Patrya gets the fifth chapter - She quickly learns at the site of the execution that Myreap's father is allied with Syne when he stabs Patrya's mother. Patrya assumes Myreap is in on the plan too. So filled with burning resentment, fear, and sorrow, Patrya flees from the site, intending to take her younger siblings (Pellia, Pai, and baby Percie) along with their bodyguard (they are the children of an Excellian leader after all) to Chymea, the modern-day equivelant of Asia.
And yes, you can just imagine what emotion I've been adding in here...muahaha, the joys of an author. :)
Unfortunately, they do NOT succeed in escape; Syne intervenes with Patrya's plans by confronting them at their house with several other armed men. He kills their bodyguard and wounds Patrya but doesn't kill her, instead aiding her journey to Chymea by letting her use his personal aircraft.
This creates a good deal of confusion for Patrya since, if he killed her parents, it only follows that he would kill her too, but he doesn't.
That line of logic along with Syne's final words, "Remember it was I who gave you your life," causes Patrya to realize that he wants something out of her.
Any guesses? :D
Patrya gets the sixth chapter - Having arrived in Chymea, Patrya seeks out the Emperor Jeon, an old friend of her father. Jeon welcomes, feeds, and boards her and her siblings, hearing out her story with condolences over a meal. When she asks for military assistance, Jeon refuses however, due to his being a friend of Syne as well.
Naturally diplomatic, Patrya discusses other aspects of military assistance with Jeon. He admits that the Chymean soldiers themselves made a rule that if any human could kill one of their captains in single combat, the soldiers under that captain will agree to fight. (In case you were wondering, the rule was set up to keep captains from becoming physically lazy.)
Still half-grieving the loss of her parents, Patrya files the information away, knowing she can do nothing without a champion.
Millis gets the sixth chapter - Having successfully assassinated one of Excellia's four leaders, Millis is hired again by the same mysteriously ambiguous character (*coughSYNEcough*) to kidnap four children in Chymea. (I wonder who... ;)) Millis and his loyal friend Hyn go together to Chymea, but like all male assassins (*coughJASONBOURNEcough*), the two refuse to wound or kidnap children as young as Percie, who is merely an infant.
As a result, Millis and Hyn take a moment during their mission to consider their return home. The two realize they cannot go back from where they came or else risk being killed by their ambiguously mysterious employer. Millis advocates for just nabbing the children and finishing the job. Hyn objects. The two argue (and St. Francis above, can they argue. I realized earlier today that I accidentally filled an entire page with a nonsensical debate of theirs. Hehe, guess that's what comes of characters who are too good friends).
Obviously thinking of a necessary champion, Patrya interrupts their conversation, entreats them to hide in Chymea, and return upon their earliest convenience.
The males agree.
And now you all know why I laugh when you ask me what my story is about. ;) It'd take me till Doomsday to scratch the surface... :)
Write on!
Clove
5.30.2013
5.29.2013
5.28.2013
Outline Part 1
I've been extremely hesitant to give this out because I'm certain it will change. Having gotten over my hesitations, the disclaimer's out now - I'm not responsible for any un-outlined plot twists, accidental character deaths, or sudden, blooming romances. ;)
So saying.
The story begins on September 11, 3414 with Deidre Keane reading a history tome for school.
(*collective gasp* What is SHE doing there?! Well, I liked her and Skain's character profiles, but the story I put her in was...less than satisfactory. I still intend to use her character in a later novel, only with a completely different outline. She'll be back. :))
Deidre reads about the history of Excellia, namely how poisonous GMO's had taken over the known world and Excellia had used an antidote against the toxic plants to control the common people. She reads at the very end of a "revolution...freeing mankind from the shackles of their own creation."
Time warp, and we're back in December 9, 3013 right before the actual revolution.
Millis gets the first chapter - he assassinates Hassan Ikolvii, basically to show his occupation and personality. I posted part of that chapter here.
Patrya gets the second chapter - she is attending a party where she is warned by Syne (our beloved antagonist and also the son of one of Excellia's four leaders) that her love relationship with a male named Myreap may be a catalyst to civil war. Why? Imagine a Romeo and Juliet scenario, only Romeo's the son of one of Excellia's leaders and Juliet's the daughter of one of Excellia's leaders. Between a load of conspiracies, Patrya is believed to be playing Myreap, and Myreap is believed to be playing Patrya.
Their parents, needless to say, aren't happy.
Other factors combine with that dilemma so that Patrya and Myreap's parents are at the brink of civil war. Syne warns unwitting Patrya of all this and threatens her at the end of the chapter, that if she doesn't keep her relationship low, he may have to exterminate her.
For the good of Excellia, of course. :)
Millis gets the third chapter - I introduce his best friend Hyn in this chapter, show their camaraderie and mutual trust, and have a mysterious figure hire Millis to kill one of Excellia's four leaders. (The leader he is hired to kill is NOT Patrya or Myreap or Syne's father.) The amount of money Millis is offered is immense, and he accepts, finishing the job. (I'm thinking the job will be off-scene, and it will be understood that he carried out his task without any problems.)
Pleibea gets the fourth chapter - I'm still debating as to how I'm going to do this. (I think I'm on my third re-write...ugh. :)) The basic factors are that a.) Pleibea's a slave, has an older brother and a complicated family history b.) due to a message she and her fellow slaves had received from a government leader, telling them to go on strike, well...they're on strike c.) Pleibea is arrested by government officials, causing large confusion because she was commanded by the government to go on strike in the first place. She struggles and is knocked out.
When she wakes up, she's about to be hung with several others. Tarkin, Patrya's father, makes a speech before the hanging, reinstating that slaves are NOT to rebel. He is stopped by Syne (muahaha) who makes a claim for freedom and stabs Tarkin, freeing the slaves.
I think that's a good place to stop.
If I haven't bored you to death with blocks of text, congratulations. You really are a devoted fan. *blush of honor*
But don't worry.
I'll be back with more blocks of text and can kill you then. ;)
Write on!
Clove
So saying.
The story begins on September 11, 3414 with Deidre Keane reading a history tome for school.
(*collective gasp* What is SHE doing there?! Well, I liked her and Skain's character profiles, but the story I put her in was...less than satisfactory. I still intend to use her character in a later novel, only with a completely different outline. She'll be back. :))
Deidre reads about the history of Excellia, namely how poisonous GMO's had taken over the known world and Excellia had used an antidote against the toxic plants to control the common people. She reads at the very end of a "revolution...freeing mankind from the shackles of their own creation."
Time warp, and we're back in December 9, 3013 right before the actual revolution.
Millis gets the first chapter - he assassinates Hassan Ikolvii, basically to show his occupation and personality. I posted part of that chapter here.
Patrya gets the second chapter - she is attending a party where she is warned by Syne (our beloved antagonist and also the son of one of Excellia's four leaders) that her love relationship with a male named Myreap may be a catalyst to civil war. Why? Imagine a Romeo and Juliet scenario, only Romeo's the son of one of Excellia's leaders and Juliet's the daughter of one of Excellia's leaders. Between a load of conspiracies, Patrya is believed to be playing Myreap, and Myreap is believed to be playing Patrya.
Their parents, needless to say, aren't happy.
Other factors combine with that dilemma so that Patrya and Myreap's parents are at the brink of civil war. Syne warns unwitting Patrya of all this and threatens her at the end of the chapter, that if she doesn't keep her relationship low, he may have to exterminate her.
For the good of Excellia, of course. :)
Millis gets the third chapter - I introduce his best friend Hyn in this chapter, show their camaraderie and mutual trust, and have a mysterious figure hire Millis to kill one of Excellia's four leaders. (The leader he is hired to kill is NOT Patrya or Myreap or Syne's father.) The amount of money Millis is offered is immense, and he accepts, finishing the job. (I'm thinking the job will be off-scene, and it will be understood that he carried out his task without any problems.)
Pleibea gets the fourth chapter - I'm still debating as to how I'm going to do this. (I think I'm on my third re-write...ugh. :)) The basic factors are that a.) Pleibea's a slave, has an older brother and a complicated family history b.) due to a message she and her fellow slaves had received from a government leader, telling them to go on strike, well...they're on strike c.) Pleibea is arrested by government officials, causing large confusion because she was commanded by the government to go on strike in the first place. She struggles and is knocked out.
When she wakes up, she's about to be hung with several others. Tarkin, Patrya's father, makes a speech before the hanging, reinstating that slaves are NOT to rebel. He is stopped by Syne (muahaha) who makes a claim for freedom and stabs Tarkin, freeing the slaves.
I think that's a good place to stop.
If I haven't bored you to death with blocks of text, congratulations. You really are a devoted fan. *blush of honor*
But don't worry.
I'll be back with more blocks of text and can kill you then. ;)
Write on!
Clove
5.24.2013
Grammar Girl
The other day, I was tossing the idea around in my head about how I was going to introduce incorrect grammar on this blog when my younger brother began to play a piano song. As he was playing the piano song, I realized I had heard it before, so abandoning my brainstorm, I went to iTunes and looked through my library, realizing I had downloaded a free box of 100 Most Essential Chopin pieces, and the song was:
Nocturne Op. Posth. 72 in C-sharp minor, great for writing emotional scenes or squeezing out a school essay
But I digress...
