Anyone that is interested in seeing the method behind the madness. This is literally what I think about while I'm writing, specifically my NaNo project (for which I did go off of an old story, but I completely revamped, rearranged, and changed the whole thing).
Hey - what are you doing here? I didn't recall giving your character more than two lines originally. What are you doing in the shop? Now my main character has to interact with you? Is it going to be embarrassment or further proof that my MC isn't, in fact, crazy? Regardless, you are hindering my whole plot by being here, but fine, I'll go with it. Yay conversations. Are you don't yet? Awkwardly shuffle out the door - that's better! Main plot line, GO!
Okay, so this is actually coming together, it's actually making sense - but that conversation between the two of them seemed a little too heartfelt. Then again, who am I to say that? They've been dating in high school puppy love for about a year and a half - so naturally, yes, they are going to be a little heartfelt, right? Hopefully? But now what? They had this awesome conversation that reconnected them, but they aren't supposed to be reconnecting! If anything, he's supposed to be turning villainous and vapid. Then again, his concern could grow more now, making him slightly more... protective? Overbearing protectiveness to the point of driving my MC crazy is now a GO! Success, gold star, now let's wrap this up so I can get some coffee/tea/wine.
I guess it is good that some things happen that are very unplanned. It makes for more realistic situations, I think, and keeps me on my toes. When I feel like things are getting too easy for my MC, something else comes in to make things a little.. different. Even if they don't change dramatically, it is the little things that make a story come to life.
Showing posts with label thinking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thinking. Show all posts
Friday, November 18, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
A Pause
Writing will never leave me. I know that now, more so than ever before. It is intrinsic in my natural, my being to be able to make words out of what I'm feeling. To put myself in haunting places and scenarios, places I may never even dream of being, but it is where my characters take me.
I used to worry when I didn't write for days on end - that this was it. That was the last thing I would even put down on paper, into words. But more often, now, I find myself ever forming stories - random bits and pieces that I come across throughout the day, ways to keep my brain entertained - and sometimes, on the moped ride home, I create fabulous lyrics, ones that can never be heard again by anyone but myself as I sing softly along with the hum of my motor.
I worry less because this is me, it's what I do. My day job, whatever it may be, will never change the solid fact that I am a writer. When I stop writing, it is my pause, my time to reflect, my moments to gather myself for the tasks ahead. Although, I feel more of a desire to finish my unfinished pieces than ever before, I still don't have the motivation and drive to sit down and produce them. But the desire is there, hungry, gnawing away at my heart valves. One of them will burst someday and a fountain of words will spill out onto the page in a unyielding, passionate rage.
Until then, I will sit down and read my books, watch my television, and be the constant observer of people, facial expressions, conversations that shouldn't be overheard. I am the creep that sits by you at lunch staring into the distance, a long look on her face, and you wonder - is this girl listening to us? Yes, in fact, she hears every single word. When you look away, she studies your face, feels your voice and your words, takes in your essence, only to use it some day, covering the white blank page with your secrets, or words inspired by your secrets. And you'll never think, connect two and two together, that she was there while you were conversing with your co-worker, that you, in fact, inspired her.
I am the quiet observer, and I'm taking my time off from writing to gather new materials, new phrases, new words to stitch together my sentences.
In the past three days, I have read the Young Adult novel FLIP, by Martyn Bedford, and half of Ender's Game. I haven't felt this desire to read since I was much younger. Maybe that's why my characters have been lacking - I haven't kept up myself. I feed off of words formed by others, I am motivated by seeing, devouring finished pieces of work - I see and feel all the possibilities of my own life, my own ideas, just by reading.
FLIP was actually pretty good. The one downfall of most YA Fiction is the lack of intelligence in the characters. I really think we should be challenging young readers - especially if we assume that these readers are high school, maybe middle school level. When I was in ninth grade, I had finished Moby Dick - and at that point in my life, yes, it was the most boring read ever - but looking back, it was a huge challenge. I learned so much from just one challenging book. That's not to say that FLIP is bad, I guess I was just hoping for a more challenging read. And yes, I'm an adult, but I was reading books like this in sixth grade. The concept - awesome, the characters - great, believable. I think it is definitely worth the read, especially if you do have a child, you should get them to pick it up. It is probably one of the more solid YA Fiction novels to come out in awhile.
As for Ender's Game - I am so upset that I didn't read this earlier. I cannot put it down. So many of my friends read it before me and I always wanted to get around to it. But I thought, "Well, I'm not THAT much into Science Fiction, so maybe later." Then I started reading it. Goodness, it is like The Giver meets space, meets some crazy Ayn Rand novel, meets awesomeness. Honestly, if you like Sci-Fi, you need to read it. I found it in the Classics section at the Library (which is, ironically, in the corner, stuffed next to the YA section). I have three more YA books coming my way - and as long as I'm reading, I might not be writing, but I am creating vastly new universes for myself.
If nothing else, I will at least review what I am reading until I feel the urge to write. Once I'm back, I'll come back with a huge vengeance. That's a promise.
