Na NO Wri Mo

Before anyone gets fooled into thinking this is a post about NaNoWriMo, guess again. Nope, I’m not going to be talking much about National Novel Writing Month. I’m going to be talking about my own self made NO writing month.

October was my writing challenge. I did 500 words every day for 31 days. And it felt incredible. But it was also terribly difficult. I only kept at it thanks to the terrific support. But after exhausting myself trying to come up with more than 15500 words for fun, I simply can’t participate in any kind of a writing challenge this next month, particularly while dealing with awful writer’s block.

Now, that’s not to say I’ll be doing no writing at all this entire month. Forcing myself not to do any is often as painful as forcing myself to do so every day. So I’m implementing a rule that I’m only allowed to write when inspired. No deadlines, no goals, nothing but the simply pleasure of doing it for fun when I have time. And I’m hoping this might allow me to spark some new ideas again, and create a renewed motivation towards writing again. If anyone has good ideas for writer’s block, or coming up with new writing projects let me know. I always love getting feedback.

Don’t worry blog readers. I’ll try to see if I can post some older stuff on here when I get a chance, so I can at least keep some regular posts going. Just might be a bit before I have new inspiration. As to any October Writing Challenge friends, I’ll try to be back for the December one.

Wish me luck!

Blind- A Halloween Short Story

In honor of Halloween I thought I’d write another short(ish… ok not really too short) story. Um…I kind of thought I knew where I was going with this, and then I lost it. Sooo…it probably will mostly just seem like weird ramblings having some vague connection to Halloween while trying to have a message too and failing at both. But hey, I can’t just work out the kinks and post it another day…so this is as good as it gets. Here it is!

          My pumpkin I carved this year.

Blind

Fred looked cautiously out the dark window into the foggy night. He was so sick of this. Always feeling the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Always looking behind him. Always wondering if something was going to jump out of the shadows and turn on him. For days now he’d hardly slept.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, jumped at the very sight, trembled momentarily before trying to steady his already racing heart. Darkened shadows permanently affixed beneath his eyes greeted his sight. He looked at his greasy unkempt hair, his sunken cheeks. If he had once been handsome he didn’t remember when. The anxiety building within him was beginning to utterly overwhelm him. If this was his enemy’s goal then the man was succeeding.

Or perhaps man was too kind of a word.

Fred curled in on himself slightly on the couch, wondering when things had gotten so bad. His thoughts raced in frantic circles while he tried to steady himself, pull it back together.

Man, no. That was not the right definition. Though in his crazed state perhaps these things were better left unconsidered. He shuddered at the mere thought of his stalker, the fanged and furred menace that had only recently made him start questioning his grip on reality. Monster, yes.

The teenager wondered again briefly what might happen if he told someone. His parents perhaps. Would they send him to the  madhouse he so deserved? Perhaps. He wished for the seventh time that night that they hadn’t gone to the party. Maybe they could have protected him. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so alone and defenseless on this lonely Halloween night. Especially since some terrible beast was after him.

He’d been walking home probably two weeks ago when it had happened. A strange man with fangs and fur and claws had approached him, growled his name, chased after him when he fled. Fred could still picture those glowing feral eyes, the horns perched on curly hair. The little abnormalities that made this devil all too frightening to behold.

A knock suddenly echoed through the empty house, interrupting his memories. Fred froze in fright for a moment, before reassuring himself it was probably just trick-or-treaters out looking for candy and not really caring that the porch light was off. Idiots. He could be a child-molester, for all they knew.

Fred rose carefully from the sofa and ventured towards the door, carefully trying to avoid any line of sight from the windows, tiptoeing close. Another grave knock rang out in the house. Fred paused for just a moment before venturing a tad bit closer, peering carefully out the little window and hoping he wouldn’t be seen back. He sighed in relief at the sight before him, undid both locks and opened the door.

The girl standing there brightened at the sight of him, dark pretty eyes sparkling, lashes batting in amusement. Fred felt his heart lift slightly, pounding now for a different reason entirely as he took in the short ruffled skirt, fishnets, and low cut bodice. The pink did fine things for her coloring, brought out her fair skins hues, made her dark hair seem more lustrous.

“Princess?” Fred guessed.

She giggled and did a little curtsy that did nothing to lengthen the already ridiculously revealing skirt. “Yep. And what are you… a zombie?”

Fred gave a weak smile and glanced around, suddenly remembering what had caused his appearance to so rapidly decline. ‘Um…you’d better come in.”

He locked the door behind her, though she seemed utterly oblivious to the clicking of the bolts. She examined the house around her with careful attention to the details before spinning to face him once more all smiles. Fred shifted from foot to foot, trying to figure out what Morgana, the prettiest girl in his high school was doing on his doorstep on a chilly October night. Nonetheless he tried to put aside his confusion and fix a dashing presence to himself, asking her to have a seat and offering her something to drink.

