Hannah's Horrid Happenings

 Wrote this children's story hurriedly once, then re-read it recently and loved it! I'm thinking about illustrating it... What are your thoughts? Comment below!

“Get up, Hannah. Today is school picture day.”

But Hannah didn’t want to. She was having a perfectly delightful dream about little men shaped like pills, and that was much more interesting than whatever picture day. The pill men were rolling around in a line, putting on a show for her, and they looked so funny.  Mum pulled the covers off of Hannah. She pulled Hannah off of the bed.

“Mummmmyyyy…” Hannah moaned. “You’re making me forget my dream.”

Mum didn't care. Grown ups are like that. She left the room without apologizing, or saying good morning or trying to help her remember her dream.

Soon Mum came back into the room.

“Get dressed, Hannah. Today is school picture day.”

But Hannah didn’t want to. She was writing down a perfectly brilliant idea she’d had about a story with a very bad weasel, and that was much more interesting than school whatever day. The weasel could be working for the bad guys, and he could drop off the ransom note, and then maybe –

Mum closed Hannah’s notebook on her. She dropped the clothes on Hannah’s lap.

“Mummmyyy…! You’re making me forget my idea.”

Her mum made her get dressed. She made her wear a stiff white shirt and a skirt. She even made her braid her hair! Yesterday Mum had let her wear galoshes and her pink jacket, and let her keep her hair down. That was a perfectly good day. This was a perfectly horrid day.

After breakfast she tried to explain all the kinds of fairies to Morgan. "There's flower fairies, butterfly fairies, water fairies, um... and then there's..."
Morgan wasn't listening. He was trying to put his face into his bib.

"Wash up, Hannah. It's school picture day."

But Hannah didn't want to. Fairies were much more interesting than school whatever day. She stuck out her tongue at Mum and told Morgan, "There's night fairies, and.... umm..."

Mum scolded Hannah. She made Hannah wash her hands and face.

“Mummmmyyyyy…! You’re making me forget the last kind of fairy.”

Obviously Mum didn’t care about anything. What a perfectly horrid day.

She had a perfectly horrid ride to school. She had to sit in a perfectly horrid stool and sit up perfectly straight.

"Say cheese," said the happy picture man.

Hannah crossed her arms and made a grumpy face. She was not going to smile for the camera. School picture day had ruined a perfectly good day.

The man pulled a funny face that wasn’t at all funny. She scowled at the picture man. His head looked like a pill. His face looked like a weasel. His shirt looked like a bib.

Just then, Hannah's day got perfectly wonderful. She remembered her dream. She remembered her idea. She remembered the last kind of fairy. She gasped in delight.

Click.

“Lovely,” said the picture man, smiling down at his camera. “Next?”

My 15 Favorite Books and Why

This photo is (c) Someone "Not Me" Else

I have a brief list of what are probably my all-time-favorite books. And I briefly considered why.

 (These are not really in order. They're all so good it would be impossible to rate them against each other.)

1. The Bible is my fave because of its truth, goodness, and beauty, and its message of hope. Also it’s perfect.
2. Lord of the Rings is amazing because it seems original. There’s nothing new under the sun, of course, but at least the way the book’s presented feels like something new. So many fantasies are just built on or ripped off of LotR. His characters are like us, but their culture, languages, and settings are different, just like in my Italy essay. It’s an inspire me book. A go-for-along-walk-with-no-mobile-phone book, a garden-and-make-something-beautiful book, a learn-another-language book, a become-master-woodcarver-or-a-master-artist-or-a-master-something book. 
3.  Narnia is the same. But the inspiration part leans more toward go-write-a-good-book or go-bake-some-muffins or go-be-someone’s-friend. 
4. Peter Pan cripples me with sadness, and yet it makes me happy? The characters. Also, Barrie plucked at the heartstring in me that longs for eternal youth and joy and fun. 
5. Anne. Oh my. She’s my soulmate. My bosom window friend. I miss her so much. I wish she were real. All the characters, really. But mostly Anne. The events that happen are funny or cute or shocking or heartbreaking, but only because of the characters and the way they’re presented. Presentation is huge. She presents nature in a way that makes me really want to start a garden, plant a tree, or go gaze at clouds. How does she make her description so rich? It’s more than fun to read. She can give life to the most boring, ordinary of things. Oh, my heart.
6.  Wingfeather Saga. The characters. The feel of the world. It makes me so fuzzy and warm. Hot pockets, firelight, and decorative swords. Old books. Fruit. Green hills. Oceans. Garrets. The characters. The plot is also a roller coaster. The fantasy element is amazingly well done. I don’t think it’s ever been so well done since Tolkien or Lewis. The characters. 
7. A Tale of Two Cities. Words fail me. The characters... the depth... the narrative voice! Very unique. Very eloquent. He had me on a leash the whole way. Whatever he wanted me to feel, I felt. He knows what he’s doing. He’s a master of writing. Description gave a good, clear mood. Memorable, especially for such a long book. 
8. Mere Christianity. Oh. My. Where to begin... His first sentence. Actually, every sentence. Every sentence was profound. Not a word wasted. I was able to understand so well. His logic was amazing. His way of presenting truth can’t be argued with. This book also strengthened my faith and reshaped the way I thought. This is the kind of book you re-read a million times... and take notes. 
9. Surprised by Joy. Same! Same. Manalive, I love Lewis. 
10. Heidi Similar to Anne of Green Gables. Makes the simplest things seem the sweetest. Makes me love life and mountains and people and milk and goats and cheese and bread and grass and the sky. The version of Heidi that I have has illustrations that match my imagination and make me so happy. 
11. For Women Only. Every woman needs to read this. Even if she feels a distinct calling from God to celibacy. No seriously, every woman should read it. It re-shaped the way I thought about men, and helped me understand them and how to love them in a godly way. 
12. Pride and Prejudice. The characters. The brilliant dialogue. The insight into human behavior. The presentation, the dry, witty narrative voice. Classic novel. 
13. The Girl Who Could Fly. Just.... my child. This is like Peter Pan but with more superhero. Also, it’s modern so it feels closer to me. But I think the main reason I love it is because of it’s free, fun writing style that makes you feel like a child again. And the characters. 
14. Ella Enchanted. Oh... my... I don’t know what to say. This book will never get old. The premise is original if anything is. The characters and scenes are wonderful and the fantasy feeling makes me happy. This book really took my emotions on a flight. 
15. Understanding Comics. The insight is thought-provoking and amazing. Another book that changed the way I think. The way it was presented in fun comic form was really well done. I keep turning back to it. It’s useful for all kinds of things including how to improve my creative writing. Man, it just changed the way I think about so many things.

