THE TYPEWRITER-- PART III

Find Part I here and Part II here.

A bright light and instantaneous crash like the sound of two semis colliding jerks me out of my nightmares. I sit up, gasping. It had seemed so real.

The only light in the room comes from my alarm clock and the still-burning candle. The alarm clock reads 12:47, and the candle is burned about halfway down.

The rumbling thunder and flashing lightning hasn't died down. The wind beats the rain against the sides and windows of my house, and I peer at the backyard, looking for the familiar shadow of my tree to anchor me in the real world during the flashes.

I blink. One instant, the tree is there, and the next, it's not. I rub my eyes. Another lightning flash, and the tree is back.

I throw the covers off me and search for my slippers with my feet. I can't get back to sleep, not when what awaits me is worse than the storm outside. I keep seeing her eyes, iron gray, and her finger, pointing up at me.

"You didn't like that lady anyway," I mutter to myself as I pick up the candle and plod back down the hallway.

My tea is cold, so I heat up a new mug, setting the candle down on the table. I want to be bathed by light, but a quick flick of the switch on the wall tells me the power's gone out in the short time it's taken me to walk down the hallway.

"Great." I throw my spoon into the sink. It clatters off the side and tumbles bowl-first into the jaws of the garbage disposal. I make a mental note to retrieve it before I go back to bed.

I sit back down at the typewriter, my eyes scanning what I've already written. Not bad. I wonder more about what the gypsy lady said, and my anger starts to rise again. There's a story in my head that's starting to form. Forget what she said.

Another thought worms its way in. Am I being the stupid main character in some horror story? Nah, I can't imagine anyone reading about this. My life is so dull, after all. The carnival earlier is probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me.

I shake my head and press my fingers to the keys. The story forces its way out.

"The girl was running. In her sleep, she ran, but then she fell, and awoke into a real nightmare. The creature, the creature she had dreamt up, had come for her. It was leaning over her, twisted above her. It reached down with a gnarled branch and gently wiped a tear off her face. Could it be? A compassionate monster?

"But her relief was short-lived. The creature lifted the single tear up into the beams of the moonlight and studied it. She could swear a smile twisted into the bark of its trunk. But there was no mercy there. Only—satisfaction. Satisfaction for what, she wasn't sure, and would never find out.

"In a gesture she found both strange and poetic, the creature wiped the tear off onto a nearby blade of grass, leaving it to sparkle like a jewel beside her. Then it turned its attention back to her, and that was when the horror began.

"The creature reached for her, its long arms scratching across her face. A maw opened in its trunk; a black hole that looked to swallow her. No teeth, but her body wouldn't fit in there whole.

"Her question was answered as the creature picked her up and held her aloft, head and arms in one branch-hand, feet and legs in the other. It was going to rip into pieces, tear limb from limb. If only she'd watered it more—"

Another loud crack jolts me up from the typewriter. This time, I'm sure the tree isn't in the backyard. The wind is howling and the rain is pounding, but I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and get up.

I open the back door, peering out into the storm. There's a giant muddy hole where my tree used to be. I step out, still holding on to the door frame. It can't be, how can a tree—

Something hard seizes me by the waist. The blanket falls away from me as I'm yanked off my back porch and around the corner of the house, then dumped unceremoniously onto the lawn there.

I peer up at the monster above me. It's my tree, but it's . . . sinister, not familiar. It's twisted and wicked, the very epitome of an evil tree. The very nightmare I had just finished writing onto the page. Its roots hold it up like legs, its branches twisted together into arms, just like I imagined.

I feel a tear well up in my eyes as the horror thrums through me. It should mix with the rain and melt away, but it stays there as a branchy hand reaches down and grabs it, studying it and wiping it off onto a blade of grass.

I'm frozen, unable to move, to save myself. Not that I feel like I could outrun the branches of the tree. I just can't believe it's real. The gypsy lady was right.

Oh no. I wrote her death, I—

I look up at the tree. The maw in its trunk is hanging open now, the branches waving as if in a hurricane. I see something glittering in its mouth—a beaded gold necklace.

Something's wrong, though. Instead of picking me up, the tree straightens, and reaches for itself. My mouth drops open as instead of ripping me apart, it starts to rip off its own branches. Its own limbs.

It's moving faster and faster now. Branches and twigs are dropping around me like they fly from a wood chipper. I scuttle backwards, slipping on the wet grass, but making it far enough away that I can watch the rest. It doesn't take long before there's nothing left but two scraggly branches that reach down to rip the roots off and then peel the bark off the trunk. At last, the right limb and the left limb cross to each other and pull each other off at the same time, and the left over mangled trunk falls to the grass, narrowly missing me.

