Inspiration and a week off from work are two wonderful tools that allowed me to finish a book this week. It was an old story that I revamped and made mo' betta. It's a lot more interesting now. I even have a starting idea for a sequel. It needs a name, though, so if anyone would like to read it and let me know if you have a name for it, I'd appreciate that.
Here's a few key points...
Girl in college to be a journalist
Witnesses drug deal
Meets Narc. detective
All the while, she is becoming friends with a local band with drama of their own
In other words, it's a mystery/detective thing with a spin (this girl is into the local music scene and not your average reporter...)
Let me know if you're interested in reviewing it for me and maybe if you have a title...?
Comment or email me if you're interested.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Another Sample
Here is another sample of my writing. This is all me--no co-writers. Please comment! Let me know if this interests you. I can email you the chapters I have so far. This book is almost done, but I need help deciding how it should end. Comments are welcome!
“Come, Duncan!” he called to his eldest, encouraging him to lead the others and hurry them along. “We’ve a lot to do, and not enough sunlight.” Why hadn’t he left the girls with one of the women at the dun? They were only a hindrance to him, and he knew they would do nothing but complain while out in the hills. They were further than they had ever been from home, and he knew the girls wouldn’t like that.
The children caught up on their animals, and went on to follow their father down the hill to a stream at the base of the hill. Earnan got off his horse and squatted down by the stream. He looked downstream to the wooded area and looked at some deer tracks in the grass.
“Duncan, Taran, Nevin! Look at this!” the father instructed. The boys got off their animals and squatted down near their father.
“What is it, Da?” the youngest of his boys, Nevin, asked. At four, he was eager to learn how to track and shoot. Nevin’s sandy hair fell into his face, hiding his bright blue eyes. He moved the hair out of his way and inspected where his father was pointing.
“A deer,” Earnan answered. “He’s headed into the woods.”
“Are ye sure it’s a buck, Da?” Duncan referred to the masculine pronoun his father had used. Duncan, sixteen, and his brother Taran, twelve, had been hunting and learning to fight for a few years now, but they still had much to learn from their warrior-Rígh father. They looked similar in all except height. Both were slender, but strong, especially for their age, with strong features, like their father. They also possessed the same sandy brown hair that Nevin had; again a trait received from their father.
“How old do you think he is?” Aileen asked, causing her brothers and father to look back at her in question. She was not there to learn to hunt. She was there to simply wait for them to come home. When she got no answer, Aileen raised her eyebrows at her family. Earnan rolled his eyes and sighed, turning back to the stream. Aileen took her two-year-old sister, Nessa, off the small mare they had ridden and set her on the ground before pulling her own bright copper hair into a bun, keeping it in place with a bronze decorated pin. She watched the males of the family go off into the woods with their spears and bows and arrows, feeling forgotten and useless. Nessa played with some leaves and sticks nearby, and Aileen simply waited.
At nearly sundown, the men came back, carrying a small buck, tied up with ropes. Aileen gathered her sister up in her arms and went to the horse. When the men were loaded and ready, she followed them towards home. There was not enough light to bring them all the way home, so they built a fire in the valley and set up camp.
Dinner was late that night, as Earnan had to prepare the buck with only a little help from Duncan. Aileen was pulling her bright red hair back into a bun again (since the previous one had been pulled out by Nessa) when Taran informed her that Da wanted her.
“Yes, Da?” she said, taking a seat on a tree stump near the fire where the deer was cooking. At eleven, Aileen was already quite the lady of the house. When her mother died giving birth to Nessa, she immediately had to fulfill the role of mother, helping her father to raise the younger ones as best she could.
“Aileen, your… question got me thinking,” Earnan began. Duncan, who was standing nearby, glanced up and listened.
“Aye?” she responded.
“You have quite a bit of responsibility on your shoulders, girl,” he continued. “But I also realize that you are able to handle a lot. You’re a very strong girl.”
“Thank you,” she said, wondering where the conversation was going.
“You ought to be strong, being Ríbhinn and all. Anyhow, this isn’t easy to say,” Earnan went on, shifting uncomfortably as he looked at his daughter’s small frame. “I think you should learn to defend yourself. We’ve heard of the Romans taking over whole towns along the border in the south, and we don’t know if they will continue to move north, towards us.”