Questions to Ask Your Character

http://hubpages.com/technology/fun-random-polls
Answer these fun, random, and interesting questions for your characters! Things I would never have thought to ask them...

Guys I Just Discovered Poland.

This showed up when I Googled 'Poland scenery'

 My love for Europe has been expanding over the years, and I've begun to wonder why I know so little about Eastern Europe, or countries to the East of Italy and Germany. I Googled 'Poland scenery'. I know very little about Poland - mostly history from the World Wars. But I was struck with an impression I will not soon forget.

These are just some of many gorgeous photos that showed up.

Poland had Ireland's rolling hills - only they're mountains. It has the castles, rivers, and grottos of Italy and Germany, the alpine and aspen slopes and the sky-high lakes of Colorado's Rockies. It has a very unique and cute style in its buildings, compact and stacked like pancakes, with rows of square windows that almost remind one of England. Their traditional dress and culture looks like a beautiful, vibrant swirl of German and Russian.

I could spend hours exploring pictures of Poland.

How did I not know about all the beauty that lies in Poland? How has it remained so wrapped in obscurity and mystery, beyond the reach of my self-centered, closed-up American mind? I love learning more about the world around me. Poland is a country I must look into; I must explore it, learn more about it, unwrap its beauties, and fall in love with it.

Just Google Poland already, willya?

Today's Random Writing Quote

A good story with a bad ending is a bad story.
~Bronze the Sling

Who Cares What Your Character Had For Lunch on Wednesday?

Everything worthwhile takes time and effort. Ironically, the most worthwhile things are the hardest, the longest, the dreariest. And frustratingly, they often don’t fully pay off until the very end, or if they pay off along the way it’s in short sweet pieces.

Take learning the piano, for instance. It’s the night of the grand concert. The pianist steps up, takes a deep breath, and relaxes as their fingers take on a life of their own. The notes flow with apparent effortlessness, and the music dances out as if the pianist and the piano are one. The audience is breathless until the final strain has ended, and then all of their pent-up pleasure bursts forth is rapturous applause. The piece was eight minutes long.

The audience may imagine how much work was put into perfecting those eight short minutes of music, but they will never come close to understanding every drop of effort that it took. If they could only find themselves in the pianist’s shoes, they would see the hours of repetitive practice, the painstaking starting and stopping and restarting and re-stopping as they tried to master the nuances of the piece, the countless practice sessions under the guidance of their mentor, and the years of gradual, careful improvement that, by patience and persistence alone, brought the pianist’s skill to this point.
The audience could not understand as the pianist did that behind that one piece of music lie years of training, the physical training of the fingers in deftness and eloquence, the mental training of the brain in the reading of sheet music and the patterns of notes, and the training of the ear to pick out what miniscule adjustments in volume and timing create a performance thick with feeling, expressive and erudite.

What the audience sees is the final result; the grand concert. They have a vague idea that practice and talent are necessary and must exist, but they are seeing only a small picture of a painstaking and committed  life of piano playing. They are seeing the performance as one sees a square of sky through a skylight, but cannot see that beyond that patch of sky and all around it lie clouds and hills and mountains and fields, trees and rivers and rocks and houses.

And so it is with the writing of a book. What the reader sees is that the character is named Logan. He is an orphan and has low motivation and doesn’t like rice. The reader sees the story unfold, and they feel they have been told a great deal about Logan; after all, an epic adventure has just taken place; an adventure that lasts for 341 pages and takes place over the course of many strenuous, painful months for the poor characters.

But the reader has really only read a brief account of some of the events of seven months in the long life of one character in a large world of other characters. Few of the other months are even mentioned. The reader recalls that the character’s parents died when he was five but doesn’t know how they died. The reader has seen that Logan undergoes a strong character arc as he struggles through various trials and experiences various novelties. But the reader is never told about the character arc Logan went through when his parents died, or the arc Logan was soon to go through as he discovered the difficulties of married life, or the arc he would go through as he came to a mid-life crisis and realized he was developing a bald spot.