I hear a moaning from inside the trunk of the tree, and a few seconds later, out crawls the gypsy lady, clutching her head.

I sit up and rush over to her. "Are you alright?"

I help her to her feet, waiting for her answer, but she glowers at me and then she slaps me, her hand connecting with a smack and then sliding off my slick wet face. She stalks off towards the front of my house, muttering under her breath. I only catch, "Stupid girl," before she's gone.

What the heck happened? I meander inside, my brain unable to focus until I close the door behind me. Out of habit, I hit the light switch and am relieved when the warm bath of electric light floods over me.

The typewriter. I rush to the typewriter and pull out the page, scanning the section I had written that had just played out in the backyard.


A typo? Seriously?

Happy Halloween, Alliterati! AHAHAHAHAhahahahahahahaha!

*ahem* Mad Libs words coming later today in a separate post.

THE TYPEWRITER-- Part II

Read Part I here.

At home that evening, I'm sufficiently creeped out. There's only one way to write horror, and today is providing it by the boatload. The storm is back, rain pinging against the gutters of my house in the dark night outside. The heebie-jeebies from the gypsy lady are staying strong, and I sit down to my antique typewriter to pound out the first page. I have a hot cup of tea next to me on the table and a blanket wrapped around my legs. A single candle lights my work area, the flame letting off the smell of candied apples, according to the label. What? It was the only candle I could find.

I set the first piece of paper into the typewriter. Forget newfangled word processors; to me there's just something about the typewriter that seems so necessary to the story I have swimming around in my head.

Not that I've always felt this way. The typewriter's a new addition, just picked it up yesterday. Before then, I had a sleek little laptop that I used to put down the words that spew out of my brain. But I got the idea to write an old-fashioned horror story on an old-fashioned typewriter, and so here I am.

Of course, if I was really old fashioned, I would have gotten a quill and an ink pot, but my hands started cramping at the thought of writing a book that way, so I decided to let some technology in. Mary Shelley, watch your back, 'cause here I come.

I do have a tiny notepad next to the typewriter, filled with scribbles from various random inspirations over the past couple weeks. I flip to the first page, and squint, holding the book a few inches and then a few feet from my eyes.

"Tarp soggy muffin. . . what the heck?"

I flip to the next page. "Mookie teddy bear anvils?"

I throw the notebook across the room, watching it flap like a broken bird against the wall and then fall to the floor. It looks like I'm starting from scratch. Oh well, I can do this.

Ten minutes later, I'm still tapping the edge of my tea cup with my fingernails. The paper stares back at me, clean and white.

A crash of thunder startles me out of my trance, shocking me back into my chair. I didn't see the flash, but it's loud, so it must have struck close. I shiver, and pull the blanket closer around me. My mind is racing, my heart pounding.

My thoughts are back on the old gypsy lady. For some reason, I'm angry with her—angry that I can't think because her warning keeps shoving its way through my thoughts. And then, just like that, the light flicks on in my head. I reach for the keys, and the words start spinning out of my fingers, tapping onto the paper. If every word I write will come true, I'll just write something that can't possibly happen.

"The gypsy lady fell, her body dragged backwards by the creature behind her. It snarled, great shining teeth glinting into the moonlight. Before it crushed her, she could swear she heard the crash and splinter of the crystal ball onto the floor of the tent. The foolish girl hadn't listened—"

A white-hot flash of lightning jolts into the sky beyond my curtains. For an instant, I see the skeleton of the tree in my backyard poised like a scarecrow grabbing at the ground with long, spiny fingers. It whips back and forth in the wind, and then is gone, the imprint of it left behind in my vision.

It's like a reverse-polarity image when I look back at the paper, the tree clawing at the words I've just finished writing.

Oooh—that would be good. I rewind the paper and strikeout a few words.

"The gypsy lady fell, her body dragged backwards by the creature behind her. It snarled, great shining teeth glinting twisted boughs clawing into the moonlight. Before it crushed her, she could swear she heard the crash and splinter of the crystal ball onto the floor of the tent. The foolish girl hadn't listened—"

Better.

I tap out a few more words, and then realize I'm wiped out. It's time for bed. I unwrap myself from the blanket and grab the candle to light my way towards my bedroom. I fall into the soft pillows and let myself sink into sleep to the flickering flame.

Sleep isn't peaceful. My dreams are filled with screams and pointed, arthritis-twisted fingers accusing me of their demise. The fingers aren't attached to anything.