“Da, that was years ago—”
“And it’s been going on in Alba alone for over ten years! Britannia was defeated many years ago—the Romans will be very hard to defeat!” Earnan exclaimed. “You are Ríbhinn of our tribe, Aileen. If something ever happened to your brothers and I, I want to at least give you a fighting chance at survival.”
Aileen hung her head at this morbid notion.
“And I want you to teach Nessa, when she’s old enough,” he added.
Aileen stared at her father blankly. What was she to say?
“You already have a curiosity for hunting and things outside the home, where your usual duties are, but I want you to learn more.” He paused, looking into her light blue eyes. “You deserve more of a chance than what you’ve got now.”
Alba, North of Britannia: 90 AD
Rígh Earnan of the Luirg tribe of Alba sat on his horse, waiting for his children to catch up. He looked at the group, following their father from a distance. The gods had blessed him with three sons and two daughters before his wife had died. He wanted to teach the boys to hunt, but the girls were much too young to be left alone. At the top of the hill, Earnan sighed and looked up at the cloudy sky. The overcast heavens above him nearly matched his gray head and beard, which he stroked thoughtfully as he looked down at the ground and spotted something of interest.
Rígh Earnan of the Luirg tribe of Alba sat on his horse, waiting for his children to catch up. He looked at the group, following their father from a distance. The gods had blessed him with three sons and two daughters before his wife had died. He wanted to teach the boys to hunt, but the girls were much too young to be left alone. At the top of the hill, Earnan sighed and looked up at the cloudy sky. The overcast heavens above him nearly matched his gray head and beard, which he stroked thoughtfully as he looked down at the ground and spotted something of interest.
“Come, Duncan!” he called to his eldest, encouraging him to lead the others and hurry them along. “We’ve a lot to do, and not enough sunlight.” Why hadn’t he left the girls with one of the women at the dun? They were only a hindrance to him, and he knew they would do nothing but complain while out in the hills. They were further than they had ever been from home, and he knew the girls wouldn’t like that.
The children caught up on their animals, and went on to follow their father down the hill to a stream at the base of the hill. Earnan got off his horse and squatted down by the stream. He looked downstream to the wooded area and looked at some deer tracks in the grass.
“Duncan, Taran, Nevin! Look at this!” the father instructed. The boys got off their animals and squatted down near their father.
“What is it, Da?” the youngest of his boys, Nevin, asked. At four, he was eager to learn how to track and shoot. Nevin’s sandy hair fell into his face, hiding his bright blue eyes. He moved the hair out of his way and inspected where his father was pointing.
“A deer,” Earnan answered. “He’s headed into the woods.”
“Are ye sure it’s a buck, Da?” Duncan referred to the masculine pronoun his father had used. Duncan, sixteen, and his brother Taran, twelve, had been hunting and learning to fight for a few years now, but they still had much to learn from their warrior-Rígh father. They looked similar in all except height. Both were slender, but strong, especially for their age, with strong features, like their father. They also possessed the same sandy brown hair that Nevin had; again a trait received from their father.
“How old do you think he is?” Aileen asked, causing her brothers and father to look back at her in question. She was not there to learn to hunt. She was there to simply wait for them to come home. When she got no answer, Aileen raised her eyebrows at her family. Earnan rolled his eyes and sighed, turning back to the stream. Aileen took her two-year-old sister, Nessa, off the small mare they had ridden and set her on the ground before pulling her own bright copper hair into a bun, keeping it in place with a bronze decorated pin. She watched the males of the family go off into the woods with their spears and bows and arrows, feeling forgotten and useless. Nessa played with some leaves and sticks nearby, and Aileen simply waited.
At nearly sundown, the men came back, carrying a small buck, tied up with ropes. Aileen gathered her sister up in her arms and went to the horse. When the men were loaded and ready, she followed them towards home. There was not enough light to bring them all the way home, so they built a fire in the valley and set up camp.