...as I was in iTunes, I ran across Grammar Girl, an old podcaster that my father introduced to me many, many, many years ago. While many, many, many of you might believe you are Grammar Nazis, you haven't seen anything until you've seen Grammat Girl. (Bahahah, but before you feel bad, you should have seen the look on my face when I first heard her...all of my bad habits in grammar torn to shreds... :D)
Stick with her, and you'll polish your writing up in no time.
You can find all her podcasts here.
Or, if you don't feel like having your grammar skills obliterated, you can go here and laugh.
Write on...with good grammar!
Clove
5.23.2013
I'll do this someday...
School's out and with it went my juicy brain ideas. I've done practically nothing all day (except for getting my violin skills beat up and trashed and torn apart in an agonizing hour from one of the most horribly strict and extraordinarily musical violin masters in the world).
Instead of writing, I was (nursing my violin skills' ego back to health and) musing about an interesting idea I've seen over and over in anime.
Here it is in a nutshell:
1.) The character plot begins with a handful of protagonists protecting and encouraging a main character who doesn't deserve their protection and encouragement.
2.) The character plot moves on to where the main character earns the protagonists' respect by defeating a large cast of minor antagonists in such a way as that the minor antogonists also recognize something respect-worthy in the main character.
3.) In the final "big battle," both minor antagonists and protagonists sacrifice to help the main character who must fight against the ultimate antagonist. Of course, the main character wins in the end.
I'm generally a realistic, dystopian sort of author, so the big, bold, heroic idea of doing this character plot is majorly intimidating.
However...
*starry eyes*
It just looks so stinking good in the anime!
Bahahah, someday, I'll manage to get my readers to love my characters as much as they do Naruto...or their favorite Bleach character...or their favorite Pokemon character. Someday.
Ciao!
Clove
P.S. If you've ever done this character plot before, I. want. your. story. ^.^
Instead of writing, I was (nursing my violin skills' ego back to health and) musing about an interesting idea I've seen over and over in anime.
Here it is in a nutshell:
1.) The character plot begins with a handful of protagonists protecting and encouraging a main character who doesn't deserve their protection and encouragement.
2.) The character plot moves on to where the main character earns the protagonists' respect by defeating a large cast of minor antagonists in such a way as that the minor antogonists also recognize something respect-worthy in the main character.
3.) In the final "big battle," both minor antagonists and protagonists sacrifice to help the main character who must fight against the ultimate antagonist. Of course, the main character wins in the end.
I'm generally a realistic, dystopian sort of author, so the big, bold, heroic idea of doing this character plot is majorly intimidating.
However...
*starry eyes*
It just looks so stinking good in the anime!
Bahahah, someday, I'll manage to get my readers to love my characters as much as they do Naruto...or their favorite Bleach character...or their favorite Pokemon character. Someday.
Ciao!
Clove
P.S. If you've ever done this character plot before, I. want. your. story. ^.^
5.21.2013
Bits of life
I have to admit - 75% of my story is a glued mesh of bits of life, tiny snippets and phrases, lines of repartee, senses and emotions. All of them take up mere seconds in life, but combined in my writing, they are invaluable.
My top three favorite places to find bits of story from bits of life:
1.) The airport
With 9/11's consequences, I know we can't just go wandering into airports anymore, so I relish every minute in those high-roofed buildings, absorbing smells, the business, and above all: faces. Once I find a face I like, I follow the person with my gaze, identifying his gait and clothing and inflection of speech.
Sounds like I'm stalking, I know.
But he sure doesn't know. ^.^
And he probably never will unless if he reads my story and realizes there's a character in it who looks and talks and walks exactly like him. :)
2.) The kitchen
A lot of magic can go on in the kitchen - the vast array of aromas, flavours, and feelings like the firm of a celery stick or the soft of a peach.
Even beyond those words that seem to float around the counter tops and ovens, there's also a sense of flow, a flow of methodological work, that turns raw meats into savory dishes. I can see my mother's focus when she measures, stirs, and paces back to check the bread in the oven, and it's a sort of focus that many of my characters mimic in crises.
Kitchen to battle speech.
They're not that different. :)
3.) My little sister
Everyone has that one sibling (unless if you're an only child...and even then, it's normally a friend) who can makes the most witty, humorous, and yet absolutely deep comments.
Or maybe you're the one.
Either way, don't pass those dialogue quotes as something to laugh at. Write. them. down. Every so often, you'll find the perfect place to use them in your story, and instead of trying to screw a dog-tired brain up for an ingenious and natural conversation, resort to your sibling.
Bingo.
Write on!
Clove
My top three favorite places to find bits of story from bits of life:
1.) The airport
With 9/11's consequences, I know we can't just go wandering into airports anymore, so I relish every minute in those high-roofed buildings, absorbing smells, the business, and above all: faces. Once I find a face I like, I follow the person with my gaze, identifying his gait and clothing and inflection of speech.
Sounds like I'm stalking, I know.
But he sure doesn't know. ^.^
And he probably never will unless if he reads my story and realizes there's a character in it who looks and talks and walks exactly like him. :)
2.) The kitchen
A lot of magic can go on in the kitchen - the vast array of aromas, flavours, and feelings like the firm of a celery stick or the soft of a peach.
Even beyond those words that seem to float around the counter tops and ovens, there's also a sense of flow, a flow of methodological work, that turns raw meats into savory dishes. I can see my mother's focus when she measures, stirs, and paces back to check the bread in the oven, and it's a sort of focus that many of my characters mimic in crises.
Kitchen to battle speech.
They're not that different. :)
3.) My little sister
Everyone has that one sibling (unless if you're an only child...and even then, it's normally a friend) who can makes the most witty, humorous, and yet absolutely deep comments.
Or maybe you're the one.
Either way, don't pass those dialogue quotes as something to laugh at. Write. them. down. Every so often, you'll find the perfect place to use them in your story, and instead of trying to screw a dog-tired brain up for an ingenious and natural conversation, resort to your sibling.
Bingo.
Write on!
Clove
5.19.2013
Writing challenge #1
Ever get a peculiar feeling...
-When you've seen the same car too many time on random occasions for it to "just be" a coincidence...
-Or when you want to be sick the next day and, when you wake up, you realize you are...
-Or when you feel as if someone's watching you when you're alone in the house...
-Or even worse - when you hear a noise, distinctly a footstep, in the top floor of the house when you're alone and at the bottom floor of the house?
-Or what about when a random stranger walks up to you and starts asking about your personal life...
-Or when you can't quite hear the conversation of two men who keep looking at you with toxic glares?
-Or do you ever get that moment when it's just too quiet?
I'm setting your nerves on end, aren't I? Admit it. It's late at night, and you're reading this in the dark with your laptop on your thighs, and you're getting seriously creeped out and want to go turn the lights on.
Or...
If, by any chance, you aren't seriously creeped out or only mildly creeped out, it's more likely you've 1.) never been in any of the above situations, or 2.) you are reading this blog entry in broad daylight with a bustle of human activity around you. (Of course, I could be a fail. *wink wink*)
At any rate, here presents my writing challenge #1!
50 cool beans to grand winner, 10 to the rest for trying. :)
How do you put a feeling of unease, so intense and nerve-rattling, into words? And from there, how can you use the words to make a reader, reading on a sunny afternoon with no sense of anxiety, still feel the prick of shadows...and echoing footsteps...and dripping waters in cavernous conspiracy lairs...?
I await your ideas with much anticipation!
Write on!
Clove
-When you've seen the same car too many time on random occasions for it to "just be" a coincidence...
-Or when you want to be sick the next day and, when you wake up, you realize you are...
-Or when you feel as if someone's watching you when you're alone in the house...
-Or even worse - when you hear a noise, distinctly a footstep, in the top floor of the house when you're alone and at the bottom floor of the house?
-Or what about when a random stranger walks up to you and starts asking about your personal life...
-Or when you can't quite hear the conversation of two men who keep looking at you with toxic glares?
-Or do you ever get that moment when it's just too quiet?
I'm setting your nerves on end, aren't I? Admit it. It's late at night, and you're reading this in the dark with your laptop on your thighs, and you're getting seriously creeped out and want to go turn the lights on.
Or...
If, by any chance, you aren't seriously creeped out or only mildly creeped out, it's more likely you've 1.) never been in any of the above situations, or 2.) you are reading this blog entry in broad daylight with a bustle of human activity around you. (Of course, I could be a fail. *wink wink*)
At any rate, here presents my writing challenge #1!
50 cool beans to grand winner, 10 to the rest for trying. :)
How do you put a feeling of unease, so intense and nerve-rattling, into words? And from there, how can you use the words to make a reader, reading on a sunny afternoon with no sense of anxiety, still feel the prick of shadows...and echoing footsteps...and dripping waters in cavernous conspiracy lairs...?
I await your ideas with much anticipation!
Write on!
Clove
5.18.2013
From life to story
October 2004 - South Korea
It was cold. Very, very cold.
Wind was whipping my short hair around my face, an aspect that made picture-taking quite a pathetic attempt. I still remember how persistent I was in keeping a smile off my face as the camera flashed a few times, capturing the dismal moment of my father's brothers, nieces, nephews, parents, and their eccentric Korean friends in front of a Buddha-esque marble statue.
