Why Wait?

When you receive exciting news, then the question becomes, why wait to tell people?
Although not a normal posting day for me, I thought I'd share the art and cover design for the book.

Here is my name as seen on the book.

Here is the book cover itself with its lovely curling title and mysterious natural environment design.

As well as the title art. A curling script that stands out admirably on the cover design

Sometimes All You Hear is a "Knock"

This story is called "Knock" and I used a single line prompt to start it.

“She was drifting off to sleep when there was a sharp knock at the door…”

Eliza restlessly moved her arm out from under the covers and shivered. The air was too cold. She should have turned the temperature up. The knock came again. It imperiously rang against the wood. Her eyelids rose slowly as heavy as weights. Her mind was fuzzy as she threw back the covers. The air hit her like a vise, squeezing her breath out of her lungs. Her feet danced across the cold floorboards. Her robe hung on the doorknob and she shrugged it on over her nightgown and lightly stepped to the door. The knock came again urgently beating the wood. 

“Alright, alright,” she muttered. Her fingers swept through her hair, once, twice, until it felt a bit more settled. Her hand rose to cover her mouth as she yawned. Hot air steamed into her hand.

Her fingers lightly rested upon the door handle and she stood on tiptoe to peer through the peep hole. She couldn’t see anything. The doorstep was empty. The distorted image bubbled and she frowned. Keeping the security chain on the door, she unlocked it and opened it a crack. The night air whistled past her into the house and still she saw nothing. Her welcome mat was slightly shifted, but she may have done that herself when she came in earlier. An owl hooted nearby, startling her. She shut the door, closing it with barely a sound. The lock clicked back into place and she turned around to go back to her room.

“Hello, Eliza.”

She froze. Her eyes darted around from the living room to the sitting area, to the hallway. Her eyes were finally drawn toward the stairs and she gasped.

“Brendan.” She stared hard at the dark figure sitting on her stairs. His legs were thrown carelessly on the floor, he rested his elbow on a stair behind with careful ease. His hair was still in a buzzcut. His army jacket was bulky over his arms. The silver dog tags at his neck gleamed. He shifted and there was a jangle as the tags hit each other. “Brendan?” she backed up against the door. Her arms crossed around herself. 

“Yes, Eliza. It’s me.”

“You’re dead,” she choked out.

“Actually I believe what they sent you was MIA, not a death certificate.”

“They said you were as good as dead.” Eliza slid to the floor, hugging herself tighter. “They said…”

“It’s okay, Eliza.” He sat forward. He didn’t move toward her, but his eyes never left her face. “I’m here now.”

“How? Where did you come from?” She looked away. Had she forgotten to lock the back door?

“You let me in.”

He moved forward so that he was crouched in front of her. His hands rested on her knees. She was shaking. The cold of the floor soaked into her skin like water. Her teeth chattered and he slid himself beside her. Their shoulders touched and her head ached to rest on his shoulder like old times. Her head felt foggy as if she was almost asleep again.

“Are you really here, Brendan.”

“Of course, I’m really here,” he said as she drifted off to sleep.

Ode to a Bookstore

Although not really an ode at all, I just like the way it falls from the tongue.

We should really appreciate bookstores, and libraries, a lot more than we do. They offer us endless ways to travel and entertain ourselves.

I feel myself relaxing surrounded by the familiar call of stories. The bookstore welcomes me, ushering me across the threshold. Its wooden tables and single seats scattered about offer the privacy and isolation craved by book lovers. To immerse oneself it is vital to fully have a deprivation of other senses. Another more hidden power must come alive in your mind. It must draw you into the realm of novels, of possibilities and adventures.
The books lie quietly, silently luring prospective readers with the images of their covers. Try me. Open us. Stay.
Far off lands, distant times or familiar cities and modern day - where shall you travel. How will you choose? Do you reach for a familiar storybook, reliving a past journey to experience it all again, lingering on your favorite scenes.
Or do you crave the thrill and mystery of a novel whose pleasures you have yet to know, reveling in the surprise it brings you. I shall awake from this journey in a daze.
A dreamy haze will settle across my vision. The story seeming more real than the other things I experience. A shade drawn over me and my real life so that I am sleepwalking while awake.

I have news that my book can be found as an e-book for Barnes & Noble as well as Amazon. The release is a little over a month away, but it's so exciting to see it on other websites! Also if you search for it, you can see the cover design.

Creatures Big and Creatures Small

I'm done! Sorry, momentary need to express excitement for the end of the Fall semester and exams!

If you create your own world then you also have the opportunity to create your own creatures. I took advantage of the fact that "kraken" is a known monstrous name, but I created my own kraken. First, I actually wrote all of the details about what it should look like, then I actually tried to draw it with those specifications. So it has a three-horn crown and walrus-like tusks in its mouth. It has claws that are webbed for its forelimbs and then it has flippers at its back. This picture doesn't show the tail, but it has a snake-like belly and scales like a fish.

The Kraken

 So, when you're creating a creature that is made-up you can use characteristics from real animals. It's how you integrate them that determines if the creature seems believable or not. Sometimes my creatures do seem real, but other times they turn out a little funky like this mixed creature below. It was just a test to make something, but it didn't really turn out. The result is a strange little creature that was poorly brought into existence.

A squirrel-chicken-otter creature (Unnamed currently)

From the Ground Up

Something that I enjoy is drawing my characters or creatures. This is one of the ancient forces of the world. A "Lord" of nature and anything of the living earth. It's an important distinction because I have another force of the earth, but she is more of the destructive side. So, Flornavyn is life and all of the plants are his creation. He is mentioned by name in Island Whispers, but very briefly. He can take a "human" shape, but I like to think that he is more this amorphous shape that is shifting and inconstant. He is leaves and vines, grass, dirt, all mixed together. He is the earth in conscious form.
Of the primal powers, he is the youngest.