The reader doesn’t know that his parents named him Logan after their favorite comedian, let alone that his parents had a peculiar and delightful sense of humor. The reader doesn’t know that Logan has low motivation because he was raised in an uninspired home full of too much indulgence, self-centeredness, and mindless TV programs, and never fed encouragement to live for something more, to discover other countries or other foods or other people outside of those in his day-to-day circles. The reader doesn’t know that Logan dislikes rice because when he was thirteen he was pressured into joining a rice-eating contest which caused him to lose his lunch and his breakfast. The reader doesn’t know what happened to him when he was two or what would happen to him when he turned twenty five or what would happen to him when he was eighty. The reader doesn’t know.

But not knowing doesn’t stop the reader from loving the character. The reader is shown how insecure Logan really is. The reader likes Logan more because that makes him relatable. The reader is informed that Logan has no relatives besides his aunt, and that makes it twice as upsetting when his only living family member dies. The reader is told that Logan is more concerned about the stain on his shirt than the fact that he is in a life-or-death situation. That makes the reader laugh - that and a million other little things that Logan does.

By the end of the book the reader is thoroughly in love with Logan. The reader will think of him every time they hear the name Logan, and they’ll search online for fan art and look up the author’s website and tell their friends how much they need to read the book, all because Logan was such a well-rounded, realistic, relatable character, who acted and spoke and took in information in his own unique, memorable way.

What made him that way? Why did Logan stand out from the characters in so many other books, hurriedly written and hurriedly read? After all, any author could write that their character didn’t like rice. Any character could have adventures. Any author could give a character a random flaw, and why not let that flaw be a lack of drive? Many characters are orphans, and many characters face life-or-death situations. So what made Logan so… Logan?

The answer is found in simply two things: character development and worldbuilding.

When a writer creates a story, they do not simply put words on a page. They create a universe. This universe is inspired by Creation. Creation is complex and limitless and full of details. Each human is given one body, one life, and one window to the world, through which they perceive only a piece of what takes place in Creation. They only see pieces of the people they meet, and when they ‘get to know’ someone, they only really bget to know a bit about them. Humans see in part and know in part.

But what an author must do is to ‘play God’, to see the lives of everyone in their fictional universe and understand the hearts of every character in their story. In order to create a masterpiece in the end, they must start with days and months and even years of work that will never even make it into the final book. And so they begin the toilsome process of worldbuilding and character development.

Now, from the very start the author’s job is to discover. They must find out the character’s name; that is what gives him life. And then they must find out who gave him that name and why and what it means and how they chose it and when and how he feels about it and how his friends feel about it and how many people Logan knows who share his name. From there a whole branch of new questions stem; if his parents are humorous, what made them so? Have they always had a cheerful outlook on life? When did they meet and who were their parents and what were their relationships with their siblings growing up? Are they the oldest or the youngest siblings? And suddenly the author’s mind jumps back to Logan – why doesn’t he have any siblings? Does he wish he had siblings? Are there any people in his life who are like siblings to him? How does not having siblings affect his lifestyle, worldview, and treatment of others? How does it affect his maturity, actions, and attitude?

It is possible for an author to take this stream of questions too far. The author could ask who his friend was and who his friend’s friend was and who his friend’s friend’s friend was, and get lost in a sea of irrelevant characters who won’t affect one word of the story. But there must be a certain degree of wandering off the beaten path for an author. After all, every person’s actions affect another person’s actions in a ripple. It may never make it into the story that Logan had lunch with his friend on Wednesday, and that it was cloudy and he ate a hamburger and gave the pickles to his friend’s dog. It may not even make it into the story that that friend exists. But the author may nonetheless make themself a little chart listing all the foods Logan ate during those seven months, just to keep track of whether their character has a realistic eating pattern or not.

So much detail and planning seems ludicrous, but it is the framework on which the story is built. The tiny scraps of information, trivial dates and times and lists of facts are what come together to build a fleshed-out, deep, well thought-out and truthful character. They are what make the story real.

Just like in a piano recital, the reader sees only the information given in the published book. They are looking through a window. But behind that performance or beyond that window lies a wealth of work and thought and effort and detail put into that character’s universe, all with the goal of building towards one small stack of 341 pages. That is what smoothes out the bumps, eradicates imperfections, adds mood and emotion, and makes the author sound like they know exactly what they’re talking about. That’s what makes the book and its world and its characters so real.

Sisterhood of the World Bloggers' Award

  Maggie Rice at homewardtraveling.blogspot.com tagged me for this one. Thanks luv!

1.What's your favorite part of the season?

My favorite part of the Christmas season is how it re-focuses every day on Christ and what he did for us. 

2. Do you have your decorations/tree up yet? 

But it's so easy to loose focus. You get caught up and distracted by the number of gifts and cards and deadlines, and all the decorations to string up, and all the baking to do and all the parties and all the events and all the excitement of GETTING GETTING GETTING. You lose sight of what Christmas is about. You lose sight of Christ in the dazzle of materialism and commercialism. So this year our family decided to do something different. We actually took down all our Christmas decorations except for the Christian ones. We didn't even have a tree. We didn't do presents. (Okay... Mom couldn't help but give us a few over the dourse of the 12 days of Christmas... but aside from that...) 

At first there was some dissension. My little sister was out of sorts. My mom admits she cried one night, upset about 'losing Christmas'.