It wasn't the camera I was interested in, not even my cousins or the annoying, icy gales.
2004.
I was only six back then.
As soon as the camera was put away and the parents gathered around to consult each other concerning where we should dine that evening, I ran over to the edge of the cliff. A cliff. Yes, I was standing at the edge of South Korea on a cliff near a marble statue of Buddha-wanna-be. Far below me, kept from me only by the metal rails that I easily could have slipped through, was the Pacific Ocean.
Massive, foamy, stormy waves of pure white like wild horses in stampede. I had never seen breakers so fierce...or dark rocks so strong...
...or a girl so absolutely small and weak in comparison.
June 2010 - Lake Keowee, South Caroline
It was hot. Very, very hot.
There was a calm in the air, the sparse foliage bending around me. That familiar pattern of sapling branches swaying in the gentle breeze was probably the only thing that kept me from feeling downright sick with vertigo.
My palm was wrapped tightly around a tree's branch, and a hand latched just below mine, a pale hand belonging to Grant, my childhood friend. Kylie had already jumped off the cliff, screaming as her arms flailed before she hit the water below.
Grant looked at me; I met his brown eyes with doubt. "You go first," he prompted.
I leaned over the edge of the cliff and felt my heart ram against my chest at the sight - the joys of a daredevil. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my swimming gaze away from the quiet waters below. "Can I chicken out now?" I asked under my breath.
"No!" Grant still had the ability to laugh. "Kylie already went."
"Well, I'm not going till you go."
He shrugged in surrender, released his grasp of the tree branch, glanced down, and hurtled off the cliff. Grunting half-way through the fall, he sunk into the water a second later, emerging a few seconds after that and dog-paddling to the boat.
My turn.
2010.
I was only ten back them.
With the final words, "I hate the high dive," I jumped.
And for the first time, I really understood what it's like for time to slow down. Kylie and Grant had both been down in a matter of seconds, but in the air, first-hand, was a perspective-destroying fusion of terrifying hours spent in trying to reach the water below and seconds in the actual fall. I wanted to reach the bottom to the point of screaming as I fell, but I couldn't.
I could do nothing but let gravity take its course.
I had never known such absolute incapability to stop or change my circumstances...or such desperation to reach the water...
...or a girl so feeble that she could only endure what she had begun.
Yesterday, May 17, 2013 - Ascension Climbing
My arms are shaking, and my calves are on the verge of cramping. I find a good handhold and stop my vertical climb, allowing my trembling muscles to rest.
Eight years since I had been in SK, looking over that cliff. Four years since I had been in SC, jumping off that cliff. But the feelings haven't left me.
I know now that if I were to release my hands this instant and push off the cliff with my legs, I'll only dangle in the air, held by my faithful older brother who is belaying me fifteen feet or so below, but when I look down, I still am struck with the feeling that I'm going to be stuck in the paralyzing powerlessness of freefall.
Grabbing my next hand holds, I feel my breath increase in rate voluntarily.
...just the results of knowing true physical inability.
Pardon the partially dramatized walk-through-memory-lane.
That was just the introductory to a section of my story that I'm willing to relinquish to the public. I wanted to clarify the background emotion before I gave out the little clip of my chapter in hopes that you readers might get a better, more on-hand idea of what I mean when I say real writing is a method of conveying emotion.
This is a bit further along in the story (about half-way through) so none of it will make much sense, but as previously said, I hope you'll better understand the application of strong emotions in life to lesser emotions in a story.
Hope you enjoy. ^.^
For the nth time, Patrya fought the reflex to kick her legs out for ground. It helped to open her eyes and see the gravel beach below, to remember that there was no ground beneath her, but with one reflex dealt with, she quickly fought a new reflex--one that made her want to give Hyn a death grip in fear of falling.
She shut her eyes again and forced herself to breathe deeply.
“So why...are we going this way again?”
“It’s the fastest way to get to the harbor.” Hyn’s response was emotionless, and Patrya had the idea that he was beginning to get tired of her objections, complaints, and undignified squawks of terror.
She hesitated for what felt like an eon before venturing, “And why are we meeting at the harbor?”
Hyn fed out more rope from his complicated, unexplained pulley device that was slowly lowering them to the ground and grunted, “Your royal head has a price on it, Patrya. If I were to unclip you right here, collect your body’s remains, and bring it to the right guy, I could get bloody rich overnight.”
Patrya winced at Syne’s method of eliminating her and managed to flutter her eyes open again. A belt was attached to her waist, and a metal clip attached her to Hyn’s belt which was attached to a rather thin cable which was attached to the cliff far, far above. Below, masses of white foam were crashing against the ice-coated shore, barely visible in the moonlight.
She was suddenly very thankful that Hyn didn’t want to be rich.
“We’re trying to keep you,” Hyn continued, “away from the well-heeled folks who want that money. The rude sailors at the harbor don’t know about you. And even if they did, I’m sure they wouldn’t care. So go ahead and get it into your mind that the drunk swearers in the bar are you friends.”
“The bar? Is that where we’re--”
A gust of sea wind cut Patrya off as it pushed both her and Hyn towards the rock face and pulled them back; the ground zoomed up in focus and blurred. Gritting her teeth, Patrya shut her eyes again and wrapped her arms tightly around Hyn’s torso, finishing with, “Going?”
She didn’t have to open her eyes to know Hyn was smiling; he kept grinning like a jester anytime she showed fear or screamed which led her to believe he was either extremely rascally or a little sadist. Perhaps both. “Yes,” he finally said, “My companion Millis should be waiting there.”
Write on!
Clove
It was cold. Very, very cold.
Wind was whipping my short hair around my face, an aspect that made picture-taking quite a pathetic attempt. I still remember how persistent I was in keeping a smile off my face as the camera flashed a few times, capturing the dismal moment of my father's brothers, nieces, nephews, parents, and their eccentric Korean friends in front of a Buddha-esque marble statue.
It wasn't the camera I was interested in, not even my cousins or the annoying, icy gales.
2004.
I was only six back then.
As soon as the camera was put away and the parents gathered around to consult each other concerning where we should dine that evening, I ran over to the edge of the cliff. A cliff. Yes, I was standing at the edge of South Korea on a cliff near a marble statue of Buddha-wanna-be. Far below me, kept from me only by the metal rails that I easily could have slipped through, was the Pacific Ocean.
Massive, foamy, stormy waves of pure white like wild horses in stampede. I had never seen breakers so fierce...or dark rocks so strong...
...or a girl so absolutely small and weak in comparison.
June 2010 - Lake Keowee, South Caroline
It was hot. Very, very hot.
There was a calm in the air, the sparse foliage bending around me. That familiar pattern of sapling branches swaying in the gentle breeze was probably the only thing that kept me from feeling downright sick with vertigo.
My palm was wrapped tightly around a tree's branch, and a hand latched just below mine, a pale hand belonging to Grant, my childhood friend. Kylie had already jumped off the cliff, screaming as her arms flailed before she hit the water below.
Grant looked at me; I met his brown eyes with doubt. "You go first," he prompted.
I leaned over the edge of the cliff and felt my heart ram against my chest at the sight - the joys of a daredevil. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my swimming gaze away from the quiet waters below. "Can I chicken out now?" I asked under my breath.
"No!" Grant still had the ability to laugh. "Kylie already went."
"Well, I'm not going till you go."
He shrugged in surrender, released his grasp of the tree branch, glanced down, and hurtled off the cliff. Grunting half-way through the fall, he sunk into the water a second later, emerging a few seconds after that and dog-paddling to the boat.
My turn.
2010.
I was only ten back them.
With the final words, "I hate the high dive," I jumped.
And for the first time, I really understood what it's like for time to slow down. Kylie and Grant had both been down in a matter of seconds, but in the air, first-hand, was a perspective-destroying fusion of terrifying hours spent in trying to reach the water below and seconds in the actual fall. I wanted to reach the bottom to the point of screaming as I fell, but I couldn't.
I could do nothing but let gravity take its course.
I had never known such absolute incapability to stop or change my circumstances...or such desperation to reach the water...
...or a girl so feeble that she could only endure what she had begun.
Yesterday, May 17, 2013 - Ascension Climbing
My arms are shaking, and my calves are on the verge of cramping. I find a good handhold and stop my vertical climb, allowing my trembling muscles to rest.
Eight years since I had been in SK, looking over that cliff. Four years since I had been in SC, jumping off that cliff. But the feelings haven't left me.
I know now that if I were to release my hands this instant and push off the cliff with my legs, I'll only dangle in the air, held by my faithful older brother who is belaying me fifteen feet or so below, but when I look down, I still am struck with the feeling that I'm going to be stuck in the paralyzing powerlessness of freefall.
Grabbing my next hand holds, I feel my breath increase in rate voluntarily.
...just the results of knowing true physical inability.
~ ~ ~
Pardon the partially dramatized walk-through-memory-lane.
That was just the introductory to a section of my story that I'm willing to relinquish to the public. I wanted to clarify the background emotion before I gave out the little clip of my chapter in hopes that you readers might get a better, more on-hand idea of what I mean when I say real writing is a method of conveying emotion.
This is a bit further along in the story (about half-way through) so none of it will make much sense, but as previously said, I hope you'll better understand the application of strong emotions in life to lesser emotions in a story.