Morgana let those long lashes flutter against her pale cheek, and smiled again, though this time with teeth. Had Fred not been exhausted he might have noticed right away, but it took him a minute. Fangs. There were two white glittering fangs situated amongst her other perfect teeth. And not the plastic kind either. They were too real for that. Fred took a step back, gulping. Beauty had never seemed so false.

“What’s wrong, Fred? Weren’t you offering me a drink?” she purred.

Fred shook his head and stepped back once again, back bumping awkwardly against a chair blocking his path. He tried to lubricate his throat enough to allow sound to escape, but his mouth hung open as dry as the cold fall air. Nothing came to him. His already sleep-deprived brain struggled to come up with something to say. Words failed him utterly.

“I think I’ll take that drink,” she whispered. “I think I’ll take it now in fact.”

In a childhood move, he closed his eyes as though hoping this might banish the terror before him. If you couldn’t see it, it couldn’t get you. Wasn’t that how it worked? He recalled years and years of pulling bedsheets over his head, hoping maybe this would keep the monsters away. But the monsters were here. And they were very real. And very much not deterred by him closing his eyes.

A soft breath fell on his bare neck causing more shudders to course through him in repulsion at the very thought of her so near him. What once would have had him shivering for different reasons now was utter disgust in his eyes. Soft lips descended and brushed against his collar, a mockery of something he might once have desired. Fred might have once desired to flee, but in his weariness there was nothing. Only the desire for it all to be over. The desire for sleep, dreams, and of course death. He presented his neck just as he might with an executioners axe, readying himself for the inevitable.

It never came.

A crash echoed in the little room. His eyes popped open gasping, looking at the girl before him who had been all too ready to sink her teeth into his throat, confirming what he had indeed imagined and feared. But his gaze was drawn back to the front window where his horned-assailant stood growling and snarling as his body tangled with the blinds he’d crashed into after breaking through the glass. The cool autumn air rushed to fill the room, replacing all heat with its biting chill. Fred breathed deeply trying again to steady his racing heart. The smell of rotting leaves filled his nostrils as wind rushed into the room.

“You Monster,” Morgana hissed. “Stay back, he’s mine.”

The creature still wrestling with the blinds snarled at her, eyes lighting in the darkness with something so utterly inhuman that Fred couldn’t even place it on the spectrum of emotion. He suddenly snapped to motion himself, pushing the chair to topple behind him and then backing further away from the beautiful girl so intent on sucking the very life out of him. Literally.

There was a moment of calm, and then everything happened at once. Morgana lunged at Fred causing him to topple backwards, just as the creature untangled himself and rose on shaky legs. He let out a growl and moved forward at a pace unknown to man. His clawed hands found Morgana’s body and grabbed for it, picking her up as though she was a Barbie doll. Fred again let his eyes close in a defensive reflex. He curled slightly in on himself once more, listened to the growls and screams before there was silence.

The rustle of the leaves on outside greeted his ears, but otherwise there was nothing. After a long moment he slowly looked up again, finding Morgana’s body strewn across the ground, the creature standing panting over it. Yellowed eyes found Fred and seemed to deem him unhurt.

“Why?” Fred managed to whisper, still not willing to rise from his place on the floor.

“Not all is as it appears,” the creature hissed, voice still a deep guttural groan that normally would have frightened the wits out of the boy. But he was already feeling crazed enough he didn’t flinch away. Merely looked at this strange beast that had guarded him, protected him, killed for him.

“No,” Fred whispered, pulling himself up to hands and knees and then slowly moving to stand. The creature growled and swooped forward, clawed hand catching the boy before he could tumble over. Fred’s eyes were drawn down to the sharp nails now resting lightly on his bare arm. There was such gentleness in the way he was held up, in spite of the deadliness that had caused Morgana to be killed.

“You must rest,” the creature said. “You need sleep.”

The boy didn’t protest, lost for any sense of energy or thought in the moment. This creature that had so driven him to this point, was now the one leading him back towards healing. How could that be? The girl he’d thought was beautiful was evil and mad. This creature he thought malignant had in fact disproved his trepidation by being his rescuer, and now his caretaker.

“What’s your name?” Fred asked gently.

If such a ferocious mouth could manage a grin this was it, the twisting of the corners, a little drool falling down a fanged tooth. “Costin. You are kind, asking such, Fred.”

The boy nodded, too wearied to get anything else out. “Was…was this why you approached me on the street?”

There was the briefest nod that Fred almost feared his addled brain had imagined it. The beast spoke once more. ” Seek to know no more,” he whispered.

His eyelids felt heavy. Had those parting words been a spell? Into the darkness his mind slowly crept, disallowing him from rejoining reality, whatever that might be.

-*-

Monday morning. Fred’s gaze could not be drawn away from Morgan Elliot’s form as she giggled and flounced across the checkered cafeteria floor. He remembered his dream so clearly, the strangeness of whatever had happened Halloween night still lingering in his mind. Morgana… No, Morgan, was busy giggling away with her friends, looking at him occasionally while batting those long lashes. He was trying to separate the dream Morgana from the real Morgan, but it was difficult.