Flornavyn "The Green Man"

I offer you Moonlight, and Shadows

I use pages on my laptop, so if you know the font luminari that is what I chose for this and I wish you could see it because it gives the poem a unique and gothic look. This might not make sense, but I think that poetry in some ways contains a bit of nonsense. 

Moonlight and Shadows

I wish to walk in moonlight,

see my shadow follow me,

for it is only the moonlight,

that lets us clearly see.

The silver glow and fallen beams,

are illuminating and cleansing,

the moon is bright and she gleams,

many find her presence so convincing

If I wish to see purity,

then no thing will compare, 

but the dancing light’s clarity,

that travels through the evening air.

We mustn’t waste the light,

especially when it’s bright,

for the moon is not always round,

for every night that it is found.

The moon has her moments

of quiet beauty and of peace,

sterling, silvery unearthly sentiments,

that make some things become beasts.

For is not beauty loveliest

when it is admired from afar,

don’t people pine for it

when it is as unpredictable as a shooting star.

If I am in moonlight

then my shadow is awake

but if I just walk in shadows

then everything is at stake.

Too many shadows and not enough light

create too much darkness, stronger than night.

Shadows can be friends

they can dance along with us

but their lives come at an end

when the sun consumes them with lust.

Light will always vanquish

that which is dark,

might will only relinquish 

when it has missed its mark.

The power of simple things,

the things we walk through,

are only hoops and rings,

that shadows and moonlight walk through too.

Stuffing a Turkey or Stuffing a Book?

Casseroles and pies baking in the oven, pulling the husks off corn, and watching someone handle a giant turkey. My memories of Thanksgiving cover the food, a day of family working hard to make a meal together. That's what the holiday means to me. I always enjoyed the work, whether I was situated at a chopping block or painstakingly pulling apart brussels sprouts. But, I'm not just gonna tell you about my past Thanksgivings.

Instead, let me tell you about something exciting.
I emailed my publishers about Island Whispers and they sent me the "innards" of the book, which means everything but the covers. I was vibrating in front of my computer. It's the moment when you see the official design and pages that you think: "Wow, this is real. This is happening. This is what I wrote." Or at least that's what I was thinking. It's a little hard to describe the bubbling joy, but I had this grin on my face that I couldn't shake for hours, not that I wanted to, it's nice to be happy about something. So, I got to see the design and in the front a copyright page, which really made me excited, because that is what published books all have. Then there's the dedication to my mother which got its separate page and at the end, a little author bio and my picture. Photo taken courtesy of my sister, she deserves the credit for putting up with my pleading.
It's finally finishing up and the journey of Island Whispers from a thought in my head to a physical book is almost here!
I'd like to take a moment to thank you, the reader, whoever you are from wherever in the world. Thank you for reading this blog and I hope that you will read my novel.

Calling Nano Writers for November

Nanowrimo - National Novel Writing Month

I participate when I can and November is when writers from all over the world try to write 50,000 words in a month. There are so many fun things about nanowrimo, including all of the other writers that you can chat with in the forums.

In particular, I love how you can track your word count and find out how many words left, how long it should take you approximately, and other things.

My current project is under wraps, but I'll tell you how far along it is: 39,500 words. Of course, this work isn't meant to be a novel, it's a novella, or that was the original goal. For the most part it is finished. I just need to edit and clean up the sentences, making sure that there aren't any major changes that need to be made. It's another exciting world that is new and a mix of the ancient mediterranean with medieval times, fantasy, adventure...I'm very excited about this project.

Another fun feature of Nanowrimo:
You can also award yourself badges for different things like, pantser, planner and plantser.
"Pantsers" write by the seat of their pants in the sense that they write extemporaneously (that's a fun word).
"Planners" are obviously the ones who like to have multiple sheets of paper and drawings, documents with little details and background that spans three years.
"Plantsers" do a bit of both.

Which one are you?

Discover the Story

I love to write.
Hmmm. Now begins a small rant about writing:

I think that writing is at its best when the writer steps back and says, "Wow, there it goes."
By that I mean a writer feels that their story has grown legs and started walking on its own. Maybe they're chasing after a little book baby and watching it grow older and more mature. I enjoy writing and being surprised.

I was talking to one of my friends, he is a creative writing major and loves poetry, and I explained that what I loved most was when the characters were alive and I wasn't creating the story - I was discovering it. The difference is that discovery feels like it was always there, but now you're navigating this land. It's not totally discovery all the time, sometimes a story or character needs some creation to begin with, but once it gets rolling, the story should be showing you how it is written.

The fun part comes in when you get to see interactions and reactions of characters. Once they have been developed to an extent, you just know how they'll react, and maybe they'll surprise you occasionally, but you should know why that happens. See, the thing with discovering is that you're not blind - you're omniscient, you see all and you know all, so those little side stories and small things you thought didn't need to be explained - well, they can and you should know them (even if you don't write anything). The story is about more than what is just on the page, but it is also more than just what is in your head too. There has to be a balance between what the writer knows and what the reader knows. If you don't give enough to the reader, then they could come away confused and dissatisfied with your story. If you don't know enough about your story, then you'll end up with a mess that has to be untangled and things that deviate so much it can't be explained.

Writing isn't without its struggles, but I hope you can see that it has its benefits too.

Ghosts and Ghouls, Spooks and Screams

Happy Halloween!
I don't really do the whole trick-or-treat thing anymore, but a good horror story can terrify you. To treat y'all with a little bit of a spooky tale. This is a short story that I wrote in a writer's group meeting from this prompt: "you are a serial killer. To get away with it, you only kill once a year on Halloween when everyone runs around covered in fake blood."
Hope you are spooked!