Hope you enjoy. ^.^
~ ~ ~
For the nth time, Patrya fought the reflex to kick her legs out for ground. It helped to open her eyes and see the gravel beach below, to remember that there was no ground beneath her, but with one reflex dealt with, she quickly fought a new reflex--one that made her want to give Hyn a death grip in fear of falling.
She shut her eyes again and forced herself to breathe deeply.
“So why...are we going this way again?”
“It’s the fastest way to get to the harbor.” Hyn’s response was emotionless, and Patrya had the idea that he was beginning to get tired of her objections, complaints, and undignified squawks of terror.
She hesitated for what felt like an eon before venturing, “And why are we meeting at the harbor?”
Hyn fed out more rope from his complicated, unexplained pulley device that was slowly lowering them to the ground and grunted, “Your royal head has a price on it, Patrya. If I were to unclip you right here, collect your body’s remains, and bring it to the right guy, I could get bloody rich overnight.”
Patrya winced at Syne’s method of eliminating her and managed to flutter her eyes open again. A belt was attached to her waist, and a metal clip attached her to Hyn’s belt which was attached to a rather thin cable which was attached to the cliff far, far above. Below, masses of white foam were crashing against the ice-coated shore, barely visible in the moonlight.
She was suddenly very thankful that Hyn didn’t want to be rich.
“We’re trying to keep you,” Hyn continued, “away from the well-heeled folks who want that money. The rude sailors at the harbor don’t know about you. And even if they did, I’m sure they wouldn’t care. So go ahead and get it into your mind that the drunk swearers in the bar are you friends.”
“The bar? Is that where we’re--”
A gust of sea wind cut Patrya off as it pushed both her and Hyn towards the rock face and pulled them back; the ground zoomed up in focus and blurred. Gritting her teeth, Patrya shut her eyes again and wrapped her arms tightly around Hyn’s torso, finishing with, “Going?”
She didn’t have to open her eyes to know Hyn was smiling; he kept grinning like a jester anytime she showed fear or screamed which led her to believe he was either extremely rascally or a little sadist. Perhaps both. “Yes,” he finally said, “My companion Millis should be waiting there.”
Write on!
Clove
5.16.2013
Good night, author.
Dreams. Those zany, thrilling, terrorizing phantoms.
What on earth do you do with them?
Psychologists study them, prophets interpret them, most people just laugh at them or suffer from them.
But authors keep track of them.
My dear reader, if you don't already keep a dream-journal, I highly advise that you do.
A dream journal.
What on earth do you do with one?
Two things:
1.) You record some of your main dreams. By main, I mean that ones where you wake up, and it takes you a while to get back into the real world, the ones that hold some weight, or the ones where you wake up and realize your legs are tied up in your covers, and sweat is all over your neck and lower back, and drool is running down your cheeks.
2.) You draw pictures. If you don't have the time to write out everything that happened in your dream, make a simple sketch of a scene, write a few words, and you'll remember what happened. Trust me.
So why would authors do this?
Well...
Real writing is a method to convey emotion.
I know of no better place to get thrown into an emotional-fit than in a dream.
From keeping a dream journal, I've gotten a pretty good picture of what emotions most affect me, and consequently, what emotions I can write about the easiest. Also, there have been some emotional scenes (mostly the ones including fear) where I can't find the right words. If I go to my dream journal, find a night where I dreamt of fear, I can recall that feeling and use it in my writing.
So that's what you do with dreams.
Write on!
Megan Koh
What on earth do you do with them?
Psychologists study them, prophets interpret them, most people just laugh at them or suffer from them.
But authors keep track of them.
My dear reader, if you don't already keep a dream-journal, I highly advise that you do.
A dream journal.
What on earth do you do with one?
Two things:
1.) You record some of your main dreams. By main, I mean that ones where you wake up, and it takes you a while to get back into the real world, the ones that hold some weight, or the ones where you wake up and realize your legs are tied up in your covers, and sweat is all over your neck and lower back, and drool is running down your cheeks.
2.) You draw pictures. If you don't have the time to write out everything that happened in your dream, make a simple sketch of a scene, write a few words, and you'll remember what happened. Trust me.
So why would authors do this?
Well...
Real writing is a method to convey emotion.
I know of no better place to get thrown into an emotional-fit than in a dream.
From keeping a dream journal, I've gotten a pretty good picture of what emotions most affect me, and consequently, what emotions I can write about the easiest. Also, there have been some emotional scenes (mostly the ones including fear) where I can't find the right words. If I go to my dream journal, find a night where I dreamt of fear, I can recall that feeling and use it in my writing.
So that's what you do with dreams.
Write on!
Megan Koh
5.15.2013
Read out-loud.
One Moses:
Moses.
Plural Moses:
Moseses.
Plural possessive Moses:
Moseses'.
Plural possessive Moses after 'his':
His Moseses's.
Write on!
Clove
P.S. I'm looking for adjectives, phrases, or description snippets that define the life of a formal party. Any ideas?
Moses.
Plural Moses:
Moseses.
Plural possessive Moses:
Moseses'.
Plural possessive Moses after 'his':
His Moseses's.
Write on!
Clove
P.S. I'm looking for adjectives, phrases, or description snippets that define the life of a formal party. Any ideas?
5.14.2013
Sneakpeak
My best...or debatably second best...friend-who-is-a-male owns his own blog and has posted three stories in the span of three days...here.
(Yes, I admit; he managed to scrape together something good out of that brain of his. ;) I'm kidding, just kidding. Go read them; they're worth the time, and I say that as an author, not just a friend.)
Regardless of the fact that he wrote all of them over the span of at least a year, my incessant competitive streak towards him put the thought into my head, "You're getting behind. Shouldn't you offer your readers at least a section of your story?"
And my incessant competitive streak was right.
Before you begin reading...
1.) Please understand that this section is apt to change and may not actually survive to the very end.
2.) When I was feeling more creative, I changed the name "Conner Seralia" to "Kaes Rider." Kaes because I have a Mexican friend-who-is-a-male named Kyle that I'm styling Millis after, and Rider because...
Admit it.
Everyone wants their last name to be Rider or Hunter or something cool like that. :D
3.) I'm looking for proofreaders to specifically check for accuracy in the "male-style" of writing and coherence with the language translations. If you post comments below concerning changes that need to be made, I will be much in your debt. :)
So without further ado...
~ ~ ~
Hunting
December 11, 3013
1:05 P.M.
Heat played in the air like the ratty, nighthawk street-kids back in sweltering Nicaragua, the half-naked boys who would aggressively kick apart a soiled leather ball on rocky fields until their toenails were broken and bleeding or a fight broke out.
It was violently hot. Relentless.
And obnoxious.
Millis felt another drip of sweat streak down his cheek as he was led through the dirty corridor towards Hassan Ikolvii’s office. How this guerrilla band survived in the desert heat of Southern Excellia was a mystery to him. At least in Nicaragua, most of the non-slum edifices had slight air conditioning.
Waiting while one of the men knocked on the door, Millis cast a glance around. Soiled walls, some old blood smears, dusty air vents.
Hardly soundproof.
He’d have to be quick. Quiet was out of the question.
Not a problem unless if the guards stayed in the room while Hassan interrogated him. But Millis betted against that. They had no reason aside from doubt to fear the young, unarmed man who had been caught that morning, snooping around the perimeters.
Millis quickly reviewed the knowledge of what he had found--the license plate numbers of six cars, parts of a deconstructed bomb, and the names of the two men who had finally found him in Bunker 6. Satisfied with his memory, he let the information slide back into the depths of his mind.
“Quién es el?” Who is it? The voice behind the door was low and husky, emanating from a big chest.
“Lo tenemos.” We have him.
There was the unmistakable click of a gun being loaded. “Tráigalo adentro.” Bring him in.
The door swung open with a loud creak, and Millis moved with less speed than normal to the only available seat. His guards, the two who had jumped him earlier and had taken him with his wrists cable-tied to the main building, hesitated until Hassan motioned for them to exit. They filed out, and the door slammed shut.
Not a problem.
Millis leaned back in his metal, fold-up seat, feeling his black, goth-designed t-shirt stick to his sweat-soaked back under his jacket. The guerrilla leader put on a scowl, one that seemed to cut his square face into three parts, separated by a unibrow and tight, cracked lips. He was more intimidating in real life with his piercing eyes, dirty denim jeans, and dark stubble than in the mugshots Millis had seen.
But he was human nonetheless.
And equally vulnerable.
Hassan probably saw Millis as a typical, Mexican teenager or an Excellian tourist-brat with spiked, black-died hair. Probably better to go with the latter assumption as it had been too long since Millis had conversed in Spanish, and his speaking skills were rusty at best.
Good to keep that in mind. Ignorance was his goal. He was to be a boy, one that knew nothing of Hassan’s criminal record, his successful strikes against the Excellian army, or the bomb that was slowly being formed in Bunker 3.
Millis glanced at his other assets. Desk, a machete hanging on the wall that he couldn’t get without standing and reaching for it, a set of books, and an old computer. Hassan had the pistol.
“Su nombre?” Your name?
Millis returned his attention to the leader and answered in an absent-minded tone, “I don’t speak Spanish, mister.”