On Saturday he’d gone downstairs to find no signs that his Halloween night had been a reality. There was no body, or broken glass. The room was put to rights and his parents asked after him with no sign that they’d sensed anything the least bit wrong. And Fred had been left to constant pondering about the strange enigma of that Friday October night.

He was drawn from his thoughts by Morgan’s shrieks.

“Monster, get away!” she hissed, baring her teeth in a disgusted grimace, dark eyes fixed on the boy who’d tried to sit at her table.

Fred looked up at that. Monster. It seemed too familiar. He fixed his gaze on Gus, the boy who had shuffled to his feet and was edging away. Fred’s heart clenched as he watched the boy’s uncertain gait move towards the nearest empty table.

After just the briefest moment pondering it over, Fred rose and marched past Morgan. She giggled and simpered at him, trying to reach out and grab his arm. He withdrew his hand as though burned, glared at her, and resumed his resolute walk to the previously empty table, slamming his backpack onto the bench and sitting down across from the rejected boy.

Gus glanced up, golden hazely eyes meeting Fred’s blue. He smiled a bit uncertainly, the grin lopsided as always on his somewhat disfigured face. Fred hesitated but smiled back at the boy, not knowing how he’d never seen it before. He’d never really looked at this other boy in earnest, never tried much to see beneath the scars of untold abuse and hurt, knowing so little beyond that this boy bore a face only plastic surgery could probably ever cure.

“Hi, can I sit here?” he asked.

Gus nodded, though there was just a moment of hesitance. “You’re Fred,” he whispered, voice hoarse as though not used to being taken up in speech.

Fred smiled. “Yes, I’m Fred. And you’re Gus.”

The boy’s eyes lit with something akin to happiness, though Fred probably would have gone so far as to call it joy. The deformed mouth stretched a bit more to try to accommodate his crooked teeth into a blinding smile. Fred let his own smirk rise to the occasion. Never had insane dreams had so sweet of consequences.

“Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.“

-William Shakespeare Macbeth

________________________________________________________________________________

Partially inspired by this prompt: http://themeasureofabook.wordpress.com/2014/10/30/writing-prompt-32/

Goals Needed, Help!

So I want to address some struggles I’ve had lately. I may try to detail them more vividly in a later blog, but for now I’ll just mention I’ve been having a very hard time nailing down any sort of novel idea and feel rather unfocused in terms of my writing direction. This is made all the more difficult by my decision to have a daily writing goal each and every day.

I’ve participated in October Writing diligently, writing 500 words daily and tweeting and logging my word counts without fail. I’ve even written by hand at times when I haven’t had a computer. And this month has showed excellent progress, and yet it hasn’t exactly taken me where I’d hoped.

I had hoped this might get me out of my little writing slump where I feel incapable of coming up with any new ideas or making any progress on current ones. I was wrong. I still have failed to truly rid myself of this troubling problem.

My participation has not faltered. I’ve written at least 500 words everyday. Sometimes it’s been blog posts (some of which have not been published). Sometimes it’s been poetry. Other days it’s been trying to get a bit of novel out one way or another. But I suppose blogging has been one of my bigger projects, and I’ve appreciated having the challenge to allow me to focus.

Nonetheless I still feel something’s missing in spite of my diligence this month. And that is concentration. I’d like to actually buckle down and finish a project. I’d like to stay focused on a goal and see it through. And I know myself well enough to know if I have readership I’ll focus better on something, which is part of the reason blogging has been more successful for me lately (thanks to my wonderful readers).

So, in light of wanting to concentrate more fully, I’d like to ask readers to vote on what they’d like to see more of in this blog. And with that in mind maybe I’ll have more of a goal to work towards.

For a novel excerpt example see here: Braving a New Frontier- First Page Review

For a poetry example see here: Perched upon the Window Sill- a poem

For a writing prompt example see here: One Little Change- a Writing Prompt

For a short story example (also a writing prompt) see here: Soaring- A Writing Prompt

For movie/book thoughts example see here: Easy Analysis: the Reasons Hawthorne Still Shows up in Hollywood

For writing advice see here: What’s in a Name?

For anything not listed in the poll feel free to comment or add your own.

One Little Change- A Writing Prompt

I’m going with another writing prompt to get me going. I promise I’ll get back to some other more original works later too, but for now this is what’s getting me working. So here’s my response to Daily Post’s Weekly Challenge.

The idea that everything is connected becomes most interesting when applied to ourselves. For this week’s writing challenge, tell us about your own Butterfly Effect.

I suppose this post is very meaningful to me lately because I’ve been considering a lot of “what ifs” lately. I’m a senior about to graduate from college, and I guess I’m kind of looking back at how I thought life would turn out and wondering why it is that some events have turned out the way they did.

So with that in mind, I wanted to take what I was feeling and apply it to a fictional piece as I often find that’s a meaningful way for me to deal with emotions I’m handling at the present moment. So here’s my short piece I wrote.