Killer of Hearts

Tonight is the night. Gore, blood and guts, are as familiar as friends. I sit at the top of my house and watch the trick-or-treaters hurry from house to house. I have left out candy on the porch per tradition, but the first greedy, little thief will probably take it all in one go, but I don’t really care. My mission tonight is to give the gift of death. A long butcher knife is held in the hand resting on my knee. I tap my other hand against my leg, counting, watching, waiting...who will be the victim tonight. Who will be the receiver of my gift?

It could be anybody, anybody at all that is strolling the streets tonight. Blood is an illusion of make-up, knives are just props, no one expects the real thing. No one expects a killer in a costume, but I will not be wearing a costume, just jeans and a black sweater to fight off the Autumn chill. The leaves are scuttling across the ground in the fear I hope to evoke in my victim. Their surprise, the look on their face as the life leaves their body. My hands tingle in anticipation. This will be my thirteenth kill, the thirteenth year and as we all know -- thirteen is the most fortunate number.

I sit up from the rocking chair I have strategically placed in front of this window and go downstairs. It is time, I am ready for this death. The children have taken all the candy from the bowl as I exit the front door. The little white paper saying “Please take one” is crumpled to one side. I shut the door and lock it, waving to my neighbors as they tote their little one along in a wagon. Little Rebecca is too young for this night, too little to understand, but she is dressed as a fluffy bunny and ready to be carried by her parents down the street.

The neighborhood kids run past me, trying to get to the next house faster than their friends, trying to get the best candy that can be found. The Rodger’s kid says, “Hey there, Mr. Shade,” as he passes. I wave and continue on. The knife lays coolly against my skin beneath the warmth of my sweater. It is tucked so that the handle is closer to my palm and if I’m not careful I’ll nick myself. Young high school aged girls strut around in too short skirts and showy blouses that expose a little bit too much skin to the night air. They are not the victims that I am looking for though. My victim of the night is special, a perfect specimen that I take the whole year to choose. This person is the heart of the community. I relish the tears and fear as the body is discovered and recognized. The heart of a community is the one that will break it. They will hold the death in their memories for years to come. Each year after I give my gift to the heart of the community, a new one comes to the forefront, it is a blessing that my work is never done, that it will never be done, because the community reforms and a new heart is grown until they are ready to be plucked from existence by me.

I know who my target is tonight, but finding her on this street will be difficult. She may be disguised though I doubt her face is covered. She is known for her charity work and came to my attention through the homeowner’s association. Her charity work often brings her through the neighborhood asking for donations and volunteers. She is loved and respected; she is the heart this year and I must find her before the night is over. I know that she was organizing a group trick-or-treat with the young kids so that they could all stay together, but there is also a party tonight. She and her boyfriend will be there, in a few minutes, so will I.

It’s ten o’clock and the younger children will be put to bed soon, herded away and scolded for eating too much sugar before they sleep. The party starts now. The house is lit up with ghoulish shadows created by positioned lights in the yard. Spiderwebs wind their way along the porch railings and through the windows. There is a pumpkin sitting on the porch and a candle flickers inside it. There is noise from inside that filters across the neatly cut lawn. The door is open and I can see people crowding the hallway from here. This will make my job harder, but I accept the challenge. It wouldn’t be fun if I had no trouble at all.

I pass through the door and sound becomes obsolete. The music is so loud that I wonder how anyone can hold a conversation. I nod and smile as I pass neighbors and search the crowd with narrowed eyes for my target. She is not in the sitting area or dining room. I stroll into the kitchen, which is full of appetizer foods that can be easily grabbed. Punch sits in a glass bowl that is probably spiked with something. There is no one here and so I stroll out into the back. The garden area is landscaped with hedges and small trees. The perfect place for me to commit a murder and my target is here. There are couples scattered throughout the yard and some of them have entered the maze of hedges. I slow my pace and linger in the shadows of the house. I need her to be alone. It is time to be patient and I relax, wishing that I had grabbed some punch.

She and her boyfriend are arguing and I slowly step around so that I’m positioned near enough to hear. Although my back is to them as I stare up at the stars.

“Evan, I’m trying to help,” she says to him.

“Well you’re not. I thought you wanted to be present in this relationship, but you’re always busy. You’re not even trying to be with me.”

“Evan,” she sounds hurt and I revel in that broken voice. “I can’t believe you think that.”

“Maybe I should have said it sooner,” his voice is rough.

I can imagine her reaching out for him as he says, “No. I need some space.”

Then he is walking away across the lawn and I hear her sniffle. She is mine. I turn around and walk closer. She is rubbing at her eyes. She is wearing a nurse’s costume, but not one that is overly exposing. Her top is a regular scrub shirt and although she is wearing leggings and boots, she is one of the more appropriately dressed people out here tonight. I get closer and she sees me.

“Oh, Mr. Shade.” She wipes at her eyes, trying to hide her tears.

“Hello, Olivia. Are you alright?”

She sniffles and gives me a wobbly smile. “Oh, I’ll be fine. Thank you, Mr. Shade.”

“I find that a little walk can always help me take my mind off of things,” I tell her. “Would you like to walk with me?” I indicate the garden paths and she is so naive and willing to be led away. We walk in silence until the blaring music of the party is a whisper in the dark.

“You can see the stars when you’re farther out,” I tell her, but I am not looking at the stars. She stares up at them and a stray tear rolls down her cheek.

“They’re beautiful,” she says.

“I know.”

The knife cuts her throat and she drops to her knees, surprise on her face, fear as she realizes what has happened. So many emotions playing across her face and the blood is pouring out. Her neck is stained in a collar where I cut her and she cannot choke out a sound. I catch her as she falls and wipe at her hair.

“There, there, Olivia. This is my gift for you. This is the day of death.”

Imagine All The Groups And How They Live

Part of storytelling is knowing more than your reader. My professor emphasized that we need to know so much of the story that what a reader gets is an iceberg above water, and everything below is what the writer needs to know.