Hassan grunted. “What’s your name, boy?”
“My name? Kaes. Kaes Rider.”
The man raised his eyebrows and paced so he was standing directly in front of Millis. “So...Kaes Rider...can you tell me what you were doing this morning around my bunkers?”
A smile pinned up the edges of Millis’ lips. “Yeah, I could. Am I? Not until you cut me loose--”
The last word of Millis’ response was cut off as he took a blow across the mouth. Hassan put the gun’s barrel against Millis’ bicep and growled, “You are not the one making deals, bastard.”
Millis wiped the escaped saliva on his shoulder and shrugged in annoyance. “Okay. All right. No need to get so worked up, old man. I was just hiking with my friends--”
“Friends? Where are they now?”
“Probably at the hotel if anything, but how should I know, idiot? You want me to finish or not?”
Hassan withdrew his gun and crossed his burly arms across his chest. “Finish.”
“I was dared to leap over the barbed wire. I did and realized the building was occupied. Just wanted to check the place out.” He added in a mumble, “No idea I was getting into this.”
Millis glanced up and caught sight of Hassan’s grim smile. The image made Millis mentally simper himself. The guerrilla leader could be fooled just as easily as any other human into believing a trained assassin--one that viciously defended the Excellian militia against self-dependent territories or functions such as Hassan--was nothing more than an ignorant child.
“No idea, eh, boy?”
Millis shook his head and glanced around, feigning intrigue. “What are you guys, anyway? Nuclear manufacturers or something?”
“Hah! Nuclear manufacturers, he says. No, we’re politicians, boy. Beyond your little video games devices and girlfriends.” Overly relieved to find no threat in the young man in front of him, the man snorted a laugh again and set down his gun.
Bingo.
Well, there was the kill.
But it was a drawback nonetheless, acting as an Excellian tourist. Millis had no shot of getting first-hand information from Hassan. It’d be best to get the job done and let the contingency team scour for information. After all, in the middle of a Mexican desert, there weren’t many places to hide.
No one was getting away with anything. Hassan was an independent contractor. If he knew something his gang didn’t, it’s value would be entirely detracted upon his death. No allies, no information. Hassan had built himself an island fitted for Hades.
“So what are you going to do with me, huh? Ransom money? My dad could buy this place out.”
Hasson raised his eyebrows. “I had considered that.” A dark look came over his already-venomous eyes. “But as I have no need for your father’s riqueza, I thought otherwise.”
Millis watched him reach for the gun and instantaneously thought, Play time over.
He stood.
Stood surprisingly fast in contrast to the sloth-like movements he had been using earlier.
Grabbing his chair and folding it in the process, Millis effortlessly swung it at the man’s neck. The leader ducked and shot; the bullet skid left. Using his momentary advantage of surprise, Millis kicked up, slamming his boot into Hassan’s nose and exposing his neck to the chair’s edge that Millis brought back around. Connection. Broken larynx cartilage.
The gun shot again; a dent formed in the chair. Millis leapt at the machete before Hasson could reload. With a deft snap at the wrist joint, Millis took off Hasson’s gun hand. The man choked and gripped his stumped arm. Millis returned with a backstroke and sunk the blade deep into Hasson’s neck.
The blood that splattered the walls momentarily diverted Millis’ attention; he snapped his focus back into place.
Right.
Not a problem.
Millis took a breath, watched Hasson sink to the ground, and thought, Now for the contingency team.
Withdrawing the blade, he laid it upright on the desk and cut off his zip-tied wrists. Picking up and reloading the fallen pistol with his left hand, Millis shrugged off his jacket and cut it open using the machete with his right hand. Before he could finish slicing the cloth, the door opened.
“Usted!” You! “Qué usted piensan usted es--”
Millis raised his left hand behind him and pulled the trigger.
The man fell at the doorway.
Peachy.
Quiet was kicked to the curb; Millis needed to focus on his speed.
Inside the jacket, there a black radio, a coiled wire, and earbud. He connected the three and slipped the radio into his pocket, adjusting the earbud so he could hear and be heard.
The first voice that came through was a girl’s. Faint and in the background, but still distinguishably Rea’s. The female technician affirmed, “Hyn, radio signal’s up.”
“About time.”
Millis hefted the machete and stepped over the corpse, glancing down at his watch as he re-walked the hallways. “Fourteen minutes since they found me. You couldn’t have done any better, mi amigo.”
“Fourteen minutes, my hat, Millis. Whatever. I would have come in there with you if Central had let me.”
“Nothing good went down,” Millis countered, stopping at a blind corner and shooting his gaze around the edge, “Bunch of slapping and yelling and...hm, hold on a second.”
Millis set down the machete and darted half-way out from the corner, using both hands to aim and pick off the two men who had come hurtling down the hallway with M16’s. They crumpled at point blank range, one of them still alive. As Millis advanced to the living guard and kicked his gun out of reach, he realized the two were the ones who had found him in the bunker.
“Quién son usted?” Who are you?
Millis smiled grimly as he exchanged his pistol for the assault rifle and shook his head, putting a bullet through the man’s temples.
“No le dije ya?” Didn’t I already tell you? “My name is Kaes. Kaes Rider.”
(Yes, I admit; he managed to scrape together something good out of that brain of his. ;) I'm kidding, just kidding. Go read them; they're worth the time, and I say that as an author, not just a friend.)
Regardless of the fact that he wrote all of them over the span of at least a year, my incessant competitive streak towards him put the thought into my head, "You're getting behind. Shouldn't you offer your readers at least a section of your story?"
And my incessant competitive streak was right.
Before you begin reading...
1.) Please understand that this section is apt to change and may not actually survive to the very end.
2.) When I was feeling more creative, I changed the name "Conner Seralia" to "Kaes Rider." Kaes because I have a Mexican friend-who-is-a-male named Kyle that I'm styling Millis after, and Rider because...
Admit it.
Everyone wants their last name to be Rider or Hunter or something cool like that. :D
3.) I'm looking for proofreaders to specifically check for accuracy in the "male-style" of writing and coherence with the language translations. If you post comments below concerning changes that need to be made, I will be much in your debt. :)
So without further ado...
~ ~ ~
Hunting
December 11, 3013
1:05 P.M.
Heat played in the air like the ratty, nighthawk street-kids back in sweltering Nicaragua, the half-naked boys who would aggressively kick apart a soiled leather ball on rocky fields until their toenails were broken and bleeding or a fight broke out.
It was violently hot. Relentless.
And obnoxious.
Millis felt another drip of sweat streak down his cheek as he was led through the dirty corridor towards Hassan Ikolvii’s office. How this guerrilla band survived in the desert heat of Southern Excellia was a mystery to him. At least in Nicaragua, most of the non-slum edifices had slight air conditioning.
Waiting while one of the men knocked on the door, Millis cast a glance around. Soiled walls, some old blood smears, dusty air vents.
Hardly soundproof.
He’d have to be quick. Quiet was out of the question.
Not a problem unless if the guards stayed in the room while Hassan interrogated him. But Millis betted against that. They had no reason aside from doubt to fear the young, unarmed man who had been caught that morning, snooping around the perimeters.
Millis quickly reviewed the knowledge of what he had found--the license plate numbers of six cars, parts of a deconstructed bomb, and the names of the two men who had finally found him in Bunker 6. Satisfied with his memory, he let the information slide back into the depths of his mind.
“Quién es el?” Who is it? The voice behind the door was low and husky, emanating from a big chest.
“Lo tenemos.” We have him.
There was the unmistakable click of a gun being loaded. “Tráigalo adentro.” Bring him in.
The door swung open with a loud creak, and Millis moved with less speed than normal to the only available seat. His guards, the two who had jumped him earlier and had taken him with his wrists cable-tied to the main building, hesitated until Hassan motioned for them to exit. They filed out, and the door slammed shut.
Not a problem.
Millis leaned back in his metal, fold-up seat, feeling his black, goth-designed t-shirt stick to his sweat-soaked back under his jacket. The guerrilla leader put on a scowl, one that seemed to cut his square face into three parts, separated by a unibrow and tight, cracked lips. He was more intimidating in real life with his piercing eyes, dirty denim jeans, and dark stubble than in the mugshots Millis had seen.
But he was human nonetheless.
And equally vulnerable.
Hassan probably saw Millis as a typical, Mexican teenager or an Excellian tourist-brat with spiked, black-died hair. Probably better to go with the latter assumption as it had been too long since Millis had conversed in Spanish, and his speaking skills were rusty at best.
Good to keep that in mind. Ignorance was his goal. He was to be a boy, one that knew nothing of Hassan’s criminal record, his successful strikes against the Excellian army, or the bomb that was slowly being formed in Bunker 3.
Millis glanced at his other assets. Desk, a machete hanging on the wall that he couldn’t get without standing and reaching for it, a set of books, and an old computer. Hassan had the pistol.
“Su nombre?” Your name?
Millis returned his attention to the leader and answered in an absent-minded tone, “I don’t speak Spanish, mister.”
Hassan grunted. “What’s your name, boy?”
“My name? Kaes. Kaes Rider.”
The man raised his eyebrows and paced so he was standing directly in front of Millis. “So...Kaes Rider...can you tell me what you were doing this morning around my bunkers?”