One Little Change

It was one of those days my thoughts seemed to tarry and linger. And what eventually started as a cloud of memories soon became a torrent of swirling emotion, the raw inner feelings of my heart.

My gaze had centered in on a black and white photo printed on flimsy paper. I picked up the news and clutched it tighter, fingers wrinkling it along the edges, going so far as to tear through the fragile material. I pulled the article up closer to my face, the other hand moving to fiddle with my spectacles, adjusting the thick lenses to better peer down and seek out that name.

Anne Kristina Rask.

I could hardly breathe staring down at the small face that once had been so familiar, now wearing the marks of many years of life. I scanned the words over and over again, even as my vision blurred with the onset of tears. “Beloved wife and mother.”

Anne.

The memories came back as fresh as yesterday’s, somehow causing sixty years to blur and fade into the past. Her name caught on my tongue like it had back that night oh so many years ago. It was as though I was standing there, staring out at her bathed in moonlight, the sweet rain pouring down upon our heads in a rejuvenating baptism to our new youth. She laughed and caught my hand, the soft skin warm in my grip. I clutched at her, relishing the brief gift.

The sweetness of her perfume died with the lifegiving liquid, natural scent rising in its place, the waters washing away the small bit of pink lipstick dashed across her mouth, smeared from one too many kisses with her date. Her hair flattened back down, her dress clung to her body, nothing hidden. A return to the natural. A return to Eden.

My heart thumped loudly in the quiet of the street. Only the soft drip of the rain in the puddles, the occasional vehicle moseying along the deserted roads. There was silence, a chance to speak into the void. But my voice had been swallowed up, stolen from me. My throat was scratchy as I clutched that hand in mine and wondered.

There were moments it felt as though nothing else existed in this world. Just us in the rain, wandering down the lonely path hand in hand. And I wished it could last forever, drinking in every bit- the sight of Anne drenched, mud sloshing on the bottom of her pink dress, though she seemed oblivious to the dark stains growing round her. I breathed the fresh smell, the soft soothing sound, the dim street lights, all absorbed into me for that brief fleeting moment.

But there were too many wonderings looking back on it. There was too much lingering thought, despair tarrying in every bit of that scene. What if?

What if it hadn’t been raining? Then they would never have shared that brief moment. What if that car hadn’t passed by, sloshing water over their already wet forms, causing them to dissolve into laughter? Then I might have been less of an idiot and actually said what was on my mind. What if I hadn’t walked away from that doorstep all those years ago without saying what was on my mind?

Then it might have been me burying a wife. It might have been my children losing a mother. It might have been my ring on her finger, my love in her heart, my hand in hers forever and always. But my tight lips, my failing tongue, my garbling throat all let me down in my moment of need, causing me to flail about mindlessly and rather than speak what was on my mind, to declare instead I thought the night had gone rather swimmingly. When in reality all I’d wanted was to say the exact opposite, to declare that he was unfit for her and if only she’d see what was right in front of her she might truly be happy.

Might truly be happy…

I gazed down at the page, the smiling woman catching me with a full blow of mocking delight. And I was struck with the reality of what lay before me. Truly happy. She was. She had been. She had loved her husband, her children, her life. There was no hint that she hadn’t. And yet her life was like an original document, and mine a mangled and blotchy copy, trying its best to give the same picture, and yet failing miserably.

All these years. Years she’d spent cooking dinner, sitting on the couch holding his hand, going for walks, traveling, taking the kids to school, scribbling away with her elegant scrawl, lying beside her husband each and every night, growing old and dying still loved and cherished and remembered. And I’d done nothing but waste every hour, letting them slip through my hands like worthless sand, incapable of ever being returned again.

I sat there at the little kitchen table in my small apartment, listening to the rumbling tram go by. I swallowed down my grief with a sip of tepid coffee, tried my best to choke the feelings rising anew by crumpling the paper and tossing it uselessly towards the overflowing garbage pail.

What ifs had haunted me all my life. I had spent too long pondering a brief instant, and not enough pondering why I was allowing each and every day to pass without change, wallowing in my misery, sinking deeper in my despair.

I wondered now that grand what if I never had before, far weightier subject that my usual love drivel. I wondered what life would have been like if I’d let go, moved on, forgotten her. Perhaps things might have been different. A single day pushing myself to be social, to go meet other women, to simply take a walk rather than sulking in my lonesome apartment might have resulted in an entirely different outcome. The briefest change might have resulted in the greatest rebirth.

But who knows. Life is a mystery that way. One path unfolded, all others hidden.

The crumpled newspaper remained lying not far off from its eventual grave. I left it where it was, not daring to touch it again for fear of clinging. I pulled my eyes from it, suddenly seeing it for what it was. An omen of what had come to pass, of what would pass if I didn’t do something.

And so I left the trash where it was and went to sit on the lumpy couch. I noticed the book I’d been reading, dogeared and ready for the next book club meeting. But it was the little slip of yellow caught tight between pasty white pages that caught my attention.