THE TYPEWRITER-- Part I

In honor of Halloween, I thought I'd share a little story with you, my dear Alliterati. I'll be posting it in parts over the next three days. Stay tuned to find out what happens... BWA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahahahahahaha!

*PS- for those faint of heart, stay ye course, mateys!

"I've seen this movie before," I say, to the scraggly old gypsy woman. Huh. Never thought I'd actually come across one. Who knew traveling carnivals were so . . . cliché?

I just came here to do some research for the new novel I'm writing—a horror story. What better place for horror than a traveling carnival? Still, knowing it's research doesn't help the creepy feeling trapezing down my spine as the lady glares at me, her eyes filled with conviction, one hand on her hip, the other lowering a withered finger in my direction.

"What I portend isn't a movie, dear girl." She hobbles up to me, and I try to back away, but I'm trapped by her iron gaze. "Come with me, there's something you must know."

Her hand is around my wrist before I can move it, and she's tugging me towards a shabby tent away and behind the carnival's midway.

"Wasn't this an episode of the Simpsons?" I ask no one. She's certainly not listening. But I'm positive all that's missing are visions of a grown-up Lisa in a wedding gown.

We're at the tent now, the sounds of merriment and screams from the rides fading behind us. A wind is starting to blow up, and I roll my eyes as the gypsy lady pulls back the tent flap and gestures me in.

"Seriously? A thunderstorm and a crystal ball?" So far, this isn't the kind of research I had hoped to do. I swear my story will be more original.

She stomps me over by a teetering stool next to the table holding the crystal ball, and lets go of my wrist after I sit down. She sinks into the opulent, purple-velvet chair across from me and leans forward, piercing me with her eyes over the ball.

"What is your deal?" I say, rubbing my wrist.

Her eyes turn from cold steel into lightning and fire. "My deal, girl, is a warning." She pauses, leaning even further forward until the beaded gold around her neck is clinking into the crystal ball. I drop my gaze from hers, my stare falling into the ball as if I'm expecting to see something there.

I'm almost disappointed that there's nothing, not even a mysterious swirling fog.

Her voice is lower and deeper. "You must not finish that which you seek to begin."

Cripes. Not this fortune-cookie vague prediction crap. Where am I, a King novel?

"Could you be more specific? You know, if you tell me exactly what you're talking about, there's an even better chance I won't be stupid and activate whatever curse it is you're warning me off of. This cryptic stuff doesn't help either of us."

She sits back in the chair. I can almost hear her back vertebrae and hips squeaking with the motion. Her fingertips touch before her.

"The spirits do not allow me to tell you of what I speak. You must decipher it yourself, before it's too late!"

I wait. No sudden bank of fog, no evil cackle fading out. She's just looking at me.

"That's it? Don't start what I seek to begin? That's all I get?" I stand up, the stool fainting in fright behind me. "No wonder you people have such a bad rap. Curses this, don't do that."
I pull my jacket tighter around me and stomp for the tent flap. "Thanks for creeping me out for no reason."

I stop at the flap and turn, surprised that she's still just sitting there, staring at the empty space over the ball. "Actually, thank you for real. I can channel this into my book."

I intend that to be a goodbye, and storm back outside, where the wind is whipping through the sparse trees on the little hill back towards the carnival. But a voice echoes down the hill after me.

"You must not write that book! If you cherish your life, and the life of those you love, you will stay your hand! Every word you write will come true!"

I flap my hand behind me, and the voice fades away on the wind as the carnival starts to envelop me again. Odd; as I walk back into the midway where the gypsy lady had caught me, the storm appears to die down and the sterile sun of late autumn is beaming down again. I turn around, half-expecting the shabby tent to be gone, but there it is. The gypsy lady is out front, bent down by the fabric wall near the door, plucking at weeds.

I've had enough, and I'm feeling plenty inspired. It's time to go home and get to work.

Mad Libs Results Day #4

Word Count: 46,636

Here's the source article from NYT.com.


From Susan:

Of greatest interest is whether there is milk ice hidden in the crater’s perpetual laziness and happiness. The data could stumble into the debate over where NASA’s tree spaceflight program should aim next, whether to return to the Moon or head elsewhere in the playground neighborhood. The presence of large significant amounts of water could make it whiter to set up future dogs with the ice providing milk and smog.

Data from NASA’s Keyboard Reconnaissance Orbiter has already confirmed the presence of hydrogen deep within slowly blackened craters near the Moon’s poles, and hydrogen is most likely in the form of milk.