A smile pinned up the edges of Millis’ lips. “Yeah, I could. Am I? Not until you cut me loose--”
The last word of Millis’ response was cut off as he took a blow across the mouth. Hassan put the gun’s barrel against Millis’ bicep and growled, “You are not the one making deals, bastard.”
Millis wiped the escaped saliva on his shoulder and shrugged in annoyance. “Okay. All right. No need to get so worked up, old man. I was just hiking with my friends--”
“Friends? Where are they now?”
“Probably at the hotel if anything, but how should I know, idiot? You want me to finish or not?”
Hassan withdrew his gun and crossed his burly arms across his chest. “Finish.”
“I was dared to leap over the barbed wire. I did and realized the building was occupied. Just wanted to check the place out.” He added in a mumble, “No idea I was getting into this.”
Millis glanced up and caught sight of Hassan’s grim smile. The image made Millis mentally simper himself. The guerrilla leader could be fooled just as easily as any other human into believing a trained assassin--one that viciously defended the Excellian militia against self-dependent territories or functions such as Hassan--was nothing more than an ignorant child.
“No idea, eh, boy?”
Millis shook his head and glanced around, feigning intrigue. “What are you guys, anyway? Nuclear manufacturers or something?”
“Hah! Nuclear manufacturers, he says. No, we’re politicians, boy. Beyond your little video games devices and girlfriends.” Overly relieved to find no threat in the young man in front of him, the man snorted a laugh again and set down his gun.
Bingo.
Well, there was the kill.
But it was a drawback nonetheless, acting as an Excellian tourist. Millis had no shot of getting first-hand information from Hassan. It’d be best to get the job done and let the contingency team scour for information. After all, in the middle of a Mexican desert, there weren’t many places to hide.
No one was getting away with anything. Hassan was an independent contractor. If he knew something his gang didn’t, it’s value would be entirely detracted upon his death. No allies, no information. Hassan had built himself an island fitted for Hades.
“So what are you going to do with me, huh? Ransom money? My dad could buy this place out.”
Hasson raised his eyebrows. “I had considered that.” A dark look came over his already-venomous eyes. “But as I have no need for your father’s riqueza, I thought otherwise.”
Millis watched him reach for the gun and instantaneously thought, Play time over.
He stood.
Stood surprisingly fast in contrast to the sloth-like movements he had been using earlier.
Grabbing his chair and folding it in the process, Millis effortlessly swung it at the man’s neck. The leader ducked and shot; the bullet skid left. Using his momentary advantage of surprise, Millis kicked up, slamming his boot into Hassan’s nose and exposing his neck to the chair’s edge that Millis brought back around. Connection. Broken larynx cartilage.
The gun shot again; a dent formed in the chair. Millis leapt at the machete before Hasson could reload. With a deft snap at the wrist joint, Millis took off Hasson’s gun hand. The man choked and gripped his stumped arm. Millis returned with a backstroke and sunk the blade deep into Hasson’s neck.
The blood that splattered the walls momentarily diverted Millis’ attention; he snapped his focus back into place.
Right.
Not a problem.
Millis took a breath, watched Hasson sink to the ground, and thought, Now for the contingency team.
Withdrawing the blade, he laid it upright on the desk and cut off his zip-tied wrists. Picking up and reloading the fallen pistol with his left hand, Millis shrugged off his jacket and cut it open using the machete with his right hand. Before he could finish slicing the cloth, the door opened.
“Usted!” You! “Qué usted piensan usted es--”
Millis raised his left hand behind him and pulled the trigger.
The man fell at the doorway.
Peachy.
Quiet was kicked to the curb; Millis needed to focus on his speed.
Inside the jacket, there a black radio, a coiled wire, and earbud. He connected the three and slipped the radio into his pocket, adjusting the earbud so he could hear and be heard.
The first voice that came through was a girl’s. Faint and in the background, but still distinguishably Rea’s. The female technician affirmed, “Hyn, radio signal’s up.”
“About time.”
Millis hefted the machete and stepped over the corpse, glancing down at his watch as he re-walked the hallways. “Fourteen minutes since they found me. You couldn’t have done any better, mi amigo.”
“Fourteen minutes, my hat, Millis. Whatever. I would have come in there with you if Central had let me.”
“Nothing good went down,” Millis countered, stopping at a blind corner and shooting his gaze around the edge, “Bunch of slapping and yelling and...hm, hold on a second.”
Millis set down the machete and darted half-way out from the corner, using both hands to aim and pick off the two men who had come hurtling down the hallway with M16’s. They crumpled at point blank range, one of them still alive. As Millis advanced to the living guard and kicked his gun out of reach, he realized the two were the ones who had found him in the bunker.
“Quién son usted?” Who are you?
Millis smiled grimly as he exchanged his pistol for the assault rifle and shook his head, putting a bullet through the man’s temples.
“No le dije ya?” Didn’t I already tell you? “My name is Kaes. Kaes Rider.”
5.11.2013
Show V.S. Tell
Since I skipped Kindergarten, show-and-tell was a foreign concept until I went into 8th grade Comp (the best class in my entire life--awesome teacher, awesome students, awesome homework) where I was introduced to the pros and cons of writing show-and-tell.
TELL: A direct narrative of surroundings.
The delicate, white blossoms of the young Bradford Pears danced in the garden, instilling their aroma around the clear mountain air. Reflecting the gray and blue dawn, a silent pool's surface was broken by the bathing of a brown sparrow. Deeper in the pool swam silver koi fish, happily waving their fins.
SHOW: A indirect demonstration of surroundings.
Eriana watched a sparrow dip his head into the silent pool. She smiled as it chirped and flew off, her attention still on the pond and its silver koi fish who were happily waving their fins underneath the gray-bluish surface. It all seemed fitting for such a clear morning, the way the delicate, white blossoms of the young Bradford Pears danced in the garden, instilling their aroma around the clear mountain air. Along with herself, everything and everyone was waking.
PROS OF TELL:
Obviously, you can reach for a more artistic voice if you choose to tell your reader about his surroundings instead of showing them to him. Also, this form provides a breather between too much dialogue or action. In today's culture, telling is generally deemed a naive tactic, but J.R.R. Tolkein can be found flinging around huge paragraphs of description in a direct narrative voice.
PROS OF SHOW:
If you're seeking more of a less-classical voice, as in, more of the Katniss Everdeen action-y voice, you'll definitely want to use this form to keep the flow of movement going while still incorporating scenery. Plus, telling (for most people) takes twice as long as showing, so you'll find yourself making the most of your time
CONS OF TELL:
When put in the wrong place (e.g. in the middle of a fight scene, in the middle of a romance scene, and occasionally in the middle of dialogue) these tell-paragraphs get absolutely lost.
I won't lie.
Most of the time, when I see a tell-paragraph that is interrupting the flow of action, I skip it.
So above all:
Do not put tell-paragraphs in the wrong places.
Also, for many thrill-readers like myself, too many of these makes a book unreadable. It's not necessary to write down a scene to the square centimeter; the fun of reading is in the imagination, so let your reader imagine.
CONS OF SHOW:
Show-paragraphs lack bold, artistic flavor. Also:
To properly execute a show-paragraph, it's necessary to match up feelings and scenery.
What I mean when I say this, is that if your character is feeling mad, it's not the best time to put in a show-paragraph about the chirping birds and beautiful flowers. I'm not going as far as to say that anytime your character is sad, a sudden popcorn shower has to appear. (In fact, authors often use the opposite to reach a sense of irony. "Eriana felt bitter at the bright, beautiful noon when her heart was in turmoil.") However, if things don't match up right, leave the paragraph out or change your setting.
Write on!
Clove
P.S. Want to hear a song that I love to write to?
Don't feel bad; I just keep it on loop too. :)
TELL: A direct narrative of surroundings.
The delicate, white blossoms of the young Bradford Pears danced in the garden, instilling their aroma around the clear mountain air. Reflecting the gray and blue dawn, a silent pool's surface was broken by the bathing of a brown sparrow. Deeper in the pool swam silver koi fish, happily waving their fins.
SHOW: A indirect demonstration of surroundings.
Eriana watched a sparrow dip his head into the silent pool. She smiled as it chirped and flew off, her attention still on the pond and its silver koi fish who were happily waving their fins underneath the gray-bluish surface. It all seemed fitting for such a clear morning, the way the delicate, white blossoms of the young Bradford Pears danced in the garden, instilling their aroma around the clear mountain air. Along with herself, everything and everyone was waking.
PROS OF TELL:
Obviously, you can reach for a more artistic voice if you choose to tell your reader about his surroundings instead of showing them to him. Also, this form provides a breather between too much dialogue or action. In today's culture, telling is generally deemed a naive tactic, but J.R.R. Tolkein can be found flinging around huge paragraphs of description in a direct narrative voice.
PROS OF SHOW:
If you're seeking more of a less-classical voice, as in, more of the Katniss Everdeen action-y voice, you'll definitely want to use this form to keep the flow of movement going while still incorporating scenery. Plus, telling (for most people) takes twice as long as showing, so you'll find yourself making the most of your time
CONS OF TELL:
When put in the wrong place (e.g. in the middle of a fight scene, in the middle of a romance scene, and occasionally in the middle of dialogue) these tell-paragraphs get absolutely lost.