So when I really started to expand this world and get curious, I thought about what the different groups (angels, merpeople, vampires, and demons) did on normal days. What were their societies like? What kind of jobs did they have? What did they eat? What kind of illnesses could they get?

When you're a writer, you have to ask questions and you have to spend time answering them. It won't read well if what you write is poorly thought out. Editing can smooth out those bumps, but getting it right the first time means knowing what the rules are in the beginning.

So here is a taste of the world-building that I did.

"Illnesses, Diseases, and Other Maladies on the Island"

Demons

Fungal Cough

Chills

Petrification

Vampires

Biter Fever

Merpeople

Flounder Fin

Tail Twistivitis

Cavern Fever

Angels

Speckled Wing

Flew

Cirrus Brain

Windy Cough

Not all of these made an appearance in the book, but it was handy to know that these were things that characters could 'come down with' and that they would add more to the story. It's like looking at a menu and instead of saying "What am I going to have today", you're thinking (almost wickedly) "What can I give to these characters to make their lives harder and/or more interesting."

I don't like being wicked, but if every story stayed in a happy medium then we wouldn't read stories. Check out Kurt Vonnegut's video if you don't believe me. We live for stories that jump across the board.

What gets cut can make the story stronger

Developmental editing can be hard. It's about taking a swing at the big chunks and sometimes knocking them out of the game. I may have kept the skeleton of my story, but a lot of the "organs" were transplanted with newer, better functioning ones.
So two things:

• Look to the side and find some newly added cut scene material from the story. I added a cut scene for each of the main characters.
• Check out Ingram Elliott the lovely publishers of my novel.

I'm excited to inform y'all that I sent in an author bio and photo for the book. The picture was taken by my talented sister and hopefully they like it as well. Those are the updates for now. Keep reading!

Monica -

Name: Monica

Age: 15yrs old

 Height: 5ft 7in

 Eye Color: Black eyes.

Physical Appearance: Black hair, darker skin.

Favorite clothing style/outfit: Stalaca root shirt and pants.

Where does she live: Caves that wind beneath the island and inside Genera. For the most part the demons are below sea level or really under the earth. Monica lives in one of the deepest caves. There are lava pools, fishing holes, cultivation caverns, containment caves, mining caverns, living caverns, and training/teaching caverns.

Speaking style: Quickly, if its someone new then with suspicion or wariness. She speaks hard and plainly, she’s not one to beat around the bush, usually.

Pet peeves: Her emotions, she doesn’t understand them, it gets confusing.

Hobbies/Interests: She likes to explore and is really interested in the world outside the caves. She has done some mining, and enjoys working with rocks, but mainly going out.

Family: Her father, her mother, her brother (Walter), her Aunt Bellaphuse. Her grandmother.

Her father- strict and stern wants to protect his daughter. He does negotiate with her.

Her mother- supportive, wants Monica to have a healthy relationship with someone.                           Encouraging, but also authoritative when she needs to be.

Walter- Monica’s older brother. He is a powerful warrior. The most powerful of the 

demons meaning that he has to organize others for combat when they are

threatened as well as keep them safe. He goes out often to keep an eye on stuff.

Aunt Bellaphuse: Strong willed and fun. She gives Monica advice, as well as being a

caregiver. (She takes care of the disabled, not the sick).

Her grandmother: now dead. A spirit of the Haven. She comes back every now and then

to watch her granddaughter and keep an eye on her.

Three words: Stubborn, attached, combative.

Food! The Delicate Gastronomic and Sensorial Cuisine

Funny - I almost forgot to post this and then I remembered when I was eating lunch.

So, whenever you're reading something, there might be a detail that you overlook (except when you're reading The Hobbit) and that is food.
It can seem so simple, so unimportant, who cares what the character is eating - y'all want to see the next action scene, yet food is not only fun to describe, but can be a crucial point for getting your characters to talk and slow down.

When you create your own world, you can also create your own food. The angels are the ones who have the most delicate and refined meals which makes sense, vampires drink blood and merpeople are presumably vegetarians of a sort. Not all of the food listed makes an appearance in Island Whispers, but I'd certainly like to try some of them. Here are some of the things that I made:

Tailwind berry: Created by Divia. “It was a bit soft, a thin layer of skin to cover the flesh. He took a bite, the flavor of the meat of this fruit stole over his taste buds. It was succulent and sweet, he chewed it slowly savoring the strange taste, noticing that it was laced with strong desire.”

Leona berry- orange, with black seeds, tastes like vinegar.

Elder Tree: Light, lovely crunch, can soak up juices.

Cloudberry- ripe= golden yellow, soft, juicy, tart, fresh. over-ripe=creamy like yogurt and sweetened. Raspberry fruit, pale red to amber in autumn. (So this isn't actually a made up fruit, I just thought the name was so fitting for an angel to eat)

Nut Twister: Whole nuts, variations include a syrupy part or the nuts coated with something.

Cirrus Juice- Gives one lots of energy.

Whipped Shake with sunbeams: sweet and has its own light that makes it glow.

Raspberry water

Honey-leaf tea -

Blue drink-

Stalaca Roots- Look like carrots. Strong silky fibers that are used for clothes. (Demons).

What's your character?

So something that I also think is fun is to be in a character's mindset when taking one of those personality quizzes online. There are so many to do and if you really know your character then you can choose with certainty. It's a lot of fun because it tests a writer and also can make them think more about who their character is.

So, for Island Whispers, I took this "Froyo Personality Quiz" for Angelica.

This is the result:

Froyo Personality: You got: Sweet and refined

It looks like your taste in froyo is just as sweet as your personality! Not only are you kind and generous, but your words and actions are much more deliberate and well-thought-out than others. People admire you for your classy personality and warm nature.

Also, here is a snippet that I believe was cut from the manuscript. It's a little moment about Angelica and a summarized moment with her father.