My fingers fumbled to reach it, but eventually I was slipping a small scrap of paper out from its prison. I looked down at the gentle scrawl, the little numbers etched there for my bespectacled eyes to squint at. But I could make out what it was, and the intention, and the Scrooge-like thoughts I’d had as I shoved the little note back down into the other pages as though hoping the story might swallow it up like it usually did me.

I glanced towards the wastepaper basket. But that was done. An old life forgotten and moved on from. A new future writing itself out in the little slip in my hand. I reached for my dusty phone and pulled it up to press little buttons in sync with the numbers on the page. Her voice answered. I smiled and settled into a casual tone.

“Hello Clara. No…no reason. Just felt like a change…”

Deepest Blue- A Writing Prompt

So I’m responding to yet another writing prompt in an attempt to get myself going on being productive. I’ve been impossibly uninspired lately, which has been frustrating. This response is a bit depressing as it’s from a very troubled character’s point of view. Anyhow, so here’s a little bit of a novel I’m currently in the progress of writing with this section written to fit the prompt.

Take a point in your story where a character is traveling, whether it’s a long or a short journey. Describe not only what your character sees, but also how it makes her feel, what it reminds him of, the emotions evoked.

Deepest Blue

A rather unexpected journey met me that day. I don’t really know how it started, only that I went to my car with my backpack, hopeful to escape the realities of the day. I slipped into the driver’s seat and I was off, driving down the road without a second thought.

For a spring day in Washington the weather cooperated beautifully, sun shining, only a few sprinkles here and there. A rainbow stretched above me, a distraction painted in the sky. And a reminder of renewal, divinity, and promises. I took it as a blessing for my journey and I drove on.

Time faded, blended together, became some unchanging entity as I passed little seaside towns, gazed out at the ocean I’d finally fixed my mind upon seeing on my Saturday trip. Blue. Beautiful calming blue.

It brought back old memories of different times. Of being fifteen and begging a sign. Of closed eyes filling with a different color than the traditional black but instead of cleansing azure, cerulean, sapphire, the deepest richest shades imaginable dancing there before my very eyes. A sign. A symbol. Blue.

I pulled my eyes from the waves, not wanting to linger on these fleeting images of the past. After all, I’d been told doing too much of that was a poor idea. Then again I’d also been told not to drive anywhere by myself. Especially somewhere isolated. And here I was breaking that rule without a care in the world.

My driving came to a slow stop along a small rocky section of beach that didn’t appear to be private property, and yet didn’t seem to be highly popular either. I scanned the shore in either direction and saw no one. And so, I grabbed for my blanket and backpack, and set out to go sit on these lonely shores.

My gaze was drawn once more to the vast waters as I made a small safe place for myself. My little square of blanket on the rocky ground, a haven I’d invented, my hermit’s house, sitting on the rocky beach to look out upon the waters. I found the horizon let my eyes linger  there. I had only been to the beach twice before on family vacations, but I remembered even then how I felt drawn to the water, as though the ebb and flow of the tide was dragging me in with it, pulling me out to sea.

A buzz from my phone interrupted me, and I looked down to see Brielle’s name flash across the screen, the urgency magnified somehow by the quietness of the scenery around me. I looked at it for a brief moment, then placed the obnoxious electronic back into my bag to ignore for later.

I pulled out the paper, began scribbling down my thoughts.
The ocean had always represented the immensity of this life. And the minisculity of my own little brief blip of an existence. There was certainly a sense for me of standing before something that seemed so eternal and unchanging (though from a scientific standpoint I’m sure I might determine it is not). I felt ephemeral. Fleeting. And I allowed those feelings to linger in spite of all the past advice I knew would contradict it.

And then there was the little moment I considered simply going and walking into the waves, letting them close in over me in healing azure. And it would all be over and done. My blip would finish, cease to exist. And no one would remember any differently.

I rose once it was all down on paper and looked towards the sun sinking back into the sea, the ocean swallowing up the orange glowing orb in an illusion of power. Perhaps too this should be where my light is dimmed too, absorbed into these cold northern waters.

And yet I walked back to the car before temptation could take me.

I drove slowly. I tended to be careful in the first place, but today was different. I let people honk, speed past me, wave a finger at me in some disgusted manner. But I was indifferent, focused only on the asphalt bathed in orange light, the sparkling waters slowly disappearing back into the trees as my path carried me from the coast. I let myself drink in the scenery, wondered if I should hold onto the day or forget it ever existed.

The phone rang as I caught one last fleeting glimpse of sea. I answered this time, though with all that had traversed my mind I was too wearied to truly put the fakeness into my voice such a call would require.

“Hello?” I said as I pressed the button to put the phone on speaker.

“Where are you?” she asked immediately, her garbled voice still chiming with some level of anxiety through the little speaker.

“I went for a drive.”

“For half a day!” Brielle hissed.