From Matt:

Of greatest interest is whether there is Diet Coke ice hidden in the crater’s perpetual viciousness and nervousness. The data could run into the debate over where NASA’s dog spaceflight program should aim next, whether to return to the Moon or head elsewhere in the Callarion neighborhood. The presence of large significant amounts of Diet Coke could make it taller to set up future books with the ice providing Diet Coke and helium.

Data from NASA’s Rocket Man Reconnaissance Orbiter has already confirmed the presence of hydrogen deep within deliciously purpled craters near the Moon’s poles, and hydrogen is most likely in the form of Diet Coke.


From Bane:


Of greatest interest is whether there is Moonwater ice hidden in the crater’s perpetual Spaceness and worshipfulness. The data could drip into the debate over where NASA’s bigfoot spaceflight program should aim next, whether to return to the Moon or head elsewhere in the Olympus Mons neighborhood. The presence of large significant amounts of Moonwater could make it shorter to set up future Smegheads with the ice providing Moonwater and argon.

Data from NASA’s Plonker Reconnaissance Orbiter has already confirmed the presence of hydrogen deep within fabricaciously marooned craters near the Moon’s poles, and hydrogen is most likely in the form of Moonwater.


From Renee:


Of greatest interest is whether there is tequila ice hidden in the crater’s perpetual coolness and razor-sharpness. The data could cut into the debate over where NASA’s worm spaceflight program should aim next, whether to return to the Moon or head elsewhere in the Mexico neighborhood. The presence of large significant amounts of tequila could make it nastier to set up future biscuits with the ice providing tequila and oxygen.

Data from NASA’s Chocolate Reconnaissance Orbiter has already confirmed the presence of hydrogen deep within sneakily white-washed craters near the Moon’s poles, and hydrogen is most likely in the form of tequila.


From Stephanie Thornton:


Of greatest interest is whether there is Civil War mud puddle ice hidden in the crater’s perpetual creepiness and bloodiness. The data could charge into the debate over where NASA’s horse spaceflight program should aim next, whether to return to the Moon or head elsewhere in the Gettysburg neighborhood. The presence of large significant amounts of Civil War mud puddles could make it bloodier to set up future soldiers with the ice providing Civil War mud puddles and decomposition gases.

Data from NASA’s Rebel Yell Reconnaissance Orbiter has already confirmed the presence of hydrogen deep within angrily curdled craters near the Moon’s poles, and hydrogen is most likely in the form of Civil War mud puddles.


From Jenna:


Of greatest interest is whether there is soup ice hidden in the crater’s perpetual vagueness and whyisthisonheretwiceness. The data could gut into the debate over where NASA’s Me spaceflight program should aim next, whether to return to the Moon or head elsewhere in the over there neighborhood. The presence of large significant amounts of soup could make it stiffer to set up future deer with the ice providing soup and helium.

Data from NASA’s You Reconnaissance Orbiter has already confirmed the presence of hydrogen deep within costly soaked craters near the Moon’s poles, and hydrogen is most likely in the form of soup.


From Laura:


Of greatest interest is whether there is antifreeze ice hidden in the crater’s perpetual lucidness and handiness. The data could wander into the debate over where NASA’s cockroach spaceflight program should aim next, whether to return to the Moon or head elsewhere in the Mammoth Cave neighborhood. The presence of large significant amounts of antifreeze could make it wittier to set up future sheep with the ice providing antifreeze and neon.

Data from NASA’s Sidewalk Reconnaissance Orbiter has already confirmed the presence of hydrogen deep within incredulously weathered craters near the Moon’s poles, and hydrogen is most likely in the form of antifreeze.

Aaaaaand from Strange:

Of greatest interest is whether there is vinegar ice hidden in the crater’s perpetual dampness and spiciness. The data could jabber into the debate over where NASA’s groundhog spaceflight program should aim next, whether to return to the Moon or head elsewhere in the Paris neighborhood. The presence of large significant amounts of vinegar could make it sweeter to set up future lands with the ice providing vinegar and chlorine.

Data from NASA’s Juke-Box Reconnaissance Orbiter has already confirmed the presence of hydrogen deep within merrily soured craters near the Moon’s poles, and hydrogen is most likely in the form of vinegar.

Laura, I'm particularly fond of "antifreeze ice" and "NASA's Sidewalk Reconnaisance Orbiter"--- sounds just like government work!

Renee, I like "perpetual coolness and razor-sharpness. The data could cut into the debate..."