When she finally gained mastery of a simple trick, she ran to her father’s room. So exhilarated with her newfound power that she singed the feathers on her father’s griffin. That led to a lesson on light and heat. 

“Light is not something you feel,” her father told her. “It is something that you see. Heat on the other hand is something you feel.”

The Natural Distraction

Here is a little piece that I churned out while in a writer's group meeting:

It was a window seat with a perfect view of the lawn outside. The sky was overcast and gray, but it could not lower my mood when there were brightly colored glass squares dangling over my head and enough lighting for me to see the book in front of me. There was time, certainly. I didn’t have to rush, but who would waste a day indoors, even if it was a darkening sky ushering in a storm.

It was raining, sure, but what was a little water. Wind and rain were a refreshing treat after the heat that had baked my skin for weeks. I could just feel the wind as I watched the rain lash against the windowpanes. There was just enough going on outside that I was distracted. I put down the book and just had to stare at the elements. I would be going out there in a little while. Would it be as wild as it was now? Would I be drenched by the time I returned to my room? 

Focus and get the work done, I mentally berated myself for getting distracted. There wasn’t time to stare out the window. There was time, but not enough for that. So I picked up my book again, but I couldn’t help being drawn to the window again. I could see people passing by. Some with brightly colored umbrellas or flashy rain jackets that made the water splash like a fountain. They were all serious, walking purposefully across the bricks and waterlogged ground. They sidestepped little rivers of water and kept walking. Their heads bent down, bent away from the water falling down. I wanted to just leap through the window. I wanted to feel that water on my face and just forget about the papers and work that was dragging me under. The glass was so clear, it was like I could step through it into another world. Another world so close—No. I needed to sit here and focus. 
Sit here and focus. Focus…

Island Whispers Update

Right now the poll is showing that y'all want Island Whispers content, so here is some news that I am excited to share.

So months of editing, and buckets of sweat and tears, have led to the creation of my book.
There are three types of editing that a book can go through.

First there are the large edits, Developmental Editing, this is a full edit to essential elements like the plot and characters, along with cutting scenes or adding them. This takes the longest because of how much can be taken out or rearranged.
Next, Copy-Editing, which is the line by line edits, where grammar, repetition, and some smaller revisions are suggested.
Finally there is Proofreading, the editing done before a book is finalized, before it is printed.

It is my pleasure to announce that all of these edits have been made and the book will be making its way to layout soon!


So as a treat, here was a part that got cut in the developmental edits. The reasons were that it was too descriptive and kind of threw the reader out of the story for a moment.
          

 The ocean was calling to him. He could hear the hissing of vents in the floor and the calls of dolphins echoing through the waves. He watched spiny catfish swim by, while shrimp scuttled around the floor. There was algae that grew in groves, so thick that if he swam into them he could be trapped by its snagging tentacle like vines. It was a legend that a merperson, who could live harmoniously with all of the ocean's creatures, who could understand and help them, could hear the voice of the ocean.  It was the voice part Adam clung to, could it possibly mean his siren singing. Was there a place for him after all?

From memory, he thought of colorful coral and anemones with their schools of fish. Seahorses that drifted with the water and were surprisingly resilient with their little fin. The seahorses had bony little bodies, their tails clung to coral when the tides got rough. Eels hid in the rocks along the sandy floor, their snaky heads and luminous eyes making them seem otherworldly. However, he really loved the turtles. There were only a few that he had ever seen, large adult turtles with hard shells. The shells patterned in varying greens and streaked with yellow, but what he loved the most about them was that they could withdraw into their shells. He felt like a turtle sometimes, poking his head out to test the waters, but pulling back in when danger was near. The slow drifting of all the ocean life, and when Flippers went by, the sharp, quick movements as they all went for cover. It was something he was familiar with, slow sluggish life punctured by quick bursts of movement. He knew all these things about the ocean; he even felt like some of its creatures. Why could he not be revered like the voice of the ocean?

Once, a long time ago, he  discovered the hideout for hundreds of roe, fish eggs, that gleamed like hidden treasures, in the recesses of a small cave. Each one contained life and Adam was entranced by the little spheres. He hadn’t left the roe until the mother of the fish returned and chased him away. The fish had been protective of all its children, even though there was a chance that many of them wouldn’t survive. Adam retreated respectfully, honoring the distrust of the parent fish. He didn’t want to cause stress to the mother besides he was glad there were mothers like that. Ones that were protective and present, he missed his mother. 

Sometimes people break your heart

It is a little early for me to post. It is not yet Tuesday, but so far the votes have wanted more Island Whispers content. This is a snippet from Island Adventures.
You might be wondering what Island Adventures is, and all I'll say right now is that it is a prequel to Island Whispers.

Sometimes we are confronted with a situation that we can't handle. We don't know what to do and we feel frozen. It might come unexpectedly, like this...

“Keith,” it was Solana. She was standing a few feet away. Hesitantly brushing her hair with her fingers. The brown and white dress she wore swayed with the breeze and a small brown satchel was at her side. She fidgeted with the strap and her violet eyes wouldn’t meet his.

“Yes, Solana,” Keith said with a smile. He wanted to put her at ease. Solana always seemed nervous and scared around him. “Is there something you need?”

He saw her swallow, her cheeks glowing pink and transitioning to a burning red. “Well, not really, but...I just wanted...” She hid her face in her hands and turned away. “Never mind, I’ll just go.” She turned and started to hurry away. 

“Wait, Solana,” Keith got up and ran after her. “Hey,” he said, sliding in front of her to stop her. “You can tell me if you need something.”

“But I don’t need something,” she said gazing at her feet in embarrassment. She took a deep breath before she met her violet eyes with his red one’s. “Keith, I li-like you.” She held her breath and her fidgeting became more pronounced. 

He paused stunned and didn’t know how to react. She blushed furiously, even her throat stained red. “I don’t know why I told you. I’m so sorry; I’m being ridiculous. I’ll just go.” She clamped her fingers around her bag’s strap and hurried around him.