I used to worry when I didn't write for days on end - that this was it. That was the last thing I would even put down on paper, into words. But more often, now, I find myself ever forming stories - random bits and pieces that I come across throughout the day, ways to keep my brain entertained - and sometimes, on the moped ride home, I create fabulous lyrics, ones that can never be heard again by anyone but myself as I sing softly along with the hum of my motor.
I worry less because this is me, it's what I do. My day job, whatever it may be, will never change the solid fact that I am a writer. When I stop writing, it is my pause, my time to reflect, my moments to gather myself for the tasks ahead. Although, I feel more of a desire to finish my unfinished pieces than ever before, I still don't have the motivation and drive to sit down and produce them. But the desire is there, hungry, gnawing away at my heart valves. One of them will burst someday and a fountain of words will spill out onto the page in a unyielding, passionate rage.
Until then, I will sit down and read my books, watch my television, and be the constant observer of people, facial expressions, conversations that shouldn't be overheard. I am the creep that sits by you at lunch staring into the distance, a long look on her face, and you wonder - is this girl listening to us? Yes, in fact, she hears every single word. When you look away, she studies your face, feels your voice and your words, takes in your essence, only to use it some day, covering the white blank page with your secrets, or words inspired by your secrets. And you'll never think, connect two and two together, that she was there while you were conversing with your co-worker, that you, in fact, inspired her.
I am the quiet observer, and I'm taking my time off from writing to gather new materials, new phrases, new words to stitch together my sentences.
In the past three days, I have read the Young Adult novel FLIP, by Martyn Bedford, and half of Ender's Game. I haven't felt this desire to read since I was much younger. Maybe that's why my characters have been lacking - I haven't kept up myself. I feed off of words formed by others, I am motivated by seeing, devouring finished pieces of work - I see and feel all the possibilities of my own life, my own ideas, just by reading.
FLIP was actually pretty good. The one downfall of most YA Fiction is the lack of intelligence in the characters. I really think we should be challenging young readers - especially if we assume that these readers are high school, maybe middle school level. When I was in ninth grade, I had finished Moby Dick - and at that point in my life, yes, it was the most boring read ever - but looking back, it was a huge challenge. I learned so much from just one challenging book. That's not to say that FLIP is bad, I guess I was just hoping for a more challenging read. And yes, I'm an adult, but I was reading books like this in sixth grade. The concept - awesome, the characters - great, believable. I think it is definitely worth the read, especially if you do have a child, you should get them to pick it up. It is probably one of the more solid YA Fiction novels to come out in awhile.
As for Ender's Game - I am so upset that I didn't read this earlier. I cannot put it down. So many of my friends read it before me and I always wanted to get around to it. But I thought, "Well, I'm not THAT much into Science Fiction, so maybe later." Then I started reading it. Goodness, it is like The Giver meets space, meets some crazy Ayn Rand novel, meets awesomeness. Honestly, if you like Sci-Fi, you need to read it. I found it in the Classics section at the Library (which is, ironically, in the corner, stuffed next to the YA section). I have three more YA books coming my way - and as long as I'm reading, I might not be writing, but I am creating vastly new universes for myself.
If nothing else, I will at least review what I am reading until I feel the urge to write. Once I'm back, I'll come back with a huge vengeance. That's a promise.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Picture of a Woman
Who was this woman?
I knew what to call her before, what to say a few months ago. She was a loving wife, an aspiring
photographer, a real estate agent, but really, most of all she was a
mother. She prided herself on that. But this woman that stood before me was a
shell of that, someone so convinced that her life was over that she was willing
to give it all up. This woman was
spineless, she lacked motivation, she had fallen into the trap of being
content. Her eyes frozen on mine, hollow
in the deepest meaning of the term. No
more green reflecting the world with glimmers of hope and fascination, it’s all
replaced by anger and hatred towards her situation, towards what happened.
As the picture of her clouded over from the steam of the
shower, I didn’t bother wiping it off again.
I didn’t want to see this woman, I didn’t want to admit that this was
where I was. Couldn’t I live in ignorant
bliss? But that’s the problem, when you
know what you once had, you can’t live without it – at least, not as happy as
you once were. I knew what I had to do,
but I had no idea what to tell him. What
do you say to a man? How do you tell him
you’re no longer in love with him? That
you were never in love with him? How do
you say, “You were just a means to an end for me – yes, I was using you, but I’m
terribly sorry about it.”
But had I been using him?
That was the part I would never quite get, because it wasn’t true. A part of me had fallen for this man, but he
wasn’t mine. And that was the
difference, I supposed. He never stood a
chance against the man that I loved, no one did really – but why did it have to
be him, of all the thousands of other people in the world that I could have
taken solace in – why him?
I wanted to destroy the mirror, but instead, I walked
into the shower for the third time today.
I watched my fingers turn to wet, hot prunes. “I have something to tell you… I have…
I have to tell you something… I
have to be honest, look… I have… Ugh.”
I concentrated on the water rushing down my face, dripping off my
nose. I had to convince myself, for the
hundredth time this month, that it was all going to work out. Somehow.
The impossible had already happened – so what’s one more “miracle?”
--------
This may, or may not, end up in my final piece for a longer work. Haven't decided yet, but I wanted to get into her head again - so that I can continue writing her story. Yes, it is ambiguous, but I don't want to give away too much about this novel until it is actually done.
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