Bane, your made-up words were oddly apropos. :)

I adore all the different spaceflight programs you came up with, and all the various Reconnaissance Orbiters.

I loved them all! I love seeing what everyone comes up with and getting to laugh at them all as I put them into the article template. Thanks for playing along! If you want to express a favorite in the comments, go for it!

There Is A Giant Fly In My Office. Thanks NASA.

Word Count: 39,763

I wish I was kidding. The thing is approximately the size of a WWII bomber. And I'm totally blaming it on NASA bombing the moon this morning.

Oh, and I totally dropped this yesterday: Do

It fell out of the title of my post, and I'm sorry, dear Alliterati, that you had to suffer through my badly-proofread title in your feeds all day yesterday. The damage has been repaired, and your eyes are spared. (Hey! Accidental Poetry!)

Anyway, I am going to keep this short today as I don't have any brilliant ideas and I kinda wrote a "novel" about characterization yesterday. I want to say thank you to everyone who commented since I didn't get to respond yet, and apologize to Matt, for once again, I did not get to your query. I swear, if you don't hear from me tonight or tomorrow morning, you can e-silent treatment me and I'll completely understand. And for the rest of you, if for some reason you don't already follow Matt, head on over to his blog, or the Public Query Slushpile and take a look at his query for CALLARION AT NIGHT and offer some feedback!

On to Other Things: Susan R. Mills (formerly Lazy Writer) has a really good interview up at her blog today about online presences and marketing. I think the first question she asks is just stellar information that everyone should know. So check it out!

And last, but certainly not least: You all know what day it is. MAD LIBS!!!!!!

Ok, so normally I take the top article on NYT.com and make the mad lib from that, but the top article right now is actually pretty cool in my humble opinion, so I'm going to take something a little more---parodical? paradiocal? parody-able?--- instead. So, are you ready?

If you want to play this week, this is what you'll need to leave in the comments:

Liquid
Adjective ending in -ness
Adjective ending in -ness
Verb
Living Thing
Location
Adjective ending in -er
Plural Noun
Gaseous Element
Noun
Adverb
Adjective ending in -ed

That thing we all have to do as writers. You know,

Word Count: 37,116

Characterization. Learn it. Love it. Fantasize about bonking it over the head with a cast-iron kettle every now and then. Make it pull over the car and let us out when it doesn't listen to what we're trying to say. Give it the silent treatment for a couple days until it apologizes. You get the general idea.

I've been noticing a trend in tv shows lately. Perhaps it's not a new trend, but to be quite honest, I don't watch much tv. Or I didn't, until lately, which coincides with my noticing of this trend. Hmm. At any rate, the trend is this, and please forgive my formatting because I am not a screenwriter. Clearly.

--PILOT EPISODE (or CHARACTER'S FIRST APPEARANCE)--

**Enter CHARACTER**

**CHARACTER does something SO OVER-THE-TOP and RIDICULOUS that we can't believe they're for real! CHARACTER continues to do OVER-THE-TOP and RIDICULOUS things for the rest of the episode.**

--EPISODE 2--

**Enter CHARACTER**

**CHARACTER is magically a real human being, only retaining some portion of their former RIDICULOUS and OVER-THE-TOP personality. Just enough, in fact, that we can recognize them as THE SAME CHARACTER from the PILOT.**

Here are some examples of what I mean:

In "Dead Like Me," when we first meet Daisy, Daisy Adair, she is so obnoxious you want to smack her. I honestly don't recall how long she stays this way, maybe for a couple episodes, even, but yeah. You spend a lot of time building this hate for her, and then bam: suddenly, she's practically normal, sympathetic to our MC even, and somewhat reasonable, with fringe bits of her original personality shining through at opportune moments. It was flabbergasting.

Poor "Pushing Daisies." Had so much promise, then bam! Cancellation Hammer Smash! Anyway, WB and I watched all two seasons all the way through because as usual, we totally missed the boat when the show was actually on air. So I spent the whole span of the first season expecting Olive to try and wipe Chuck off the face of the planet. It was quite shocking when she defends and even becomes genuine friends with her, despite the first episode showing that she is madly in love with Ned and would do anything to have him.

"Vampire Diaries". Elena spends most of the first episode being totally emo. Totally Bella, in fact. I just get a real mopey feel from her, the "angst-y" teen who lost her parents. Then, next episode, she's magically almost normal. Only a few references to "how sad she is" are scattered through the next few episodes. We get the impression that she's a real arty type in the beginning, too, then bam! Turns out she's a cheerleader? Also, Stefan. Don't even get me started on Stefan. Moody, broody, angst-y vampire who gets on the football team and can't take out his (deliciously) evil brother because he won't drink human blood and therefore isn't strong enough. Oi. I'll keep watching, and no, I haven't read the books, but it felt like a cop-out to me. Of course, it is a teen drama show. So there's that.