But as the days progress, we discovered a change in the very essence of how we thought about Christmas, how we saw Christmas, and how we acted for Christmas. It became a time of celebrating Christ, focusing on him and loving others. We were filled with ineffable joy volunteering and helping widows. We had family devotionals that brought us closer together. We were more relaxed, able to better enjoy our time spent together and with friends. And oh, Christmas was the best. We were not in the least disappointed to have no stockings, tree, or presents. We woke up and ate a lovely breakfast together, sang Christmas hymns, and read the gospel accounts of Jesus' birth together. Then Mom and I went out with some precious friends and visited with, sang carols for, and prayed for a lady at the hospital (my friend's grandmother). We also prayed for another lady there and sang for her. It was such a blessing! We met a nice nurse there from Russia. She said they didn't celebrate Christmas in Russia! (I'm sure there are some people there who celebrate it. But when she last visited in 2005 they still had no word for 'Merry Christmas', no concept of the Christmas holiday.) Pray for Russia!

Then we came home and had a Christmas feast with our family. All in all it was an amazing Christmas, one of the best of my life. How much can your Christmas change when you take the Christmas spirit seriously?

3. What is your favorite Christmas decoration?

Mine has always been the tree. I have this half-secret tradition to wait till everyone has gone to bed, then sneak out of my room. The living room is lit by the fairy Christmas lights, glowing with so much warmth and color. They glint off the ornaments. Underneath the tree is a wealth of presents piled one on top of another, a mountain of shiny packages spilling past the couch and around the back. Every one is beautifully colored, thoughtfully decorated, and laced with sprigs of holly, glittering bows, silver frost, and golden leaves. It's so enchanting. I hum a Christmas carol and feel the deep peace of a silent night, rejoicing in beauty and color and light and enchantment, with no one but Jesus for company. Then, dizzy with hapiness and coziness, I curl up under the tree and drift into sleep. 

4. Your favorite Christmas tradition?

Probably the Christmas Eve service at our Colorado church. In a tiny log chapel our little congregation (more like a big family) gathers and sings beloved, timeless carols by candlelight. Is anything more enchanting. The kids act out an impromptu Christmas pageant. The senior pastor plays Herod (and gets so into character that we're splitting our sides with laughter). He's only rivaled by his grandson, one of those special people who can make you laugh without even trying. His performance is even more hilarious in its spontaneity. Afterwards the kids get candy canes, and then I give my best friends and family presents, and the sweet darlings give me some gifts as well (which I still have, and still love). Sigh...

 5. Your favorite Christmas memory?

I don't remember what made that Christmas so great, but I just remember thinking This is the best Christmas of my life. It was about three years ago. Everything went so perfectly. Everyone was dizzy with joy.

6. How about your favorite Christmas song? 

TOO HARD. I love Veni, Veni Emmanuel. I love Good King Wenceslas. I love Lo How A Rose E'er Blooming. I love Infant Holy, Infant Lowly. And then of course the entire Handel's Messaih. And what would Christmas be without Stille Nacht? 

7. If you could get anything you wanted for Christmas, and I mean literally anything, what would it be?

Literally anything? Oh, child... you don't know what you're saying. 

My first thought is I'd want to go to heaven and be free of sin, right here, right now. But I know that's not God's will for me. I've got to stay and further the kingdom on earth. Next I thought I'd like everyone on earth to be saved and the world ends and we all go to heaven happily ever after the end. But that's not in his will either, is it? No, God saves exactly whom he wants to when he wants to, amen. 

So then, how about just a closer relationship with God? I'm so weak. I need to know him more, love him more, be more like him. If my relationship with him would improve, everything else would improve proportionally. 

8. If you could give one thing, anything, what would it be?

I would give salvation. 

9. Do you prefer online shopping or, er, the other kind where you actually leave your house?

Ew, leave my comfort zone? Online shopping. ;)

10. What do you do on Christmas eve? 

See 4. Although this year we did Christmas eve at a different church, which wasn't the same but still good. I have two churches, two church families. They're both very close to me, so I'm kind of torn between two worlds. I dream passionately of a world where those two church families will meet in one place as one family, and we'll all worship and rejoice and love together. That dream will be more than realized in the coming of the kingdom of God. But for now I'm just a child of eternity on the run from entropy. 

Here are my questions for you!I'm just going to tag anyone who reads this post. You can answer all or any of the questions in the comments below! 

1.  If you were tossed into a fictional world, which world would you want it to be?  (In other words, which would you have the best chance at surviving?)

   

  

2.  If you could take three people with you to that world, who would you take?

3.  If a stranger suddenly struck out at you and attacked you, would you actually have the courage to fight back? Even if you had that courage, would you actually be able to bring yourself to harm a living being? Would you have the grit to poke them in their eyes? And even if you had the sand to do so, would you be at all successful?

4.  What would be the ideal way to meet your future husband/wife, in your opinion?

5.  If there's one character from a book/movie you would never want to find sitting in your living room, who would it be?  (Leaving out the ones that are too big or abstract to sit in your living room- i.e. Sauron...)

6.  If there is one character from a book/movie you would want to find sitting in your living room, who would it be?

7.  If you could live one day of your life in the style of a movie, what genre would you pick?  (Animated, comedy, romance, crime, adventure, action, etc.)

8.  What movie from that style would you pick? And furthermore what character would you most want to be?

9.  If someone were to compose a soundtrack for your life, who would you want it to be?

10.  What's the purpose of life if life has no purpose?

Understand

She was always there for you. Supporting you, building you up, telling you you're better than you think. Whenever you felt yourself slipping she'd reach out and support you. What did you ever do for  her?