Dinner was late that night, as Earnan had to prepare the buck with only a little help from Duncan. Aileen was pulling her bright red hair back into a bun again (since the previous one had been pulled out by Nessa) when Taran informed her that Da wanted her.
“Yes, Da?” she said, taking a seat on a tree stump near the fire where the deer was cooking. At eleven, Aileen was already quite the lady of the house. When her mother died giving birth to Nessa, she immediately had to fulfill the role of mother, helping her father to raise the younger ones as best she could.
“Aileen, your… question got me thinking,” Earnan began. Duncan, who was standing nearby, glanced up and listened.
“Aye?” she responded.
“You have quite a bit of responsibility on your shoulders, girl,” he continued. “But I also realize that you are able to handle a lot. You’re a very strong girl.”
“Thank you,” she said, wondering where the conversation was going.
“You ought to be strong, being Ríbhinn and all. Anyhow, this isn’t easy to say,” Earnan went on, shifting uncomfortably as he looked at his daughter’s small frame. “I think you should learn to defend yourself. We’ve heard of the Romans taking over whole towns along the border in the south, and we don’t know if they will continue to move north, towards us.”
“Da, that was years ago—”
“And it’s been going on in Alba alone for over ten years! Britannia was defeated many years ago—the Romans will be very hard to defeat!” Earnan exclaimed. “You are Ríbhinn of our tribe, Aileen. If something ever happened to your brothers and I, I want to at least give you a fighting chance at survival.”
Aileen hung her head at this morbid notion.
“And I want you to teach Nessa, when she’s old enough,” he added.
Aileen stared at her father blankly. What was she to say?
“You already have a curiosity for hunting and things outside the home, where your usual duties are, but I want you to learn more.” He paused, looking into her light blue eyes. “You deserve more of a chance than what you’ve got now.”
The Troubles of Writing
I have always been a writer. Before I wanted it to be my career, I wrote for fun. My writing has matured (I hope!) from when I was a kid, and the struggles I deal with have also matured.
For instance, it is nearly impossible for a writer to get signed onto a publishing company without already being published. This means paying for a POD (Publish On Demand) or going to lots of conferences, or contributing to collaborated works, such as "Chicken Soup" books (like my former teacher and current mentor has done), or simply hoping and praying that someday, someone will get a hold of something I've written and suddenly say "I want this writer!"
Since a POD costs money (and let's be honest for a moment--I'm a teacher and my husband is currently unemployed. I don't have that kind of money), I can't really do that at the moment.
Also due to the monetary issue, I can't attend conferences.
And because of my stylistic preferences, I just don't want to be published in those compilations.
So I resort to finishing numerous books (I'm working on nine different stories, even though it was not recommended by one of my mentors), attempting to finish as much as I can and edit what I have finished (one of the nine), all the while still putting stories on the back burner of my mind. Stories come to me every day, and I can't help but want to write them. They all have flaws and they all need research and background for the characters, but still they come.
This is one of the problems I run into. I can't help but think of all these different stories, and since I don't want to forget, I start writing them, or at least jot down the ideas. This is all well and good, because when I do have the money to attend conferences and pay PODs, then I will have things ready. But it's not enough. I have stories, but no one to read them. Even here, no one reads what I write.
There's another problem. Discouragement. What if no one likes my work? What if I can't find publishers willing to sign me on? What if I'm actually terrible, and none of my friends are willing to tell me? What if I run out of ideas and the stories start sounding the same? What if I make a mistake in my research and my credibility is shot?
And here's another. My style. I like my style. That's why I write like that. It's simple, but I still throw in some poetry. Just not so much to be overwhelming. But not everyone likes that. And not everyone likes the content of my stories. It's not that I want to dwell on bad circumstances (like abuse, rape, and other varying sins), I just feel that they need to be addressed.