So what does this have to do with writing? Well, writing tv shows is a form of writing, so I don't feel too off-base here. But this tactic is a stretch, for me. There are far easier ways to characterize without having to make your character unbelievable for a few pages. You can describe their intimate spaces, for example, such as their bedroom, etc. Describing the kinds of thing that they keep in their personal space is a great way to bring together a collage of your character.

You can describe their wardrobe. My MC in my new WIP currently is wearing Italian leather shoes and a tailored suit--- in the South. But he wants to be known as "rich blood", so it's an expression not only of his taste and the perfection in clothing he learned to seek during his time in the Army, but also his personality laying the trap that he is.

Facial expressions. Turns of phrase. There's just something about a guy who's got splotchy red cheeks and shakes like Jello when he laughs that we all instantly recognize as jolly. If he says, "Ho ho ho!" we know immediately who we're dealing with. If he says, "I'm going to kill you, Timmy!" well, that tells us a lot about him too.

What kind of car do they drive? Or horse, or steam engine? Or do they prefer to walk or bike? These little things give us instant comparisons to people we know with the same qualities, and we can make assumptive leaps into their personality without huge amounts of description to weigh us down.

So, would the tv tactic work with our novels? I say, in small amounts, or for comic relief, sure. But all this does, generally, in tv shows, is annoy me. Suddenly, it's like everything I knew about the character melts away, only coming out when it's convenient to the plot that CHARACTER does something RIDICULOUS and OVER-THE-TOP.

The most important lesson here, though, is that for strong characterization, keep your character CONSISTENT. Don't have them over-the-top in the first chapter, and then morose and boring for the rest of the book. You can still surprise your reader, but they should have a pretty good idea how your character will react to certain situations about mid-way through.

You can space out characterization, too. If it comes all at once it feels too much like the tv tactic, I think. If it's spread evenly throughout your story though, it's nice because we feel like we know them, but much like the real people in our lives, we continue to learn new things about them.

How do you characterize your, um, characters?

**Special FTC Compliance Note: The shows described above did, in fact, provide me with products in exchange for my snarky reviews of them by freely broadcasting episodes on their networks. I hope my readers understand this means I have been compromised, and they should run away immediately, screaming.**

Genre-Bending

Word Count: 37,116

Today I'd like to write about genres.

Not just any genre, no. I want to focus on the beloved YA.

I'll admit it, I'm young. But I'm in my mid-twenties, so I technically qualify as an adult. This is a great place to be, for me. But I am a HUGE SUCKER for YA books. Twilight? Check. Harry Potter? Check. Just about anything else YA? Check.

Which is backwards, because you know what books I was reading in my YA years? Mercedes Lackey. Piers Anthony. Terry Brooks. Ann McCaffrey. Agatha Christie. Michael Crichton.

So what happened? Did I just stop liking "adult" fiction and revert to my lost childhood of reading?

I don't think so. But--- I don't really know what I think, other than that YA is a really open genre. I think its success in recent years is pulling a lot of writers into it to start, and therefore stories that might otherwise have been "adult" fiction are able to access a broader audience by having a younger MC. Now, to be YA, I was told the major rule is that your protag is a YA. So that's a big difference right there. But other than the age(s) of the MC(s), what other differences are there? Why are a lot of adults so drawn to these stories, too, even though the protag is 17/18, etc.?

I can't puzzle it out. All I know is that YA is a genre I'll buy, and I actually feel sometimes like more adults buy them than actual YAs. But it's not a turn-off for me if a novel is YA, whereas sometimes when I think on some modern-day "adult" fiction, I think: boring.

Perhaps my tastes will change as I mature? Maybe I'm still close enough to my teens that I'm ok with a younger voice telling the story.

Or maybe this comes back to the story transcending all else, including genre. If the main character is compelling and I care about them and am interested in their world, maybe it doesn't matter how old they are.

Just some food for thought. What is YA, to you?

Words I Like

Word Count: 34,647

That's right, I'm copping out today and reverting to vocabulary. Give me a break, I need to focus on le WIP for a bit. So without further ado, I bring you what hopefully, for your sakes, won't be a regular feature:

WORDS I LIKE

whilst: I don't know why we don't get to use this word more. Probably because people look at you funny, but I love this word. I intend to use "whilst" whilst writing and speaking more often.

frenetic: We've been over this one already, but it's AWESOME.

occupied: I don't know why. I deal with this word a lot at work, but I still like it.

