she calls out to me? Will I go to her if she does? My fists squeezed tighter.

She stirs, “William?”