I shrugged and then of course realized this was useless when conversing through a cell phone. “I felt like driving. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

There was a long pause and I let it go, relieved to have a bit of silence for a moment, unused to voices after such a long period by myself.

“Did you think about what we talked about yesterday?”

I stared out at the road watching it wind and curve, to where I could not see, only because I’d looked up directions did I know it would take me home. Life. This was just like life. I was so caught in the beautiful image that I almost forgot to respond.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“And?” she asked, attempting to sound casual but the rising tone only adding to my image of her pacing through our shared living room.

“And I…I think I’m going to do it,” I said with a long sigh. “Just let me get home first.”

Brielle’s smile could be heard in her voice. “Really? Good, I’m so glad. Drive safely I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up and focused back on the winding road. I would drive it for now, enjoy the sights along the way. But Brielle was right. I required a destination, a goal. Life was short. I had minimal time to drive these roads. I settled into my seat as my eyes wandered to the taillights in front of me, night closing in fast. I’d drive in the direction Brielle had told me attempting to reach my target. And if not the gardens I so longed for, then I’d settle for the depths of the sea I had only narrowly escaped.

Braving a New Frontier- First Page Review

I’ve decided to try this, partly as a means of getting out a post this week, partly as a means of putting more writing out as always. So let me introduce an idea I found searching through other blogs called First Page Review:

“The idea is simple. Sign the linky list, linking your own blog post that contains the first page–NO MORE than the first 1,000 words of a WIP, a manuscript, or a novel, published or unpublished.
This month-long blog hop is meant to answer one simple question for each participant. After reading your first 1,000 word, would a person continue reading it?”

I had trouble deciding which work to choose from, but I went back to my classic first work, one of my earlier novels I finished, a kind of pseudo-biograpy fantasy romance loosely entitled Tale of the Rose. So I present the Prologue and a brief bit of first chapter. Read, give me thoughts, and of course post your own responses to First Page Review if you so desire. I look forward to reading other people’s works.

Prologue

The duke waited rather impatiently outside of the room. He fiddled with his hands, playing with his fingers, as he attempted to take his mind off of things. The stillness of the hallway was haunting, and it reminded him all the more of the fear that he was feeling. His heart pounded softly, and he swallowed. For a moment he closed his eyes, breathed a deep breath of the musty air, and slowly settled down. The world around him came to a gradual stop. He was just regaining his confidence when the door opened.

“My lord.” He spun to see who was addressing him. The doctor.

“How is she?”

The man’s face was grim. He closed the door softly and came to where the duke was standing.

“Not well, I’m afraid.”

A lump settled in the duke’s throat. “What does that mean?”

“She…is…well…”

“Answers man! Give me answers!” the duke shouted.

“She will not live to see tomorrow,” the doctor whispered before lowering his head, almost in a feeling of shame.

The duke stood there, his whole world crumbling around him. He felt as though his heart was being taken from his chest. His body shook as the sense of complete helplessness set in.

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“Nothing,” the doctor answered, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” the duke whispered as tears began to stream down his cheeks. He turned his head away feeling humiliated by his sudden overwhelming emotions. The darkness of his mood made the day blacker than before. This was a day of ending, of loss, of sorrow, of pain and above all of death.

“May I see her,” the duke mumbled.

“Of course. She would be delighted, I’m sure.”

Hesitantly he opened the door and peered in. His eyes adjusted to the brightness of the open windows. He blinked several times, trying to make out what he most wanted to see against the beautiful blue light of the sky. There upon the bed lay a woman, pale against the light sheets. However, as he stared at the obvious death that was already taking hold, her eyes sparkled.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispered.

“I wanted to come sooner, but they wouldn’t let me.”

“You needed to calm down,” she said. She smiled at him and that one motion brushed his worries away with a carelessness that startled him. Her beauty even in death was magnificent.

“You’ll get better…” he tried.

“No,” she said softly. “You know as well as I what the doctor has said. It’s my time.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.

“But you won’t,” she said. Her eyes glittered again and he examined her, thinking on how much she had changed, and yet how she had remained the same throughout her life. Her beautiful hair was now turning silver, her face wrinkling from so many smiles, and through everything hope still shone from within her.

“You won’t lose me,” she repeated. “This is only the end of one adventure and the beginning of another.”

He opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off.

“Now, now, none of your stubbornness,” she clucked. “Now, do come be the dashing knight I know you are and sit beside me. I need you to escort me home for the final time.”

He shook his head, still trying to make sense of everything that was happening. Slowly he sat down beside her and took her lined hand. For the first time he noticed that her left arm was wrapped firmly around a book.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Only a story. I just finished it today,” she whispered.

“Was it good?”

“It was excellent,” she laughed. “The most wonderful I’ve ever heard. Please, won’t you read it to me…so I can hear it again.”

He took the volume in his hands and slowly leafed through the pages. They were all handwritten. His eyebrows raised themselves and yet he obeyed her wishes and flipped to the first page.

“Where do you want me to start?” he asked.