In one of my books which has received some criticism for its content, two of the main characters engage in premarital sex. Mind you, I'm not writing like Jackie Collins or Danielle Steele. In my opinion, it's tasteful. After "accidentally" reading Wicker Man (long story short, it was mistaken identity in regards to the author, and I kept thinking it would get better, but it didn't), I think those scenes were modest and quite frankly, incredibly symbolic. I did not glorify their sin, but I did shed light on it. It's an issue affecting the church and being hidden time and again because no one wants to think about it. Meanwhile, certain members of my family are getting pregnant at fourteen, revealing their sin, while others, friends of mine, had successfully hidden their sin, until they had admitted to it at a later time (to the shock of all, I assure you). My point is, it needs to be addressed, and all aspects need to be exposed to show how degrading and detrimental such sin can be.
In another book, the main character kills people--both before and after coming to Christ. It is all in self-defense, but it is still violence. In yet another book, a young woman is raped. I do not go into detail, but it is very clear what had transpired.
Should this content be condemned for its reality? Should it be condemned because, as some critics have noted, "Christians just don't want to hear about that!"
I have read Beverly Lewis and Lori Wick, and I enjoyed their books. But I am not them, and I am not aiming for the same reader base. I am looking for those who are on the verge--who need Christ. Who need to see redemption, even in the face of tribulation and despite the characters turning their backs on Christ--or possibly never knowing him in the first place.
I write other stories in allegories. While the characters never encounter Christ as we know Him, I pray that the meaning is not lost, and that the readers can see the significance of the story--the beauty of Christ taking us as we are and bringing us to a better life; the power of His abilities and the overwhelming intimacy we experience when we develop a real, lasting relationship with Him.
All this being said, I have writer's block. Despite there being nine stories that I can work on (although one is finished, dropping the count to eight... except I can always edit the finished one), I am stuck.
I used to be in training for Sign Language Interpreting and the sign for "STUCK" is a poignant one. The first and middle finger of your right hand form a "V" and you place those fingers at your throat and stick out your tongue slightly. "STUCK" is a clear picture of how I feel. My words stop in my throat (though in writing, they come out through my fingers, not my throat... but stick with me on this visual--and ignore the pun). My voice will not be heard for the choking of my windpipe. Why am I stuck? Why am I at a loss for words (despite the length of this post)? I certainly have enough material for me to play with, and more stories that haven't been written, because I fear that they will just sit on my hard drive for ages, untouched, like about five of my nine manuscripts. There are only a handful of those MS's that I work on regularly. Others I forget about until I finally have that moment of clarity, when I see, "That's what should happen!"
There are two that I believe I am almost done with. One, I simply cannot decide how to end it. There are a number of possibilities, but I don't know which one makes the most sense, and which one would work best to carry out a sequel. After nearly 300 pages of that MS, I have cornered myself and I can't figure out which way to go. The other, I have not yet figured out the mysteries I have set in place. How can I help my readers make sense of the mystery, when I myself have not yet figured it out?
This is the part where I ask my friends and family to read it and ask for ideas. But every time I've done that in the past, they forget or they are too busy, and I get no feedback. So in light of that, I suppose it's back to sitting and reading something else until an idea strikes me, or praying until my brain hurts and the Lord finally reveals to me His perfect plan for these stories.
Until next time... um, I was hoping to have a cute tag line here, but that didn't work out so well. I guess writer's block works for blogs, too, huh?
For instance, it is nearly impossible for a writer to get signed onto a publishing company without already being published. This means paying for a POD (Publish On Demand) or going to lots of conferences, or contributing to collaborated works, such as "Chicken Soup" books (like my former teacher and current mentor has done), or simply hoping and praying that someday, someone will get a hold of something I've written and suddenly say "I want this writer!"
Since a POD costs money (and let's be honest for a moment--I'm a teacher and my husband is currently unemployed. I don't have that kind of money), I can't really do that at the moment.
Also due to the monetary issue, I can't attend conferences.
And because of my stylistic preferences, I just don't want to be published in those compilations.
So I resort to finishing numerous books (I'm working on nine different stories, even though it was not recommended by one of my mentors), attempting to finish as much as I can and edit what I have finished (one of the nine), all the while still putting stories on the back burner of my mind. Stories come to me every day, and I can't help but want to write them. They all have flaws and they all need research and background for the characters, but still they come.
This is one of the problems I run into. I can't help but think of all these different stories, and since I don't want to forget, I start writing them, or at least jot down the ideas. This is all well and good, because when I do have the money to attend conferences and pay PODs, then I will have things ready. But it's not enough. I have stories, but no one to read them. Even here, no one reads what I write.
