As I unpack my newly arrived shipment of exclamation points, I look over to see Ms. Wildstar frowning at the shadows beneath my desk. Since Marin had vanished into the blackness of the dustbunny wildlands, I'd been going about my days without too much annoyance from discarded characters. I mark a full week down as a record, sigh, and give the angsty teen the attention she's craving.
"What?"
“Look at them.” She points to where I can now make out two people sitting on the ground holding hands, gazing at each other and doing all that lovey-dovey crud that generally makes me queasy.
“Is that Zsmed?”
She twists her fingers in front of her and nods.
Is that jealousy I spy? I look a little closer and it all becomes clear. “Delilah? Is that who he was with last week when I was looking for him?”
She bites her lip and nods again.
Ms. Wildstar’s friend and cast off from failed cheesy sequel 1.0. Ouch. Not that I can blame Zsmed. See, I got a little carried away with Delilah. Her name was totally intentional and played up every aspect of her biblical namesake. I should also mention that she has a killer body, and we’re not talking murder here. Oh, and one more thing…
“Hey, Zsmed, you do realize she’s only seventeen, right?”
“What?” He drops Delilah’s hand and runs over to me. “Look at her, she can’t be seventeen.”
I pat the distraught fighter pilot on the head. “You weren’t created yet, but see, there were these milk commercials...”
He gives me one of those raised brow what-the-heck-are-you-rambling-about looks.
“When she was created, I was a teen, and therefore most of my characters were teens. But teens are typically gawky and unsure of themselves and have zits. I needed her to fit in with the other characters but fill her role in which she needed to be really attractive and confident. And there were these commercials were they took those teens and told them if they drank milk, they’d be hot and healthy in a few more years.”
“You made Delilah drink a lot of milk?”
“Um. No. I gave her the hot college girl’s body but made her seventeen, because that’s the age everyone else was in the story.”
He turns bright red. “But that means I just spend the last week…”
“Yeah, but maybe her parents are okay with that, I mean, she is an alien after all”
He goes from red to white and grabs ahold of my chair with a trembling hand. “She’s what?”
“Sorry, I probably should have made her blue and given her some tentacles or something to clue people in. Besides, what do you care, you’re not human either.”
“True.” Zsmed takes a deep breath.
“Just be glad I wrote you with short hair. No telling what she might have done.”
He runs his hand over his head and grimaces. “I think I’m going to lay off the women for a bit. If you need me, I’ll be over in the corner sorting adverbs with Nekar.”
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
From yay to YAY!
Remember what I said about not hearing back on a submission in the last post? Well guess what? I just got good news on my short story submission! Solitude will appear in the Fall 2010 edition of Tales of the Talisman!!!
I may need to break out a new crate of exclamation points!
I may need to break out a new crate of exclamation points!
Friday, February 5, 2010
From yay to disappointment
I wish that had to do with hearing back on a submission. The limbo of not knowing is not a fun place.
Deep cleansing breath.
Today, the delivery truck pulls up and I'm jumping up and down because my laptop has safely arrived back home. The angels sang. The sun shone. I grinned from ear to ear.
I pull my beloved laptop from the box, untangle the charger and run upstairs for some long overdue bonding time. The computer boots up. Glee! All of my programs and settings are just as I left them. With no time to waste, I get comfy and do a little web surfing.
What? I should have been writing? Yes, probably, but I'd been doing that all morning on my desktop computer. My characters are demanding to be written, and I couldn't make them wait for the laptop. I'm well into chapter two of the sequel as of this afternoon and I'm quite excited about how its coming along.
With my celebratory web surfing cut short by having to get some work done--the kind that actually pays the bills--I plug the laptop in to charge and wander off.
Four hours later, I grab my thumb drive, ready to transfer the sequel back to its rightful place on the laptop. I open the laptop. (insert long string of profanity here) It hasn't charged. (insert cursing of repair workers) Why did I send it in the first place? It wasn't charging! I send the adapter. I sent the battery. They knew the issue.