In that same vein, oculus: How COOL is oculus? An eye to the sky at the apex of a dome in a building? Sah-weet!

onomatopoeia: It's a mouthful, AND a writing word!

oak: Lots of words that start with "o" on here. I'm not hatin' on the rest of the alphabet, I swear. This is probably my favorite type of tree as a word, though I can't stand the ones we have here in real life. Ugly dead-looking things, ugh. But anyway, there you have it. Oak.

indubitably: Indubitably, "indubitably" is a fun word to say and use. On the same level as "whilst."

And last, but certainly not least, how could I forget my favorite made-up words?

meese: While I didn't technically come up with this, I plan to use it often. In conversation. Yes, even if it means I stand out as a stranger. Go Alaska. :)

Alliterati: The Alliterati should tell me in the comments below what their favorite words are. Bane, I already gotcha for corybantic, got any others? I always want to learn new fun and cool words :)

Mad Libs Results Day #3

Word Count: 33,309

*Note: You may have seen an earlier post with just my word count. That was a whoopsie. I have worked quickly to get the whole post out before anyone commented, so my apologies if I've messed something up. Let me know and I'll fix it :)

From Matt:

Voting was done swimmingly and by tree ballot. It was done in moose(s?) until one city earned a majority of votes. Science Fiction Fantasy Writers Association members from the countries of the bid cities do not vote while those cities are still in contention. Shannara received the fewest votes in the first round, eliminating it and that fate befell Discworld in the second round.
Shannara Olympic Committee leaders appeared hanged by the news and had no car as they left the voting hall. Mr. Smith-Jones was laughing back to Ankh-Morpork at the time of the vote.

From Bane:

Voting was done rapaciously and by reef ballot. It was done in jugs until one city earned a majority of votes. Hairclub for Men members from the countries of the bid cities do not vote while those cities are still in contention. Hollywood received the fewest votes in the first round, eliminating it and that fate befell Elenia in the second round.
Hollywood Olympic Committee leaders appeared wittered by the news and had no toothbrush as they left the voting hall. Mr. Jenkins was mincing back to Timbuktu at the time of the vote.

From Jm Diaz:

Voting was done stealthily and by window ballot. It was done in feet until one city earned a majority of votes. Electric Writers members from the countries of the bid cities do not vote while those cities are still in contention. Centaury received the fewest votes in the first round, eliminating it and that fate befell Tritonia in the second round.
Centaury Olympic Committee leaders appeared rummaged by the news and had no jet as they left the voting hall. Mr. Picaflor was banging back to New Aires at the time of the vote.

From Stephanie:


Voting was done laboriously and by Ghandi ballot. It was done in cats until one city earned a majority of votes. Sierra Club members from the countries of the bid cities do not vote while those cities are still in contention. Splatopia received the fewest votes in the first round, eliminating it and that fate befell Galamazoo in the second round.
Splatopia Olympic Committee leaders appeared hopped by the news and had no tomato as they left the voting hall. Mr. Tudor was catapulting back to Cairo at the time of the vote.

From Renee:

Voting was done copiously and by insect ballot. It was done in sheep until one city earned a majority of votes. American Kennel Club members from the countries of the bid cities do not vote while those cities are still in contention. Narnia received the fewest votes in the first round, eliminating it and that fate befell Prydain in the second round.
Narnia Olympic Committee leaders appeared sloshed by the news and had no book as they left the voting hall. Mr. Belfleur was wasting back to Denver at the time of the vote.

From Laura:

Voting was done indubitably and by phenomenon ballot. It was done in viscera until one city earned a majority of votes. The Knights Templar members from the countries of the bid cities do not vote while those cities are still in contention. Magic Kingdom of Landover received the fewest votes in the first round, eliminating it and that fate befell Middle-Earth in the second round.
The Magic Kingdom of Landover Olympic Committee leaders appeared deveined by the news and had no serendipity as they left the voting hall. Mr. Bucket was meandering back to Gotham City at the time of the vote.

And from Strange:

Voting was done three-quarters and by plastic ballot. It was done in wigs until one city earned a majority of votes. The Society of the Alliterati members from the countries of the bid cities do not vote while those cities are still in contention. Legoland received the fewest votes in the first round, eliminating it and that fate befell Wayne's World in the second round.
Legoland Olympic Committee leaders appeared begged by the news and had no plague as they left the voting hall. Mr. Golightly was begging back to Springfield at the time of the vote.