“The beginning,” she whispered, settling back among the goose feather pillows.

Obediently he thumbed at the pages, skimming the first lines he was to read. With a soft exhale he cleared his throat and began to speak. Words filled the small chamber, causing a smile to flutter across the woman’s lips. Paragraphs of beautiful words flowed into the world. Lines and lines of writing came to life before the two of them. And this is the story that was woven.

Chapter 1

I stood at the window, gazing out upon the dark scene that filled my view. My brown eyes tried to take everything in, and yet they seemed unable to do so. The room lit quickly as a bolt of lightening hurtled to the earth before disappearing in front of my innocent gaze. The rumble of deep thunder echoed within the stone walls of my home, and the sound of it was that of an army storming a castle. Chaos erupted before me, and I stood there, a small speck in a vast and terrifying world.

Another flash erupted, and I trembled, feeling awed by the power of it all. Such power, such terrible and horrible power. It never occurred to me that the flash of lightening, the rumble of thunder, and the awesome terror of a storm could all be representations of the world. All pieces portraying the chaos and awful horror that was so present in every city. I was only a child, a four-year-old child, and this before me was the world I would soon know, but would never fully understand.

A crash echoed behind me. I thought it only thunder until I felt hands rest upon my small shoulders and realized the door had opened.

“Katherine,” my father murmured. I glanced up, craning my neck backwards to try to get a glimpse of the six-foot tall man who cherished me more than anyone else.

__________________________________________

1000 words are up! Hope you found it enjoyable or at least interesting. Post some constructive criticism if you’d like to!

Soaring- A Writing Prompt

I’m taking another writing prompt up this week to keep working on improving my ability to adapt to different writing situations. This one was quite fascinating and I was drawn to it right away. From Daily Post:

This week, consider the unreliable narrator — a classic storytelling device — in your own work, no matter your genre.

Unreliable narrators are fascinating. Whether it’s Nick in The Great Gatsby with his naive misunderstandings, or Faulkner’s three protagonists in The Sound and the Fury, or the mentally unsound woman in The Yellow Wallpaper, plenty of authors have demonstrated this is a fascinating writing technique and I was eager to try my hand in a short story. In an effort to not give anything away, I’ll inform my readers they are welcome to ask questions at the end or make guesses or discuss their own experiences with unreliable narrators. I don’t want to directly state what’s going on, but if any confusion needs to be made up please let me know! Thanks and enjoy!

Soaring

The birds keep leaving and coming. Lots of them. I sit there watching behind the glass, wishing maybe I could have wings like the birds. Then I could fly away and never come back.

The lady keeps sighing as she looks around. She frowns and pulls out a box and pushes on it, and then sticks it back in the little bag she always carries. I don’t like that the lady is upset. I wish she’d smile. She looks kind of pretty when she smiles. But nothing like mommy.

Mommy was the prettiest lady there ever was. She took care of me. She made everything right.  My lip moves up and down like it does before my face gets wet. I hate when that happens.

We’ve been sitting for a long time. I’m tired and just want to lay down. If mommy were here that wouldn’t be ok. But mommy’s not. I wonder where she is. I miss her.

I hate when the big birds come towards the glass. I get scared and worry maybe they’re going to fly into the window. I hit the window one time. I don’t remember a lot. Only red paint on the glass after I hit it, and my nose feeling runny.

I paint a lot. Red paint. Or maybe mommy does. Lots and lots of paint. Everywhere. Sometimes that’s all I see. Paint. Sometimes mommy paints black or blue too. Sometimes when I look at the boy in the window I see he has black and blue paint also. Or sometimes he’s white like a ghost. Or sometimes he’s red.

The lady looks at me again. I wonder if she paints. I kind of hope she doesn’t. Painting always makes me feel tired and sad and makes me hurt.

A voice like God rings out around the room. I cower and cringe at it. It’s happened several times, but I don’t like it anymore. I think God is angry mommy’s not here. She’s supposed to look after me. She’s supposed to make sure I’m good so God doesn’t get angry. I’m probably not being good anymore.

The lady stands up. Maybe this time she heard God too. She usually hasn’t acted like she heard it. No one else does either. They just sit there and look at papers and talk and put boxes to their ears and talk some more. But this time people get up. They must know God is angry.

“Come on,” the lady says suddenly, frowny face still in place. When I don’t move she says a weird word I don’t know. I don’t understand so I keep sitting. When will mommy get here?

She sighs and grabs my hand. I pull away a little, scared she’s going to do something bad. I don’t know what. Just bad. God was angry earlier, maybe she knows he’s angry with me.

My hand is in hers and she makes me get up. We walk over to two people standing at a weird high table. They smile at us and the lady hands a piece of paper over.

“Have a good flight,” the lady says. Flight? Are we going to fly like the birds? I feel one part nervous one part scared. It’s like when mommy let me have the brown sweet drink with floating little circles in it, and it made my stomach feel all weird but in a good way.