Yes, I had a fine rant going by this point and felt that a customer support chat window just wasn't going to be a good option. I needed a live human. Not so that I could chew them out, but because it’s so much easier to be nasty through words on a screen. Since there are probably hundreds of these support people, the odds that I would connect with the one I really wanted to rant at were darn slim.
The helpful phone service person did far more testing than the online service person did and decreed that I needed to ship my beloved laptop back.
Disappointment.
Deep cleansing breath.
Today, the delivery truck pulls up and I'm jumping up and down because my laptop has safely arrived back home. The angels sang. The sun shone. I grinned from ear to ear.
I pull my beloved laptop from the box, untangle the charger and run upstairs for some long overdue bonding time. The computer boots up. Glee! All of my programs and settings are just as I left them. With no time to waste, I get comfy and do a little web surfing.
What? I should have been writing? Yes, probably, but I'd been doing that all morning on my desktop computer. My characters are demanding to be written, and I couldn't make them wait for the laptop. I'm well into chapter two of the sequel as of this afternoon and I'm quite excited about how its coming along.
With my celebratory web surfing cut short by having to get some work done--the kind that actually pays the bills--I plug the laptop in to charge and wander off.
Four hours later, I grab my thumb drive, ready to transfer the sequel back to its rightful place on the laptop. I open the laptop. (insert long string of profanity here) It hasn't charged. (insert cursing of repair workers) Why did I send it in the first place? It wasn't charging! I send the adapter. I sent the battery. They knew the issue.
Yes, I had a fine rant going by this point and felt that a customer support chat window just wasn't going to be a good option. I needed a live human. Not so that I could chew them out, but because it’s so much easier to be nasty through words on a screen. Since there are probably hundreds of these support people, the odds that I would connect with the one I really wanted to rant at were darn slim.
The helpful phone service person did far more testing than the online service person did and decreed that I needed to ship my beloved laptop back.
Disappointment.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Lost: Mojo - if found please return...
My laptop, my writing baby, is out being serviced for power issues. I've been spoiled. Now I'm unable to get into the writing mode at my desk. Give me a soft bed or a couch. Make me warm and cozy! But no. I'm sitting in what used to be considered my comfortable chair, at my quiet keyboard with my nifty mouse and large monitor.
You know what? My chair isn't near as comfortable as the couch. My keyboard lags! How on earth did I never notice this before? Have I just become that much faster at typing? I don't think so. My mouse makes my hand cold. My monitor... okay, I like the bigger monitor. But the fans on my computer emit this high pitched hum that sits right on the edge of hearing. It's so distracting. How did I write like this, happily, blissfully, for years?
I have a first page to get ready for a contest. I worked on it on and off all morning. Tweaking a word here and there. Deleting this and adding that, all within the sacred 250 word limit. I've stared at it so much, I don't know if its complete dren or if it works.
Laptop, return to me! I need my writing mojo back!
You know what? My chair isn't near as comfortable as the couch. My keyboard lags! How on earth did I never notice this before? Have I just become that much faster at typing? I don't think so. My mouse makes my hand cold. My monitor... okay, I like the bigger monitor. But the fans on my computer emit this high pitched hum that sits right on the edge of hearing. It's so distracting. How did I write like this, happily, blissfully, for years?
I have a first page to get ready for a contest. I worked on it on and off all morning. Tweaking a word here and there. Deleting this and adding that, all within the sacred 250 word limit. I've stared at it so much, I don't know if its complete dren or if it works.
Laptop, return to me! I need my writing mojo back!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Pick up the pace!
(And no, I'm not talking picante sauce. I swear, I'll never get that darned commercial out of my head.)
Ways to make your novel drag #1 - Really drive home the point by repeating yourself. This includes repeating characters.
I wanted Ms. MC to have some emotional issues in her past to explain her actions in a current relationship. She couldn't be betrayed once. Not twice. Three times sounded so much more tragic. I created three men. All cut from the same general bad guy mold. All betrayed her, though in different ways. You can just feel the word count swelling, can't you?
Yes, well, in most cases, swelling indicates something is wrong. And it was. The pacing wasn't pacing or even walking, it was crawling.