I won't lie.
Most of the time, when I see a tell-paragraph that is interrupting the flow of action, I skip it.
So above all:
Do not put tell-paragraphs in the wrong places.
Also, for many thrill-readers like myself, too many of these makes a book unreadable. It's not necessary to write down a scene to the square centimeter; the fun of reading is in the imagination, so let your reader imagine.
CONS OF SHOW:
Show-paragraphs lack bold, artistic flavor. Also:
To properly execute a show-paragraph, it's necessary to match up feelings and scenery.
What I mean when I say this, is that if your character is feeling mad, it's not the best time to put in a show-paragraph about the chirping birds and beautiful flowers. I'm not going as far as to say that anytime your character is sad, a sudden popcorn shower has to appear. (In fact, authors often use the opposite to reach a sense of irony. "Eriana felt bitter at the bright, beautiful noon when her heart was in turmoil.") However, if things don't match up right, leave the paragraph out or change your setting.
Write on!
Clove
P.S. Want to hear a song that I love to write to?
5.09.2013
How to write on...
Sometimes, you get those days (or weeks) where everything seems to go wrong.
For me, I had a handful of "friends" steal my shoes and hide them, refraining to give them back until I was late for an event. The space button on my keyboard broke the same day I had to write two 1000 word essays (on Cinncinatus, the Roman dictator, and my opinion on Futurist and Preterist eschatological views...fun). I've had a continual stomach ache for some unidentifiable reason, and all the broth I've been drinking to help said sickness has only scorched the taste buds off my tongue.
So how do you "write on" when life's a wreck?
Don't forget what real writing is: a method to convey emotion.
If you're like me and your day has been long and hard and exhausting and frustrating, there is no better time to write than now. Don't feel obligated to press on in your story either. (That generally ends up in a bunch of characters spontaneously dying a bloody death. ;))
A short memo on a slip of paper from the trash about how your feel is certain to come in handy later on. Plus, it's practice in expressing intricate, realistic feelings; when feelings match writing, the writing becomes n times more expressive.
So the next time you're feeling peaceful (thanks to the quiet rain outside and lemon-honey tea), and you want to sit down to write a scene which you realize is one where your character is throwing an angry tantrum, you'll have a place to go to find the right emotions.
Write on!
...even when the North Koreans are invading outside, your pet invisible pink rhinoceros is charging, and all you want to do is tear your hair out... ;)
Clove
For me, I had a handful of "friends" steal my shoes and hide them, refraining to give them back until I was late for an event. The space button on my keyboard broke the same day I had to write two 1000 word essays (on Cinncinatus, the Roman dictator, and my opinion on Futurist and Preterist eschatological views...fun). I've had a continual stomach ache for some unidentifiable reason, and all the broth I've been drinking to help said sickness has only scorched the taste buds off my tongue.
So how do you "write on" when life's a wreck?
Don't forget what real writing is: a method to convey emotion.
If you're like me and your day has been long and hard and exhausting and frustrating, there is no better time to write than now. Don't feel obligated to press on in your story either. (That generally ends up in a bunch of characters spontaneously dying a bloody death. ;))
A short memo on a slip of paper from the trash about how your feel is certain to come in handy later on. Plus, it's practice in expressing intricate, realistic feelings; when feelings match writing, the writing becomes n times more expressive.
So the next time you're feeling peaceful (thanks to the quiet rain outside and lemon-honey tea), and you want to sit down to write a scene which you realize is one where your character is throwing an angry tantrum, you'll have a place to go to find the right emotions.
Write on!
...even when the North Koreans are invading outside, your pet invisible pink rhinoceros is charging, and all you want to do is tear your hair out... ;)
Clove
5.08.2013
Your humble protagonists!
Well...the Lord was not willing that I would come back yesterday evening.
But here I am as promised! Along with me come the three, largest protagonists in my story: a female nobility, a female commoner, and a male assassin.
--Name: Pleibea Nomn
--Name symbolism: Pleibea is from the Latin word 'plebeius' meaning 'the common people.' The English dictionary also has the word 'plebeian' meaning 'a member of the lower social classes.' Pleibea's last name is reminiscent of the English word 'commoner.'
--Age: 16
--Appearance: Chocolate, frequently pony-tailed hair; clear brown eyes; high cheeks; un-chapped lips; tan skin. A word associated with her is 'fox.'
--Attitude: Makes choices; passionate; seeks the present win for herself
--Nationality: American
--(And for all you video gamers who know what I'm nerding about...) VG role: DPS
--Name: Patrya Starr
--Name symbolism: Patrya is from the Latin word 'patricius' meaning 'having a noble father.' The English dictionary also has the word 'patrician' meaning 'an aristocrat.' Patrya's last name...well, I'm not being too ambiguous. :)
--Age: 17
--Appearance: Navy blue, frequently let-down hair; bright blue eyes; small nose; bold, blue lips; pale skin. A word associated with her is 'night.'
--Attitude: Sensible; strategic; seeks the future win of the team
--Nationality: American
--VG role: Healer
--Name: Conner Seralia/Millis
--Name symbolism: Conner is my next-door neighbor; Seralia is a Spanish last name; I was feeling pretty uncreative when I decided I needed him. Millis is the name everyone but his enemies calls him. (Almost like Rick Riordan's Perseus Jackson.) Millis is from the Latin word 'miles' meaning 'soldier.'
--Age: 18
--Appearance: Black spiked hair; black eyes; strong, sharp nose; thin lips; strong jaw line; weathered, tan skin. As I'm still messing around with Millis, I have yet to find a good word associated with him.
--Attitude: Dispassionate, naturally a leader, stoic
--Nationality: Mexican
--VG role: Tank
As for what I'll be doing with these friends of mine, *evil laugh* you'll have to wait and see.
But I do want to point out an important relationship between my characters and your own writing career:
You can use the basic character set-up--the DPS, Healer, and Tank--and have most all "needed" characters covered.
Often times, when you write a story, you begin to realize half-way through with it that you need more protagonists. However, using the DPS, Healer, and Tank character profiles eliminates a lot of that "need."
The DPS is often (but not always) loud, humorous, and occasionally obnoxious; he contributes to his team by leadership and can be considered the 'beauty.'
The Healer is often (again, not always) the quiet, intelligent, patient member of the team who heals either emotional or physical wounds throughout the story. He can be considered the 'brains.'
The Tank is frequently stereotyped as clumsy, uncertain, and geeky or stoic, calculating, and cold, but he is always the one dealing the hits in a fight. The Tank is the 'brawns.'
Want examples?
The Percy Jackson series (Rick Riordan) - Percy is the DPS, Grover is the Healer, Annabeth is the Tank.
Full Metal Alchemist (for you anime fans) - Edward is the DPS, Winrey is the Healer, Al is the Tank.
The Twilight trilogy (Stephanie Meyer) - Bella is the DPS, Edward is the Healer, Jacob is the Tank.
Lord of the Rings (the movies more than the books) - Legolas is the DPS, Aragorn is the Healer, Gimli is the Tank.
So if you've always wanted to write a story but don't know how to start, picking characters is often a great place to begin. And if you create characters out of the above three profiles, you're sure to cover all your story's needs.
Write on!
Clove
But here I am as promised! Along with me come the three, largest protagonists in my story: a female nobility, a female commoner, and a male assassin.
--Name: Pleibea Nomn
--Name symbolism: Pleibea is from the Latin word 'plebeius' meaning 'the common people.' The English dictionary also has the word 'plebeian' meaning 'a member of the lower social classes.' Pleibea's last name is reminiscent of the English word 'commoner.'
--Age: 16
--Appearance: Chocolate, frequently pony-tailed hair; clear brown eyes; high cheeks; un-chapped lips; tan skin. A word associated with her is 'fox.'
--Attitude: Makes choices; passionate; seeks the present win for herself
--Nationality: American
--(And for all you video gamers who know what I'm nerding about...) VG role: DPS
--Name: Patrya Starr
--Name symbolism: Patrya is from the Latin word 'patricius' meaning 'having a noble father.' The English dictionary also has the word 'patrician' meaning 'an aristocrat.' Patrya's last name...well, I'm not being too ambiguous. :)
--Age: 17
--Appearance: Navy blue, frequently let-down hair; bright blue eyes; small nose; bold, blue lips; pale skin. A word associated with her is 'night.'
--Attitude: Sensible; strategic; seeks the future win of the team
--Nationality: American
--VG role: Healer
--Name: Conner Seralia/Millis
--Name symbolism: Conner is my next-door neighbor; Seralia is a Spanish last name; I was feeling pretty uncreative when I decided I needed him. Millis is the name everyone but his enemies calls him. (Almost like Rick Riordan's Perseus Jackson.) Millis is from the Latin word 'miles' meaning 'soldier.'
--Age: 18
--Appearance: Black spiked hair; black eyes; strong, sharp nose; thin lips; strong jaw line; weathered, tan skin. As I'm still messing around with Millis, I have yet to find a good word associated with him.
--Attitude: Dispassionate, naturally a leader, stoic
--Nationality: Mexican
--VG role: Tank
As for what I'll be doing with these friends of mine, *evil laugh* you'll have to wait and see.
But I do want to point out an important relationship between my characters and your own writing career:
You can use the basic character set-up--the DPS, Healer, and Tank--and have most all "needed" characters covered.