There's another problem. Discouragement. What if no one likes my work? What if I can't find publishers willing to sign me on? What if I'm actually terrible, and none of my friends are willing to tell me? What if I run out of ideas and the stories start sounding the same? What if I make a mistake in my research and my credibility is shot?
And here's another. My style. I like my style. That's why I write like that. It's simple, but I still throw in some poetry. Just not so much to be overwhelming. But not everyone likes that. And not everyone likes the content of my stories. It's not that I want to dwell on bad circumstances (like abuse, rape, and other varying sins), I just feel that they need to be addressed.
In one of my books which has received some criticism for its content, two of the main characters engage in premarital sex. Mind you, I'm not writing like Jackie Collins or Danielle Steele. In my opinion, it's tasteful. After "accidentally" reading Wicker Man (long story short, it was mistaken identity in regards to the author, and I kept thinking it would get better, but it didn't), I think those scenes were modest and quite frankly, incredibly symbolic. I did not glorify their sin, but I did shed light on it. It's an issue affecting the church and being hidden time and again because no one wants to think about it. Meanwhile, certain members of my family are getting pregnant at fourteen, revealing their sin, while others, friends of mine, had successfully hidden their sin, until they had admitted to it at a later time (to the shock of all, I assure you). My point is, it needs to be addressed, and all aspects need to be exposed to show how degrading and detrimental such sin can be.
In another book, the main character kills people--both before and after coming to Christ. It is all in self-defense, but it is still violence. In yet another book, a young woman is raped. I do not go into detail, but it is very clear what had transpired.
Should this content be condemned for its reality? Should it be condemned because, as some critics have noted, "Christians just don't want to hear about that!"
I have read Beverly Lewis and Lori Wick, and I enjoyed their books. But I am not them, and I am not aiming for the same reader base. I am looking for those who are on the verge--who need Christ. Who need to see redemption, even in the face of tribulation and despite the characters turning their backs on Christ--or possibly never knowing him in the first place.
I write other stories in allegories. While the characters never encounter Christ as we know Him, I pray that the meaning is not lost, and that the readers can see the significance of the story--the beauty of Christ taking us as we are and bringing us to a better life; the power of His abilities and the overwhelming intimacy we experience when we develop a real, lasting relationship with Him.
All this being said, I have writer's block. Despite there being nine stories that I can work on (although one is finished, dropping the count to eight... except I can always edit the finished one), I am stuck.
I used to be in training for Sign Language Interpreting and the sign for "STUCK" is a poignant one. The first and middle finger of your right hand form a "V" and you place those fingers at your throat and stick out your tongue slightly. "STUCK" is a clear picture of how I feel. My words stop in my throat (though in writing, they come out through my fingers, not my throat... but stick with me on this visual--and ignore the pun). My voice will not be heard for the choking of my windpipe. Why am I stuck? Why am I at a loss for words (despite the length of this post)? I certainly have enough material for me to play with, and more stories that haven't been written, because I fear that they will just sit on my hard drive for ages, untouched, like about five of my nine manuscripts. There are only a handful of those MS's that I work on regularly. Others I forget about until I finally have that moment of clarity, when I see, "That's what should happen!"
There are two that I believe I am almost done with. One, I simply cannot decide how to end it. There are a number of possibilities, but I don't know which one makes the most sense, and which one would work best to carry out a sequel. After nearly 300 pages of that MS, I have cornered myself and I can't figure out which way to go. The other, I have not yet figured out the mysteries I have set in place. How can I help my readers make sense of the mystery, when I myself have not yet figured it out?
This is the part where I ask my friends and family to read it and ask for ideas. But every time I've done that in the past, they forget or they are too busy, and I get no feedback. So in light of that, I suppose it's back to sitting and reading something else until an idea strikes me, or praying until my brain hurts and the Lord finally reveals to me His perfect plan for these stories.
Until next time... um, I was hoping to have a cute tag line here, but that didn't work out so well. I guess writer's block works for blogs, too, huh?
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