“Solana,” he called overcoming his surprise. “Solana, you don’t have to be ashamed. You’re an amazing person.” He saw her stop, although her heels lifted as if she was about to run. “It’s just that I don’t feel like that about you. I love you like a sister, Solana. You need someone who loves you as much and will care for you.”

“I see,” she said. She didn’t turn around, but he saw her shoulders shake and her voice wobbled while her knees knocked together. “I’ll just go. Thanks, Keith.” She ran off with Keith staring hopelessly after her. 

He hadn’t realized that she had liked him. All of these years he had always assumed that he made her nervous because of his power. He was used to some of the others acting nervous around him. He had thought she felt no different than him. He felt ashamed that he hadn’t looked further and really seen her. It was strange to think that all this time he had been wrong. He thought that he knew Solana, but now he was seeing his interactions with her differently. Every time that she worked with him or complimented him, she blushed or spoke softer. He had attributed this to personality. It just seemed natural that Solana was always quieter and she was, but he now realized that she had a different quiet nature around him. She fidgeted more and always seemed to be on the verge of saying something. While other times that he had observed her without her knowledge, she seemed calm and at peace with her surroundings. How could he have been so foolish?
He hesitated. He wanted to go after her, but he wasn’t sure what to say. All of his previous notions of who Solana was were false. He wasn’t as observant as he thought he was. It was true that she had never said anything before now, but he wasn’t sure he had handled it right. His feet moved a few steps in the direction she’d gone. He swallowed hard. His heart was beating faster in his chest. It had been a while since he had felt nervous. Still, he recognized the feeling. It made his stomach flutter and his skin cold. 

“Solana, I-I….I don’t know.” He clenched his fist into his stomach. This was unfamiliar territory. He didn’t know how to respond. It was hopeless for him to do this without hurting her. He hated that he might have already, but perhaps if he spoke carefully this time. Keith groaned. This wasn’t something you could learn in a lesson.

The Long and Short of It

So, another activity that my fiction writing class gave us was to write about an event. However, not just in any way, but in a way that mimicked Hemingway and a way that mimicked Faulkner.

These two authors are well known for their sentence structures and, of course, books.

Hemingway wrote:

"The Old Man and the Sea"
"For Whom the Bells Toll"

Faulkner wrote:

"The Sound and the Fury"
"A Rose for Emily"

Hemingway's style can be described as short and very to the point. His sentences are simple in structure, but he still managed to convey a lot with his common vernacular.

Faulkner's style is usually longer sentences that have fancy words in them. He has more complex structures and sentences that could go on for a paragraph.

So when you take these two styles, you have to write carefully and thoughtfully.
I am no Hemingway and I am certainly no Faulkner. Their styles are not mine, but it is fun to just try and see what is possible.

I wrote about a hug. Hemingway and Faulkner were walking along and then they saw two people hugging.

Here is how Hemingway might describe it (in my voice):

They were oblivious to the world. He was tall. She was short. Her head came to his shoulder. His hands wrapped around her back. She held him tightly. Her head leaned into his chest. His chin rested on her head. There was no space between them. They stood in the middle of the sidewalk. They stood there for an age. People passed by. They looked for a second. They moved on. The couple did not. They did not seem to move. The wind did not stir his hair. It did not stir hers.
They were an odd picture. They did not belong. Were they friends? Lovers? How long would they hold each other? He sighed deeply. She shifted in his arms. They broke apart. They became two people. Two people standing on a sidewalk. Two people drawn apart. He walked away. She stood there. No words were spoken. It was gone.

Here is how Faulkner might describe it (in my voice):

They stood in a world apart from others, apart from time, on that piece of sidewalk with the light shining down on their heads, so magical in their stillness, so silent, trapped in time, together, was there reason for their embrace or just a simple yearning need for this touch that made them seem like paramours locked tight before they parted with sweet sorrow, unless it was a reunion after many long years apart that their hearts burst and they could not contain nor keep away from each other because of the sheer longing to be in an untouchable, sacred moment, beyond the rest of the world, without a worry or fear that this was unusual or strange - different, not something that the passersby would witness on a commonplace sidewalk where anyone could walk by and see them, not that it seemed that they would care, it was not an icy indifference to being seen, but rather a blissful ignorance or innocence that made it seem not as a vulgar display of affection, but as a warm and meaningful way to never let a person go into the cold of the world alone, to never let them be without the heat of another, nor to let them drop into loneliness or despair, because true love or friendship as it seemed went beyond such things so that the whole person could be encompassed and cherished without any ridicule or scandalous looks from a crowd that could not help but gawk at such a display without knowing the true emotion and beauty of what they were seeing.

How can inspiration last forever?

Well I'm not sure if that is possible, but certainly for a lifetime a person may feel inspired.
We get inspired by different things. It helps to be excited, but we can't always be excited - that would be exhausting.
I find that reading out loud helps me think and also makes me excited about my work. I may try and post a video soon or a recording of me speaking a passage aloud. Something fun and different for these posts for sure.

I have not had much to do the past few days. School has not given me too much although I am excited for it. As I mentioned in a previous post, I am taking my first creative writing class: fiction writing. We have done an alphabet list and a small prompt so far.
The prompt was a picture and we were supposed to explain it with a story that had a beginning and end in a page. Very short, very difficult on the fly, but a good challenge for a writer.
The alphabet list is a way to generate ideas. We write a noun for each letter and these must be words that have importance to us. They must have some story behind them in some way.

I'll give you a sample:

A for "Astrology"
B for "Button"
C for "Cliff"

and so on until you get down to Z.
Then when you're low on inspiration you pull out your list and think well I wrote "button" for B, let me write a story about a button or something button-inspired.