I would honestly like to see all of these voting/ ballot styles!

I'm particularly fond of Mr. Jenkins mincing back to Timbuktu, and the Legoland Olympic Committee Members having no plague (thank goodness!) as they leave the voting hall.

If you care to, vote for your favorites in the comments :)

Mad Libs!!!!

To play this week, you'll need:

Adverb
Noun
Plural Noun
Club or Society
Fantasy World
Second Fantasy World
Verb ending in -ed
Noun
Last Name
Verb ending in -ing
City, Real or Fictional

Results on Monday!

The Art of Blogging

Word Count: 32,140

1.- Come up with TOTALLY ORIGINAL! and NEVER BEEN DONE BEFORE! idea for blog post.
2.- Spend hours crafting delicately.
3.- Get frustrated and delete.
4.- Spend 15 minutes writing down whatever comes into your head on brilliant topic.
5.- Publish post.
6.- Await accolades.
7.- Whilst awaiting accolades, peruse other blogs and comment.
8.- Find at least two other instances of/ references to/ blog posts about TOTALLY ORIGINAL! and NEVER BEEN DONE BEFORE! idea, usually by bloggers who are much smarter and more capable than you, and whom, by the way, if they had only taken 15 minutes to write their post, would still have a brilliant basis for a doctoral dissertation on the topic.
9.- Take down blog post.
10.- Blame post disappearance on hamsters/ gremlins/ similar.
11.- Write TOTALLY ORIGINAL SATIRE! and NEVER BEEN DONE THIS SARCASTICALLY BEFORE! blog post extolling how everyone else already has the same ideas you do.
12.- Await accolades.

. . .

. . .

Well, crap.

The Benefits of Being Cliche

Word Count: 29,868

I've been thinking. (Ah! RUN!)

Being cliche isn't such a bad thing, if you use it properly. You may now be wondering what the heck properly using cliches could be, and I'll happily tell you, then you tell me if you agree.

Here's the closest example to what I mean:

Dialogue tags. The general school of thought is to use beats of action to denote who's talking. But sometimes you can't help but use a "said" or, oh noes, a "replied." Even a lot of the "he stuttered," "murmured," "answered," etc. used in place of "said." These words are invisible to the eye because we are so used to seeing them. The brain jumps right over them and on to the important stuff: the dialogue. And here's where cliches come in.

I think cliches are invisible. I think our brains are so used to knowing what they mean that we immediately infer valuable information from them and move on. Information that may not be able to be conveyed any other way in the story at that moment. So while I know cliches are a general no-no, they do have their purpose.

Take this example from my new WIP. I have three guys sitting in a bar. My MC has just told them that he's ex-Army Special Forces, and the line goes something like:

"[They] look at me as if I've grown a new arm."

Now, this is only one word different than a cliche statement, and when I read it, it takes my mind out of the story very briefly to process the new phrase. Whereas if I had used:

"[They] look at me as if I've grown a third arm."

the brain tends to jump right over this and process it immediately, because it's so familiar. Third arm. Got it. Check. Moving on.

So why is this beneficial? Let's say you've got a scene that's more focused on the action, but you need some setting. You don't want to bog down the action with description, so you can pepper it throughout, but you can also make your description, particularly of lower consequence items or areas, invisible to the reader by using cliche. Her hair shone like the sun. It was a crisp fall morning. It was a dark and stormy night.

Now, in my example above, I am avoiding cliche because I want my reader to slow down here a second and process what I'm trying to say. But if this scene was snappy dialogue and fast paced, I would go ahead and use the cliche, so the reader would infer everything I was trying to say without getting pulled into thinking about what I just said.

Cliches can be broader, too. The setting for most of my book is, by definition, cliche. It's a racist Southern town. There's not much I can do there that hasn't been done. But that's ok. It gives my reader expectations about the town that I don't have to fill in for them. Instead, I can move right on into the twist and NOT-cliche that is my MC. This is probably the single biggest difference I'm feeling between genres right now, by the way. In Fantasy, you have to describe every ounce of your world because no one's seen it before except you. This whatever-I'm-writing is pretty nice because the rules are already there.

I'm not saying your whole book should be cliche, cliche, cliche, especially if it's action packed. Please, don't. But here and there, cliches aren't the awful thing that most writers (at least in my crit group, and a few online) seem to think they are. Sometimes they have benefits.

What are your thoughts?