How do they make me feel so broken? Where did that love come from? It's so powerful. It binds us together so strongly that I die when they die. I weep when they weep. I feel what they feel. How did I get so close to them? It took no effort.
Why does it take so much effort to get close to my  characters? What am I doing wrong? It's such a fight to try to make everyone else understand what their going through. Does anybody feel it? Does anybody care?
They have their own stories. Broken hearts. Stories. Broken hearts.
And the words just don't come. How can I put something so abstract onto paper? How can I turn feelings into lines that bind people together the way my heart is bound to those characters?
Look at them. Look at what they've suffered. Why can't I open your eyes? How can I make you see what I see, feel what they feel?
They're human. Just like you. They're beautiful, perfect, broken things.

Okay.

Because you know I must bow to the will of Sherlock.

A Point On Accents

"Well I've been thinkin' about this fer a while and I kept noticing writers who would try t' give their characters accents. They'd wanna go fer Irish 'r Pirate 'r Southern 'r Cowboy 'r Rough-City-Type-Thug, so they'd start leavin' off Gs and Os and Ts and tryin' t' git their character t' look like they had 'n accent. But that did'n' work. I j'st couldn't figure out what kinda accent they were s'posed to be goin' for. The character's voice in my head kept switchin' from one accent t' another."
It's just become a tiny peeve of mine lately. If your character has an accent, decide what that accent is, and then listen to people talking in that accent. Write down every word they say. Try to do it phonetically and be honest to what you hear. But please don't overdo it. I' c'n be very 'noyin' when yer tryin' t' read an' the char'cter's not sayin' English words. Bear this in mind; How do your readers talk?
My reader base is primarily Americans. Most of them will read my words in an American accent. Because of the way Americans often talk they will already read 'going over to the store' as 'goin' over t' the store.' If American English is your native language you'll say it quickly enough to slur some words. So there is no need to slur such words in your writing. If your character is Irish and your readers are American, there is no need to say 'goin' t' the store.' In both languages it's granted that Gs and Os and little in-between letters are often left off.
Instead, only change words insofar as it differs from your readers' native accent. So if your readers are primarily British, pick a narrative accent and let your readers assume that all words are said in that accent unless otherwise specified. If your narrative voice and head voice and out-loud-reading voice are all Westshire, there's no need to make your characters say, 'I fought y' towd me the' wos noi wai t' ge' oiver tha' bridge.' (And furthermore;don't make your characters say things like that if most of your characters speak with a Westshire accent. Just let the reader figure out -through setting, narration, or hints - that the main accent is Westshire. Can you imagine how annoying it would be if you had to read a whole book where the four main characters 'tol' li' this?' It's almost impossible to read.)
So keep changes in dialogue to a minimum.
And finally, know your accents. A great example of an author who did it right is Brian Jacques (Redwall). His characters have a diversity of accents and he presents their dialogue in a way that's fun to read and informs the reader of just what they sound like, without stating the obvious or getting annoying. He's very familiar with the accents in his books so his characters use expressions native to their accents that add a very convincing sense of reality to his characters.

Brown and Grey and Black

I saw him sit against a wall

He never ever moved at all.

His eyes were closed, his breath was slow.

Was he awake? I never know.

His feet are narrow and are tall.

The color of the sand in fall

When it is stained, more dark than light.

His soles are tan, his skin is white.

He sat with legs extended out

In front of him, which brought about

The strangest sense of jealousy;

He was more pliable than me.

Against the wall his back was straight

His slender legs - he never ate -

Seemed unattached to his body

Stretched out in flexibility.

His clothes were simple, brown and grey

And black, like night, but unlike day.

His hat, however, was in blue.

A streak of orange, a lighter hue.

Beneath the brim - well worn and frayed -

Dark bangs, left-sweeping, were displayed.

And tufts of black swept up behind

His ears and neck, and brought to mind

Dark eyelashes against his cheeks

In silent thought - he never speaks -

And eyebrows, darker, thicker still,

Like frost upon a window sill.

Behind those lids are pools of brown,

A broken heart, a soul cast down.

He sits, unable to disclose,

And hurts, and hurts, and no one knows.

NaNoWriMo WINNER

Wow. After 30 days of crazy writing I can't believe I did it. I was typing my last words at 11:57pm on the last day, cramming to get them in and literally bouncing up and down as I raced the clock to validate my novel at 11:59pm. It's been hard pushing past insecurity and writer's block, but you know what? It 's been worth it. I knew it would be. I've gotten to know these characters like never before, laughed and cried, loved every second I've spent in their presence, and I can't wait to do it again next year.

But don't think for a moment that I'm going to stop writing. Oh no. Last year I tried NaNo and failed. I made only 20,000 words. It was so hard, I thought I'd never do it again. But failure is only a minor step to success. Hard things make us stronger. This year was comparatively easy. I wrote 30,000 words this year, and somehow didn't feel half as crammed. Part of it is due to giving my schedule over to God, which changes everything and takes away the stress. But part of it is just that he gave me the inspiration and especially the will to get up again.

Guys, I'm so in love with my characters. The more I write them, the more I love them. If you are writing a story, I beg you not to give up. Those characters are amazing people. You just haven't gotten to know them yet. Write even when you don't have inspiration. Write when you feel like every word you put down is stupid. Write when your entire body is screaming 'ANYTHING BUT WRITE'. Write when your brain is begging you to go outside or eat or get on Pinterest or text your friends or doodle. Just write.