To fix this, I took the best - or worst, in this case - of all three men and lumped them into one. He got to stay and become Mr. Tragic Past. The others, well, that's where Marin and Nekar come in. Which rather explains why they are both bearing grudges and aiming guns... at each other? I didn't see that coming.
Nekar fires a bullet into Marin's armored coat, knocking him back but not down. Nekar turns to me. "Just because I'm helping you, don't think I forgive you for editing out my shape shifting abilities."
"Sorry about that. I really liked the shape shifting. Nothing personal, it was a matter of necessity to cut word count."
He gives me a conciliatory nod and then scales my chair, all the while searching for a better shot at Marin.
Marin ducks behind my box of pens and takes a shot at Nekar. He misses.
“I read what you did to those boys,” Nekar says. “A horrible death. Heartless. You deserve to be cut from the novel.”
“They were young men, not boys. Besides, she made me do it.” He points his gun at me.
An unfamiliar male voice calls out, “Over here.”
I look down to see two grinning, young men. Ah yes, more characters happy to not have to die horrible deaths. They’ve cleared a path to the door.
“Thanks, but I’d rather stay and see how this plays out.”
They look at me like I’m crazy and run.
More gunfire. My pen box tips over, spilling pens across my desk and onto the carpet. Marin is gone. Nekar jumps over the rolling pens and dashes to the backside of the desktop.
On my tiptoes, I maintain my distance as I peer over my desk. “Where did he go?”
“Back there.” He points downward.
I cringe, thinking of the masses of rabid dust bunnies and cable mazes awaiting Marin. “We won’t be hearing from him for a while. If ever.”
Nekar gives the black void one last long look before climbing off the desk and down the chair. He retrieves his crate of adverbs and walks back to his corner. “We can only hope. But just in case, I’ll be waiting.” He pulls an adverb out and holds it up. Vigilantly.
Ways to make your novel drag #1 - Really drive home the point by repeating yourself. This includes repeating characters.
I wanted Ms. MC to have some emotional issues in her past to explain her actions in a current relationship. She couldn't be betrayed once. Not twice. Three times sounded so much more tragic. I created three men. All cut from the same general bad guy mold. All betrayed her, though in different ways. You can just feel the word count swelling, can't you?
Yes, well, in most cases, swelling indicates something is wrong. And it was. The pacing wasn't pacing or even walking, it was crawling.
To fix this, I took the best - or worst, in this case - of all three men and lumped them into one. He got to stay and become Mr. Tragic Past. The others, well, that's where Marin and Nekar come in. Which rather explains why they are both bearing grudges and aiming guns... at each other? I didn't see that coming.
Nekar fires a bullet into Marin's armored coat, knocking him back but not down. Nekar turns to me. "Just because I'm helping you, don't think I forgive you for editing out my shape shifting abilities."
"Sorry about that. I really liked the shape shifting. Nothing personal, it was a matter of necessity to cut word count."
He gives me a conciliatory nod and then scales my chair, all the while searching for a better shot at Marin.
Marin ducks behind my box of pens and takes a shot at Nekar. He misses.
“I read what you did to those boys,” Nekar says. “A horrible death. Heartless. You deserve to be cut from the novel.”
“They were young men, not boys. Besides, she made me do it.” He points his gun at me.
An unfamiliar male voice calls out, “Over here.”
I look down to see two grinning, young men. Ah yes, more characters happy to not have to die horrible deaths. They’ve cleared a path to the door.
“Thanks, but I’d rather stay and see how this plays out.”
They look at me like I’m crazy and run.
More gunfire. My pen box tips over, spilling pens across my desk and onto the carpet. Marin is gone. Nekar jumps over the rolling pens and dashes to the backside of the desktop.
On my tiptoes, I maintain my distance as I peer over my desk. “Where did he go?”
“Back there.” He points downward.
I cringe, thinking of the masses of rabid dust bunnies and cable mazes awaiting Marin. “We won’t be hearing from him for a while. If ever.”
Nekar gives the black void one last long look before climbing off the desk and down the chair. He retrieves his crate of adverbs and walks back to his corner. “We can only hope. But just in case, I’ll be waiting.” He pulls an adverb out and holds it up. Vigilantly.
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