"Henry was always losing his buttons. On his coat, on his jeans, on his shirts. There were frayed bits of thread where the buttons should have been, they just weren't. It had gotten so bad that he took care to buy things that were buttonless, but it was difficult to do and terribly impractical. He didn't like going underdressed to his business office. The others would stare if he showed up in a t-shirt and drawstring pants. This thought paralyzed Henry so much that he worked from home as often as he could which was why he was at home when the strange visitor knocked on his door."

............and that is how a story can manifest. Try it on your own and see what you can come up with

The More You Learn, The More You Know

So I'm super excited to tell you that I am taking my first writing class ever!
I've never taken a writing class before, although I tried to in high school, but they put me in sociology instead. Then the school took away the class. It was disappointing, but my senior year, my english teacher let us write creatively at the very end of the year. That was exciting, so multiply that by a hundred and now I'm jumping for joy.

There is so much I don't know about the craft. You can learn a lot about yourself and your writing, but a teacher is a guide that can make quick and drastic improvements. Of course everyone learns in different ways and it isn't necessary to take a class to write, but there is a lot to say about feedback. An outside eye can do wonders.

So twice a week I get to be in a class with other writers for "Fiction Writing" and I can't help the grin that stretches across my face. I feel giddy that I can take a class about writing!

Assignments are submitting writing prompts and then we have two short stories to turn in over the course of the semester. Their only supposed to be about ten pages which is really short, but it will be a good way for me to be concise and work on technique.

Have you ever taken a writing class and was it helpful for you?

Internet digging and Idea scraps

One of the things that I love to do is some easy research. Research that is fun and enlightening. There are many ways to conduct research on the internet - the easiest is to use google and type in a search word. Then you just scroll through results, clicking on sites that have your key word or sound interesting.

A recent thing that I searched for were ancient weapons because I have a story about demon children. I wanted there to be weapons from other ages and different places because it would add depth to the story. These demon children aren't just American and they have been around for a long time. Plus my knowledge is limited on weapons so I can do more in-depth research later on appearances of these weapons. Some of my favorites so far are: falchion, flamberge, claymore, pitchfork, rapier, and crossbow. I can take these and make them more magical by either making them cursed or forged with certain properties.

Another fun thing to do is search for character names. I usually use a baby name generator because if you want to symbolically use a name or are looking for an unfamiliar name then there are plenty online.

Sometimes I am struck by a small idea, but I don't know how to use it. So I keep a small journal that is easy to carry around and jot down these random thoughts. Then if I find a place where it is useful or needed I have the initial details that I thought of.

A Week By Any Other Name...

Busy as a bee.
So, there are two questions that I get asked a lot.

Where do you get your ideas?
and
How did you become a writer?

Ideas are everywhere. It's not some poetic or metaphorical truth, that's just how it is. There are so many things that you can learn from everyday experiences. Often I start a story by just thinking about how fun it would be if something happened and then I go from there. I start with one small idea and it can grow.
One of the things that I love to do is listen and watch everything that is going on around me. It is important to pay attention to what you see like a bird fanning its wings or the expression on someone's face.
I also draw from my own experiences. I have this document of experiences: fever, sadness, food poisoning, desire to name a few. When something happens to me (if I am being present in the moment), I try to pay attention to how I feel. What are the physical sensations (touch, taste)? What am I thinking? What do I hear? What do I see (or not see, as the case may be)?
I try to capture that experience in words so that if I ever want to use that experience in a story I have notes to refer back to. "So this is what a fever felt like, this is how I want my character to express it."

Second question - I became a writer because I love to write. It's a little simple to say that, but for the most part it is the truth. Writing comes easily and even when I'm frustrated I can find some enjoyment. Reading what I write is also enjoyable, especially saying the words out loud and hearing the flow as they leave my lips.
I've always been a writer since I could write. I wrote in elementary school. There were small journals that I would record fanciful tales that lasted only a few pages. These were my first attempts. If I look back at what I have done and compare it to where I am then I can see the improvement - I can see the transition from meager stories to detailed novels.

Week 9

Wow and I almost forgot to post this. I guess things are busy for me. Although it is the end of the summer, there is so much moving with literal boxes and people. It's all a whirlwind, but that's life. So I hope that everyone is well and enjoying the start of August.

The angels can bond with a partner while they are young.
Angels may choose a partner from four lovely options: gryphons, unicorns, pegasi, and dragons.

There is a reason that these are the four creatures that will bond with angels since there are several other magical creatures on this island. A sphinx will not bond with an angel partially because a sphinx can't fly, but also because they're very independent and wouldn't answer to anyone.

Here are some drawings I have of gryphons and unicorns:

Week 8

So this marks the end of my second month of posting. Also Nanowrimo is also winding down. I haven't gotten to work on it as much as I had hoped, but a few small additions have been made. That's life for you, endlessly busy that you can't do everything that you want to.

Gluten-free cookies and tea for everyone still reading!

I can't exactly do the above, but I do appreciate the readership.
So, I shall reward you with a drawing:

This is Adam and Flippers.
Yes, I know Adam doesn't really have a head or hands - I'm not good at drawing those. The emphasis is on the tail. His tail is mostly brown with some green thrown in and his skin is greenish as well. When I was first sharing Adam with a young writer's group, they loved him the most. Probably because Adam is the sweet character, he really doesn't have anything in him to be mean. He's innocent and hopeful, not exactly the best in shape and isn't a fighter, but really tries his best.

Week 7

Here we go Week 7! Time flows and ebbs like water, or at least it feels like that sometimes, but we're nearing the end of the summer already, maybe it is rushing by?

One of the ways I have kept track of my storyline is by using a timeline.
Every section has a date and a name that lets you know when and who is telling the story. The timeline allowed me to make sure there was continuity across the story.

"If Grant finds out this then he shouldn't run off to do this."

It was certainly a balancing act, juggling four character storylines at once, but I was up for the challenge. I thought it would be so cool to do it.