Because it's worth it.

It's worth it, I promise. Just write. Writing comes first, then inspiration. Don't wait for inspiration till you feel inspired.

Last year I worked so hard at NaNo that I felt I deserved a break. A month's break turned into two months, and two months into several, until I found it was November again and I'd written almost nothing over the course of the year.
Well that's not happening this year. If God allows it, I'm going to write every blooming day (except Sundays XD). Raising a story is like raising children. There is no break until it's done. If you step away from your characters, you start to drift from them, and it takes an awful lot of work and healing to get them back.

This has been a pretty disorganized blogpost. Sorry. It's 12:19am. I'm going to go to bed and sleep in, and treat myself to a cup of eggnog and relax.
Just kidding. Because a writer's work is never done. If it was, they would no longer be a writer.
I'm going to get up early and fight to(day)morrow's battles with all my strength, because I know who I'm fighting for. And I'm not going to live the aforementioned lazy kind of day. (Well, except for the eggnog part. That... actually was true.)

NaNoWriMo!

Ican'tbelieveIsignedupforthiswhathaveIgottenmyselfintoI'msonotpreparedforthisI'msoscaredofwritingastupidstory

*aHEMhrm* Excuse me! Actually, what I meant to say was YAAAAY!

I'm going to do National Novel Writing Month and it's going to be great and I have no idea what I'm doing and it's gonna be fine and I'm gonna survive somehow...
But seriously;
What makes my story DIFFERENT?  What makes it special in anyway? Here are four things that help:
1) Good characters
2) Good dialogue
3) That it's uniquely my own
and 4) - the most important - is that I have something most writers don't, something J.K.Rowling and Rick Riordan and Eion Colfer didn't have; the Holy Spirit. With such a guide within me, why be anxious? There's nothing to be nervous about. My Helper is (literally) literally the best.

Blog Award Tag

My lovely friend over at http://touchesofeuphoria.blogspot.com/ nominated me to do this. Thanks, Elf!

 Here are the award rules, copied from her blog 1. Thank the blogger who nominated you and link to their blog. 2. Answer the questions that the blogger who nominated you has provided. 3. Nominate four other bloggers. 4. Create ten questions for your nominees and notify them of their nomination. (I'm breaking this rule a bit - I'll ask just four questions rather than ten.)

1. What's your favorite season, and why?

Although I love cold, snow, rain, wind, storms, grey skies, and clouds, fall wins over winter and here's why.
a) It's super short. At least for Colorado it is - October is basically the fall month of the mountains. I relish every moment of it, and it vanishes as quickly as a perfect sunset.
b) Things FINALLY start getting cold.
c) The golden orange creeps down the mountains until they're covered in its brightness. Every day a tree turns from grasshopper to lemon to flame to orange to russet to red to chestnut and to earth brown. The colors, the colors! It's so beautiful it hurts.
d) Pumpkin flavored EVERYTHING.
e) It's only three months till Christmas! Time to start singing the old tunes! (*everyone else groans*)
f) Eggnog.
g) Leaves dancing, laughing, and playing in the wind, crunching underfoot, covering the ground like little prophets of snow.
h) Sweaters, coats, scarves, mittens, muffs, scarves, hats, and scarves. 
i) That cozy, spicy, stay-indoors-with-a-mug-of-tea-and-do-nothing feeling...

2. If you could pick a different time era or decade to visit, which would you choose?
Definitely the time of Christ. 
I don't know what I'd do, exactly. I'm not internally bleeding or possessed. I already ask him to heal and help people every day. I chat with him all the time; what would I have to say? Maybe I'd just awkwardly stand there. It doesn't matter. The chance to be near him, the very idea of being so close to him would totally blow my mind. Aside from being saved in the first place, nothing could feel better. To hear his voice for real, to see the total holiness and total humanness in his eyes - wouldn't pass it up for any other time on earth. 

3) Can you write me one short story prompt? It doesn't have to be long; just a sentance.
Nathan woke up on the roof of the Empire State Building. He sat up, yawning, rubbed his face, and looked down at the ground a staggering thousand feet below. "Ugh," he sighed. "Not again."

Thanks again for tagging me, this was lots of fun!

Now I nominate: 

Maggie Rice at http://homewardtraveling.blogspot.com/

Chloe Womble at http://afangirlsfantasy.blogspot.com/

Elle Ruthig at http://crownandquillpen.blogspot.com/

Eve Patchett at http://penandkey.blogspot.com/

If you like, answer these questions and then let me know!

1. If you could go anywhere in the world, for however long you wanted, for free, and bring one person, where would you go and who would you bring?

2. If you could go to any fictional place in any fictional world and bring one person, where would you go and who would you bring?

3. Pretend you've never heard of [fictional or real person here]. One day you sit next to them on a train for several hours. What do you suppose they'd think of you, and what would you think of them?

4. What's your favorite season and why?

Thanks and love,
Bronze

Actually Writing My Story

Okaythisblogpostisreallylongbutit'sworthreadingIpromise

Dad’s right. Let’s be honest with ourselves and do some calculations. I have at least 19 stories going. If I wrote 1 per year (haha – *sob*) it would still take me 18 years to finish them all. Do you honestly think that in 19 or even 15 years, you’re still gonna be in love with the Cyla story enough to finish it? Do you think that you’ll be able to even look at a page of your writing without crying? You’ll say, nope. This is garbage. Literally every word needs to be rewritten. What is plot, even? Did I know the words character development? What was the point of writing this, again? Ugh, saggy middle syndrome. I’m so bored I’m gonna cry.