We walk down a long tube to a door and then through that. The lady holds my hand tightly as we move into a tiny little room, but as I turn I see it is really really long, with rows and rows of seats. Another lady smiles at us as we walk on. She looks at me and then looks kind of funny. It’s like the look the people who came to visit gave me before they brought me to the weird bird place.

“You okay sweetie?” she asks.

I look up at the lady, not sure what I’m supposed to say. She frowns.

“He’s had a long day,” she said quietly. “We’re taking him to Salt Lake to live with his relatives…was removed from his mother’s house.”

The other lady makes a surprise face. I push my new shoe in a line on the floor and look at it so I don’t have to look at the ladies anymore. They make me feel bad.

We go sit down in a row. I sit next to a tiny oval window. I look out and see more birds, and the glass windows I was looking out of earlier. I smile as I watch the birds fly. So far no one seems too mad at me. Maybe things will be ok. Maybe God wasn’t telling them I was being bad.

The lady leans over. She says that weird word again I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. Tyler? “Have you ever been on a–?” she asks. The words are mixed up like when mommy puts things in her little can and pushes the buttons and they spin up and mix all together like goo. I don’t know what she said.

I shake my head, not understanding at all.

“We’re going to lift off the ground in a few minutes,” she says. “But don’t be scared, ok?”

Lift off the ground? I look out the window again and picture what it’d be like to fly with the birds. Sometimes when I was with mommy I’d look at the birds in the tree outside and think how nice it would be just to fly off into the blue sky. Fly all the way to heaven since mommy told me I’d never get there. But maybe if I had wings I could.

The lady helps put a belt around me and then there’s more voices from God, but he sounds different from before. And I sit back and try to relax even though my chest keeps going up and down really fast. And then suddenly the long skinny room is moving and when I look out the window the building is getting further and further away. I clutch at the little bars next to my arm and stare outside.

We go faster. And faster. Soon we’re racing. Faster than I ever could run. And then suddenly there’s this strange weird feeling in my tummy and we’re suddenly looking out at the ground moving further and further away. And I feel so strange and good at the same time, and my ears hurt a little, but not too much. And before I know it I’m staring down at the small little world beneath me, soaring into the big blue sky.

“You’re going to be ok, Tyler.” The lady says, but I don’t need her to say it. I already know. A smile blooms on my face. I’m finally free.

Discipline in Life and on the Page

I let out a groan as my muscles strained with exertion, feet pushing firmly against the plastic biting into my tennis shoes. Thick droplets rolled down my forehead and dripped into my eyes, momentarily blinding me. I panted as I worked the bike up the ever so slight incline going home, my muscles screaming as they begged for a rest. Sure, I was out of shape, but it’s more the fact that I was trying to be in shape that was killing me at the moment. An hour of cardio at the gym followed by a bike ride home in the sun at midafternoon with a heavy backpack, did not make for a happy body.

So I suppose it begs the question, why go to the gym knowing you’ll only have to bike home and be miserable later? Well I suppose that’s a matter of knowing I need the exercise (as evidenced biking home) and because I like applying a certain level of discipline to my life. It gives me motivation, makes me work harder.

But exercise is not the only area of my life which requires discipline. No, school work, my job, and other elements do so as well. But this month I’ve been trying to apply this to writing as well.

I don’t really remember where I found out about October Writing Challenge– a twitter monthly event that requires writers to do 500 words or 1 hour of editing every day. I’d heard of NaNoWriMo of course, but the popularity of the event has always rather thrown me off truly pursuing it and last year I did my own 1000 word challenge instead, focusing on making sure I spent regular time writing rather than focusing on one particular project.

It’s always been important to me to write regularly. I go crazy if I go more than a few weeks without any ideas. I require something to occupy my attention. But making sure to do so each and every day is a challenge I both enjoy and benefit from. Even so, as I approached the end of the week, I had much the same reaction as I did on my bicycle earlier today. My writing “muscles” feel exhausted, they are demanding why I’m not giving them much of a rest, especially when I have homework to consume my time as well. However, like when I’m on my bike I’m just trying to ignore it and press on. Because I know the benefits will pay off in the long run. We’ll just see if I can make it all the way through the month. Fingers crossed!

However, there is one element I appreciate more than my 1000 word challenge last year. And that is community support and accountability. Knowing people are going to see if I post my word count or not is a fantastic way to keep me going. It’s like having a workout buddy, or a fitness trainer. I have someone waiting and watching, seeing if I’ll fail or succeed. And when I have that I tend to do well.

It’s not easy, that’s for sure. But I feel in a lot of ways it’s like climbing a mountain. The exertion I feel right now is merely payment for the beautiful results I’ll see at the summit. And I’m looking forward to ending this month only to look back at a great view of how far I’ve come.

So if anyone is interested in building some writing discipline and endurance, check out the writing challenge. It’s fantastic and really works, at least for me.

What are some ways you motivate yourself to meet your goals? What discipline strategies do you apply to writing or any other task?