Often times, when you write a story, you begin to realize half-way through with it that you need more protagonists. However, using the DPS, Healer, and Tank character profiles eliminates a lot of that "need."
The DPS is often (but not always) loud, humorous, and occasionally obnoxious; he contributes to his team by leadership and can be considered the 'beauty.'
The Healer is often (again, not always) the quiet, intelligent, patient member of the team who heals either emotional or physical wounds throughout the story. He can be considered the 'brains.'
The Tank is frequently stereotyped as clumsy, uncertain, and geeky or stoic, calculating, and cold, but he is always the one dealing the hits in a fight. The Tank is the 'brawns.'
Want examples?
The Percy Jackson series (Rick Riordan) - Percy is the DPS, Grover is the Healer, Annabeth is the Tank.
Full Metal Alchemist (for you anime fans) - Edward is the DPS, Winrey is the Healer, Al is the Tank.
The Twilight trilogy (Stephanie Meyer) - Bella is the DPS, Edward is the Healer, Jacob is the Tank.
Lord of the Rings (the movies more than the books) - Legolas is the DPS, Aragorn is the Healer, Gimli is the Tank.
So if you've always wanted to write a story but don't know how to start, picking characters is often a great place to begin. And if you create characters out of the above three profiles, you're sure to cover all your story's needs.
Write on!
Clove
5.07.2013
A NEW story unfolds...
Okay, okay.
I know a couple of you know it.
I also am quite aware that I'm sticking out like a sore thumb, asking every male author I know to give me his story.
And yes, you, my faithful fans, have won at last; I have been pestered to the point of resignation.
So here you go:
I officially am writing a new story.
What does this mean specifically?
Two simple things:
1.) Stop bothering me. Please. I am virtually on my knees.
*gets on knees and laughs and climbs back into seat to keep typing*
Honestly, it's really difficult to write well when you have dozens of people clamoring to see what you're doing, and, needless to say, all the clamoring isn't going to get my writing out any faster. I apologize that I'm such a perfectionist, but look on the bright side of it:
Virgil, the Roman who wrote the epic poem the Aeneid, only squeezed out two and a half lines every day for twenty years.
2.) While the actually story won't be out for quiet a good while, my outline, character profiles, and thoughts will be blogged for the public. Also, if I'm struggling in a certain chapter, I might post it here to see if you all have any critics or comments to make.
Sneak-peek-esque.
3.) Often, I'm in need of assistance in my writing, so if I ask you a question pertaining to a certain plot hole I'm trying to fill, please answer in the comments box below.
Your help will definitely speed up the writing process. :)
That announcement aside, here are two other things you'd also like to know:
1.) In my story, I'm writing as a female nobility, a female commoner, and a male assassin. The reason why I've been asking for males' stories is because after two pages of writing as Millis, my assassin, I realized...
Well...I just can't write like a guy.
I've got an older brother, so I know, in a sense, how they function, but the voice was just never right. My solution was to soak myself in the voices of males and see if I could learn how to write like them off of their stories. So special thanks, Michael, Daniel, Stockton, Pascal, Samuel, and Ted for all of your inspiration. It has definitely helped. :)
2.) As for where I am now, I have the one-page prologue perfected and completed. (The thirty-eight other pages from various chapters are hardly relevant. x))
I'll be back this evening, Lord willing, to put up some character profiles.
Write on!
Clove
I know a couple of you know it.
I also am quite aware that I'm sticking out like a sore thumb, asking every male author I know to give me his story.
And yes, you, my faithful fans, have won at last; I have been pestered to the point of resignation.
So here you go:
I officially am writing a new story.
What does this mean specifically?
Two simple things:
1.) Stop bothering me. Please. I am virtually on my knees.
*gets on knees and laughs and climbs back into seat to keep typing*
Honestly, it's really difficult to write well when you have dozens of people clamoring to see what you're doing, and, needless to say, all the clamoring isn't going to get my writing out any faster. I apologize that I'm such a perfectionist, but look on the bright side of it:
Virgil, the Roman who wrote the epic poem the Aeneid, only squeezed out two and a half lines every day for twenty years.
2.) While the actually story won't be out for quiet a good while, my outline, character profiles, and thoughts will be blogged for the public. Also, if I'm struggling in a certain chapter, I might post it here to see if you all have any critics or comments to make.
Sneak-peek-esque.
3.) Often, I'm in need of assistance in my writing, so if I ask you a question pertaining to a certain plot hole I'm trying to fill, please answer in the comments box below.
Your help will definitely speed up the writing process. :)
That announcement aside, here are two other things you'd also like to know:
1.) In my story, I'm writing as a female nobility, a female commoner, and a male assassin. The reason why I've been asking for males' stories is because after two pages of writing as Millis, my assassin, I realized...
Well...I just can't write like a guy.
I've got an older brother, so I know, in a sense, how they function, but the voice was just never right. My solution was to soak myself in the voices of males and see if I could learn how to write like them off of their stories. So special thanks, Michael, Daniel, Stockton, Pascal, Samuel, and Ted for all of your inspiration. It has definitely helped. :)
2.) As for where I am now, I have the one-page prologue perfected and completed. (The thirty-eight other pages from various chapters are hardly relevant. x))
I'll be back this evening, Lord willing, to put up some character profiles.
Write on!
Clove
5.06.2013
Why writing?
I'm frequently told I'm a geek.
I have glasses, I'm Asian, I play piano and violin, and even more: I enjoy writing.
"Writing? You like writing?"
Yes, I like writing.
Actually, no, I don't.
I love writing.
In a sad, sad world where teenagers use lol's, rofl's, and ttyl's in copious amounts, honest, powerful writing has become hard to find. Some can be found hiding from this by resorting to the classics--J.R.R. Tolkein, C.S. Lewis, or Shakespeare. Others conform. Others leave literature and writing in the dust.
But a remnant renew and refresh, adapting to the needs of jaded readers, by writing from their own culture with their own experiences. These are the authors that soar.
Among such authors can be found Suzanne Collins, who wrote the Hunger Games series, J.K. Rowling, who wrote the Harry Potter series, and Stephanie Meyer, who wrote the Twilight series. Each of the aforementioned ladies experienced a life of their own and wrote down their fierce emotions into a web of characters.
That is what real writing is. Not a mandatory subject from school, not a simple mode of communication, not just another word in a dictionary. No...
Real writing is a way to convey emotion.
I mean, think about it. How many hairs did you pull when (SPOILER) you realized Quirrell was the bad guy, not Snape in the Sorcerer's Stone? And how many tears did you cry when (SPOILER) Rue was killed? How many more when Finnick was killed? How many more when Prim was killed? How badly did you want to go find you life partner when you saw the struggle of love and fear enfold between Bella and Edward?
That was emotion, not mere words.
That is also why I love writing.
It's not a task.
It's an adventure!
God gave us a complex arrangement of opinions and presuppositions; He gives us trials and gives us blessings; we feel both bad and good; we love to be heard, to be listened to, and I shout my messages, my emotions, my life-story off the wings of my words.
Write on!
Clove
I have glasses, I'm Asian, I play piano and violin, and even more: I enjoy writing.
"Writing? You like writing?"
Yes, I like writing.
Actually, no, I don't.
I love writing.
In a sad, sad world where teenagers use lol's, rofl's, and ttyl's in copious amounts, honest, powerful writing has become hard to find. Some can be found hiding from this by resorting to the classics--J.R.R. Tolkein, C.S. Lewis, or Shakespeare. Others conform. Others leave literature and writing in the dust.
But a remnant renew and refresh, adapting to the needs of jaded readers, by writing from their own culture with their own experiences. These are the authors that soar.
Among such authors can be found Suzanne Collins, who wrote the Hunger Games series, J.K. Rowling, who wrote the Harry Potter series, and Stephanie Meyer, who wrote the Twilight series. Each of the aforementioned ladies experienced a life of their own and wrote down their fierce emotions into a web of characters.
That is what real writing is. Not a mandatory subject from school, not a simple mode of communication, not just another word in a dictionary. No...
Real writing is a way to convey emotion.
I mean, think about it. How many hairs did you pull when (SPOILER) you realized Quirrell was the bad guy, not Snape in the Sorcerer's Stone? And how many tears did you cry when (SPOILER) Rue was killed? How many more when Finnick was killed? How many more when Prim was killed? How badly did you want to go find you life partner when you saw the struggle of love and fear enfold between Bella and Edward?
That was emotion, not mere words.
That is also why I love writing.
It's not a task.
It's an adventure!
God gave us a complex arrangement of opinions and presuppositions; He gives us trials and gives us blessings; we feel both bad and good; we love to be heard, to be listened to, and I shout my messages, my emotions, my life-story off the wings of my words.
Write on!
Clove
A Short Prologue
Welcome to The Wings of My Words!
Most of you know me as Clove, the co-blogger of The True Spice of Life. While I like to leave that blog for my personal life and spiritual sermonettes, this blog will focus on the joys and powers of words.
Hope you enjoy!
Most of you know me as Clove, the co-blogger of The True Spice of Life. While I like to leave that blog for my personal life and spiritual sermonettes, this blog will focus on the joys and powers of words.
Hope you enjoy!
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