So Cyla doesn’t seem that bad to you now. So you think you can do it. But remember this – once I started a story about a fairy princess named Elisabeth. Before I go any further, allow me to point out that I walked right into the fairy princess cliché. One of the worst clichés. I didn’t pull a unique spin on it. I just walked right into it. Now, though I thought I developed my world well – I’d made big maps, made up and drawn some weird plants, drawn the various strange creatures there and even established two cities in one country – I knew nothing about worldbuilding. The royal family was basically a rich American family that dressed ‘medievally’, owned lots of land and had a couple servants. What did they DO all day? Did they have a country to run, by any chance? Nobody knows.

And I won’t even start on my disorganized badguys and Scarabiss.

 I had some cute ideas, and lots of them inspired the imagination and gave me a chance to play in the fantasy world, but I made on so slowly that by the time I’d gotten to maybe chapter 6 I ran out completely. Lost interest for a while, put it on hold. And you know what? I never took it off the back burner. It stayed there until eventually my inevitable new stories were better, richer, and more interesting than my earliest ideas, and I had to come face-to-face with the fact that my old stories weren’t worth it anymore. They needed to be put away, considered ‘Archived’, probably never to be picked up again. Ever. Maybe when I’m 80 I’ll look at them and go, wouldn’t it be fun if I took my first stories and made something beautiful out of – well, garbage, as it were? But honestly? Will I ever have time for something that’s so much just a diverting idea, some pages that give me a bit to daydream about?

The Archives folder of my jump drive is the black pit of my writing life. It’s the place every story dreads most to go. I’ve Archived 21 stories, and that’s not counting the stories I had on paper that I dropped. My characters and stories are constantly contending with each other, competing for my attention, wondering who will be the next one to drop off. If a story doesn’t keep calling my name, getting support from my friends and nagging me to write it, it will eventually sink out of thought and relevance, and when one day I find its dying document moldering in my Side Stories folder, I’ll look at it in disgust and say nope. Not worth it. That ship has sailed. I don’t have time to write a fanfic about Ninjago. Those characters were so poorly developed, I don’t even care anymore. And the story will be condemned to the Archives folder, never to rise again.

I don’t want that to happen to A Way Out. Or Dormaimcraven, for that matter. With other stories I’m not so sure. What would I lose if The Woods of Faira Noran became little more than a memory, or if I gave up trying to finish A Sketch in Time? Am I really attached to those two girls whose personalities are too much like me, too generic, and too similar? Is the fact that I like Valen’s hair and Sketch’s accent enough to keep me in love with their ship, to make me long to Write Them a Beautiful Story? If I can ask myself questions like that, I already know that the time is running short for those stories, and they need a major overhaul, or they need to be given more life, or they just need to be finished.

A Way Out, on the other hand, and Dormaimcraven - and actually a couple of new stories which would be amazing if I’d actually develop them – are still my babies. I still do fanart for them regularly. And I want so, so badly to finish them, to bring them out to their full potentials. But between school and volunteering and reading and social life and art and college and a job and travels and making presents for people and leading various clubs and groups and teams, do I honestly have time to write a story a year?

…

If I did nothing except eat, sleep, write, and yeah go to the bathroom, for a year,  could I honestly finish a story in a year? I don’t know. I’d probably get writer’s block. Even if I didn’t (again I say hah), I could write maybe 5 chapters a month. That’s 60 chapters. Not bad.

But even if I carried on this intense and unrealistic writing routine for 18 years, supernaturally avoiding Writer’s Block and the I Just Had a New Story Idea complex, my life would be a mess socially and as far as jobs go and I would hate myself and all of my stories.

So let’s be honest. Considering I write, ermph, a sentence per day total on average, and even my favorite stories have taken me about a year per two chapters at best,

IS THERE ANY WAY I AM EVER GOING TO FINISH ALL MY STORIES AT THIS RATE?

And because the answer’s obvious, WHY AM I TRYING TO?

I’m not even trying that hard. I’m just saying to myself, ‘Eh, if I dabble in my stories here and there they will get finished before I die, as long as I don’t give up.’

Ok, granted. But honestly. Who in the world could endure years of working slowly away on a story about two cute pixies with little personality and no solid plot? Even you, Bronze, half German, part Scottish, part Irish and all Stubborn, even you don’t have the tenacity or plumb stupidity to keep that up. If you dropped the Princess Elisabeth Kidnapped story, which once meant so much to you, who’s to say A Way Out won’t get dropped some day too?

I was talking to Dad about this last night and he’s right. I have to pick one. I have to pick one and write it. I have to put Dormaimcraven in the corner, even if it hurts Rilf’s feelings and makes Misty cry (wow Misty never cries). Even if it cuts me to the bone. Even if it’s like sending your own children away for five years. I have to stop trying to continue Elias’s story or In Search of a Gift or even my lovely ELTF, and just let them molder. If I come back in five or ten years and I don’t love them anymore, it has to be worth the sacrifice.

Because I love A Way Out. Luke needs to learn that he’s not in control, and that’s okay. Bryndis just needs some light her life, precious broken girl. Eron needs to see that he’s not perfect, life’s not perfect, and imperfect people really, really need love. Joyce needs to come out of her shell and live for others, honestly! And Ashley… well, I love Ashley.