All of the books that I had read up until that point were focused around one central character and there were few, if any, other perspectives. My idea was that a story could be told and the audience could be brought along and see every side. It was a bit challenging to define the characters to get their voices different. When you're reading the different character sections, you should get a feel that this is a different person.

I once wrote out that developmentally my characters grew by learning:

Monica learns compassion
Angelica gains strength and confidence
Adam learns bravery and acceptance
Grant learns to trust and share

These growth points aren't necessarily all the same now. They each learn other things as well, but it gave me an idea of how I wanted to develop my characters.

Week 6

I don't just have drawings to share with you. I have words.
The current word count of my manuscript is: 123,000

Here is a piece that I cut from the story. It was just a small memory, but with such a large word count not everything can stay and this was deemed unnecessary.
I won't spoil who burst into a shower of gold spark or has a partner gryphon, at least not yet.

The energy burst from him in a shower of gold sparks, filling the air with a scorched smell. His partner, an irate gryphon, also cried out in agony. A dark burst of energy, heavy and cold, fueled by his servants destroyed the gryphon. The awful squawks and calls were cut off. His frustration at the delay was evident; energy rolled off him in waves and the servants even moved back as his own energy swallowed up theirs. A heavy cascade of red saturated the air. It hummed, as if alive, creating more vibrations in the air. The trees around the tablet shuddered in response.

Maybe once my book is out, you can tell me who you think this is.

Week 5

It's funny that I have labeled these posts as "Week (#)" because usually when someone does that it is a countdown. I'm not sure blog posts usually get week numbers, but I'm lacking the energy to be witty, so until I find it, I will continue to title them by week number.

It's the fourth of July as well. America celebrates its independence day, I'm grateful that I have a day off from school. Time to study for the test I have tomorrow, oh well, no one said holidays weren't work.

Last time I gave you something familiar to look at.
It was my version of a sphinx and it was an old sphinx. I don't know if you could see the gray that was mixed in with the brighter colors.
However, I didn't just use creatures that are familiar to you or me. I created a few of my own. Some of these creatures played major roles and some were minor.
This was a minor creature, but I love it so much:

A Whipling has a beautiful song and lovely colors. Its most striking characteristic is its long tail feathers that trail behind it as it flies.

This is a Whipling. A creature new to the world and my creation. I love it for its simplicity. The Whipling is not meant to be a creature that does much it is just like a normal bird or squirrel that blends into the background of this magical environment. I think it's important to have your own creations when you are creating a new world, because no one else can claim a Whipling.
A good example of an author who does this marvelously is J.K. Rowling. She has a whole film on her "Fantastic Beasts" and they are quite stunning.

Week 4

I'm keeping up with these posts, although I'll be honest there has been a lot going on these past few weeks and this week is even busier.
On top of that Camp Nano (the one's who bring you National Novel Writing Month) starts on Saturday - July 1 - and I signed up to participate, but now I'm not sure I have time to work on any writing projects...
Those are just my problems. You can enjoy the rest of the post.


I have many creatures in the world that I created. Most of them are magical and kinds that you have probably heard of. There are no plain "humans" in my world. There are humanoids in a sense that there are angels, vampires, demons, and merpeople. It was fun to think that everyone in this world had some power, was special in some ways instead of a population of muggles (to borrow J.K. Rowling's word) with a few special ones.

Here is something you might recognize:

 Do you recognize it?

Week 3

I almost forgot, I was so busy, but as promised here is a bit of my writing for your pleasure -

Dialogue between Angelica and Theo:

“What do you think I’m doing.” 

“Flying to the ground, which I’m not sure why.” 

“How did you find me?” 

“Angelica. First off there is no class that analyzes the schedule of security patrols. Secondly, you’re a terrible liar. Thirdly, I analyzed the schedule myself and made a guess about when and where you would be leaving from.” 

“You’re clever.” 

“I am clever, just not clever enough to know why you want to fly down to the ground. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me.” 

“You suppose right.” 

“So, what’s to stop me from alerting the patrols that there is a security breach.”

When I was editing, I added some dialogue and new scenes to my novel. This was one of my quick conversation pieces that was later added and edited in.

Week 2

Time seems to be going slowly, at least for these posts, but I'm going to keep posting no matter what.
Another piece of art for you:

This is my rough and colorful image of the island which is the setting for my novel. Try to find some specific points. Do you see the house or the little "sprinkle" colors in the clouds?

Week 1

It's the first official week!
So what shall I treat you to?

Perhaps a summary of my novel that I used for my query letter:

"In Worldly there is no good, there is no evil; in separate worlds a growing darkness has emerged and connections between four races: Angels, Vampires, Demons, and Merpeople, are forged; will the united front be able to take on the Elder?

Angelica, an angel living in the Heavenly City, is depressed as she deals with the disappearance of her father. Angelica is desperate for the love she has lost, and when she encounters a mystery boy her heart starts to melt and she can’t help falling in love. 

Grant is a vampire, he is conflicted as he struggles to face his inner monster and his needs for survival. He must deal with loss and responsibilities to survive the woods and darker things at work.

Monica is a head strong demon, she wants to venture out into the world. Wanting to escape the caves and pressure of her parents and overprotective friend, Damian, Monica must come to terms with who she is.

  Adam is timid, he comes from the ocean where the merfolk are few. He must overcome his revulsion with a “curse” that has ruined his life and isolated him from his family, and find the strength to use his curse when in dire need.

Thank you for your time, my young adult novel is 86,772 words. My whole novel is available upon request.  I look forward to hearing from you."

So, this was one of the first query letters I sent out. See that the title was still rolling as "Worldly" and the word count was about 87 thousand which is shorter than what I have now.

I think that the size of a book should not matter as long as it has lovely content. A well written story may look like a dictionary, but if it holds your interest you will not even realize the passing time.