These characters. I can’t let their story die. I keep putting it off and telling myself I don’t have time and trying to balance my writing between them and all my other stories and oh – the headache! It won’t work.

And I know it’s daunting to say, ‘I’m finally gonna do it. I’m just gonna write this story, the whole thing,’ and I know there’s writer’s block ahead and I’m going to make so many mistakes, but it’s worth it. Because writing a story, I’ve finally realized, is for me an all-or-nothing commitment. It’s worth it. I know it’s worth it.

So to wrap it up with a solid application, here’s the plan.

I’m kinda busy with BEST Robotics right now but that’s over on October 31rst. And the next day NaNoWriMo starts. I did that last year and I know I said ‘Never again, it’s too much’, but let’s face it, that may be exactly what I need to kick off a serious, intense period of Actually Writing My Story. So that gives me over a month to rethink AWO, plan, ask myself why I’m doing this, what have I gotten myself into, brainstorm for some semblance of a plot and get to know my characters. Once NaNo starts I’ll make myself another writer’s contract and write for one hour per day, or one page per day, whichever happens first. 

I’m gonna die.

But there’s no other Way Out. If I really care about this story, I’ve got to prove it. I’ve got to commit. It’s worth it.

New Story

Ugh.
Maybe I shouldn't react this way. Maybe I should welcome each new story with open arms and a resolve to do the  best I can for it. Maybe I should be thrilled at the thought of a new story.
But starting a story is like having a baby. It's that much work. Love and pain and tears and effort. Yes, it's a joy to have stories just like it's a joy to have kids, but at about 25 kids one starts to get a little fed up. Especially if they never grow up.
So here I am with 25 stories at least, none of them finished or grown up, and now a new one has shown up at my door, and I can't say no to the precious thing.

I've wanted to write a story in Italy for a while, anyway.  Here's how I started it out.
Oh yeah. And the dialogue's all in Italian. Good luck.

I wrenched my eyes open, gasping for breath as I stared at the ceiling, the cold sweat clustered on my brow.

"Ero solo un sogno, ero solo un sogno," I cried. The horror was still fresh before my eyes, evil and clear and real, but I was awake now and perfectly safe. I had to be. It was only a nightmare. I had those often, almost every night. I just had to push it aside. I could handle it. My breath began to slow down after I had been awake for a moment. All I could see was a vague inky greyness as the above ceiling merged with the wall. Blackness clawed across my vision, blotting out everything else in the familiar room. I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead, sat up, and clutched my blanket in my fingers, feeling its softness.

There. That was real. The little lumps of cotton on the bottom that gave it a worn but fuzzy consistency, and the smoother, doughy cloth on the other side of the blanket. It felt nice, even though my hands were so sweaty.

I stayed there for several minutes, leaning against the wall and breathing in the dark. I felt better, but the nasty feeling of the dream still hovered about me. I couldn't go back to sleep. I didn't want to fall asleep and risk going back to the same nightmare again.

Maybe I'd stay up for a while, and then try sleeping again later. That sometimes helped. I turned my light on and reached for Son of Neptune, and tried to read a while. But the words swam into each other and I couldn't get more than a page done before I dropped the book. No point in this. I was too tired to stay up and I just didn't want to go back to sleep.

I switched positions restlessly, turned onto one side and then the other, sat straight against the wall and slouched low. Finally I sighed. Grabbing my pillow under one arm and dragging my blanket over one shoulder, I stumbled out of the room and into the next one over.

Ambrosi's room was a little lighter than mine, or my eyes had adjusted. I could see his sleeping form and mattress on the floor. His room was cluttered with junk he'd picked up who-knows-where, and still I could not for the life of me figure out why he kept useless old  door-knockers or boxes or candy-wrappers that he was never going to use.

I bumped something hard and heavy with my toe and couldn't help grunting, "Ai," under my breath.

Ambrosi stirred. Ugh. He was such a light sleeper. Yeah, we'd tried sharing a room when we'd first found this place. We were still scared and insecure and flustered then, and it had been a strange place in a strange neighborhood. We'd stuck as close as glue then. Every noise or movement was someone waiting to attack us. But gradually we'd gotten used to the place as we settled in, and it started to get annoying sharing a room with a brother.

For one thing he really did seem to wake at every sound. And while he went to bed early and slept quietly and woke up quietly, I snored and talked in my sleep and tossed and turned and fell off the bed and basically did everything possible to disturb the quiet of the night. At least I didn't do that on purpose. He left his junk all over the floor, all the time, and I got sick of telling him to clean it up. Now that - he did that on purpose.

I shoved clusters of knickknacks out of the way next to Ambrosi's bed and dropped my pillow there, bundling myself up in my blanket and settling in.

"Che problema, Giada?" Ambrosi's voice came softly, muffled by sleep and slurred by drowsiness. He lifted his head a little as if he could see me in the dark.

"Niente. Solo un incubo."

"Capisco."

Good for him. I was glad he didn't ask anything more. His tone said he understood and he cared, and that was all. No interrogation, no further information needed. He didn't try to say something helpful. Nothing he could say would really help. I just needed to know that he was there for me, close by, and he was willing to endure my snores for the rest of the night and let me stay in his room.

That's more than I would have done for him. Bravo, Ambrosi, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep. Bravo.