Writing Well is Hard

I'm in a senior seminar this semester. We're all working on either fiction projects or poetry projects.

For those of you who have read my poetry, you've probably gathered that 1) I'm pretty good at free verse, and 2) anything not in free verse is not my cup of tea. 

Now fiction . . . fiction is my cup of tea.

You could say that I've had a bit of experience writing fiction.

I self-published a pretty short book about two years ago, and most of the people who left reviews liked it.

This semester I'm aiming for a full-length novel.

Oh my giddy aunt, y'all.

You have no idea how hard this is.

Keep in mind, this isn't necessarily for enjoyment, though I'm sure I will enjoy it for the most part.

This is for a grade.

And credits.

Mostly the credits.

But get this: there's a prospectus.

We've gotta outline it.

We've got to cover everything from beginning to end, no plot holes.

And we're likely going to get critiqued.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining -- I love critiques of my stories. Love them. It makes for a better, more coherent, more detailed story.

But gosh . . . it's hard.

But hard is good.

Ramblings of a Fangirl: Dumb People in Comics

Y'know, you've just gotta have a certain respect for people in comic books.

No, no, no, I don't mean the main characters; the heroes.

No, I mean the citizens. 

Yeah, them.

The people that can't distinguish between Clark Kent and Superman because of a pair of glasses.

. . . Really, people?

They're the same size.

Have the same hairstyle.

Seem to be nearby a whole lot.

And are never seen in the same room. . .

Granted, not everyone knows Clark that well.

But what about Lois???

She's Clark's reporter buddy and has only been rescued by Superman Lord knows how many times.

You'd think she - the brilliant Daily Planet reporter - would have pieced two and two together.

(On that note, why do we put two and two together? Why not one and one? Anyhoo. . .)

And then there's the people of Gotham.

They have a bit more of an excuse for not recognizing Bruce Wayne as Batman, especially in The Dark Knight, because Bruce you can easily understand. Batman just sounds like, "WGGG RRRR AYYYY?!"

Not exactly conducive to a  fruitful interrogation.

However!

Bruce randomly gets beat up - badly - the same night Batman disappears . . . 

And nobody makes that connection.

And he's a hermit for eight years. Batman is also MIA for eight years.

And nobody makes the connection.

Then Bruce comes out of hiding. Batman also comes out of hiding.

And nobody makes the connection.

. . .

The citizens of Metropolis have zero excuses, but the people of Gotham just might have one. . .

Just how much fear gas did Scarecrow pump into that city sewer?

Blah Blah, Valentine's Day, Mush Mush

If you were expecting a beautiful, mushy Valentine's Day post, you're not going to get it.

Sorry.

This is for those of you - like me - who are 'alone' for Valentine's Day.

I say 'alone' because you're not really alone, and here's why. 

Do you know the story behind Valentine's day?

The real story?

Well, I do.

And while I don't remember the specifics, I can tell you the gist of it.

There was a man named Valentine (Italian, probably) who was going to be hanged at dawn, at the first ringing of the bell.

Don't ask me what for, but I think it was murder.

Dawn came, and he was led to the scaffold.

Per the order, the executioners waited for the ringing of the bell.

They never heard it. 

One of the officials went to the bell tower and demanded to know why the bell hadn't been rung yet.

The bell ringer explained that he had been ringing the bell, but it hadn't been working. 

They went to examine it, and when they looked up at it, they saw Valentine's young wife clinging to the clapper: her body had silenced the ringing.

By the time they got her out, she was half dead. They asked her why she had done that, and she replied simply that she loved her husband. She died not too long afterwards.

Deciding the debt owed the state had been paid by one life, the official released Valentine, who - I assume - went on to become a saint somehow. 

Does that story ring a bell?

It's a terrible pun, but the question stands.

Valentine's Day isn't about roses and cutesy poetry and chocolate and sheepish grins and Cupid and pink hearts and dates.

It's about sacrificial love.

It's about laying one's life down for another.

And hopefully, that sounds familiar to all of us.

And that's why you're never alone.

I understand that it can hurt to be without a significant other during Valentine's Day: I didn't think I would be 'alone' this year, but I am.

And that's okay.

I'm not really alone.

And neither are you.

We are loved beyond measure by One who will never let us go.

We are loved by One who took our place of punishment and death.

So Happy Valentine's Day.

For God so loved the world

that He gave His only begotten Son

that whoever believes on Him

should not perish

but have eternal life.

John 3:16

Oh my word . . .

Sometimes that's all you can say.

Sometimes that's all you need to say. 

Like when your exhaust pipe falls off twice in one day, once when you're pulling out of the driveway to go to class and once in the Chick-fil-a drive through.

Like when your professor doesn't email the class that your 8 AM slow, painful death Crossfit aerobics class is cancelled and you could have slept in another hour.

Like when you have all these great ideas for stories but can't write them because you've just painted your nails and they aren't dry yet and then you forget them.

Yeah. . . 

Oh my word. . .
Good thing Somebody knows what's going on, right?

NaNoWriMo

NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow and I am sooooooooooooooooooooo excited!!!

Last year, I fell epicly short of 50,000 words by about 47,500 words.

Yeah . . .

But this year I have new hope!

No, not Star Wars I/IV. 

Hope that I'll get ahead in my school work and crank out a 50,000+ word novel!

How my Mother Saved my Life

Yes, this is a true story.

I will say first off that unused appliances scare me. And by "unused", I mean unused by me. And if you're still not sure what I'm talking about, check out this guest post I did not too long ago; it explains everything.

Allow me to set the stage: I've been house sitting for the past two or three weeks - a weekish at one house, two days between and now at another house. 

The first house had a lovely kitchen with a stove very much like the one I use at home.

Easy to cook on?

The second house has a lovely kitchen . . . with a gas stove . . .

Um. . .

Easy to cook on?

Which means I didn't have a clue how to use it.

I'd turn the knob, and it'd click repeatedly, and all I could think of was the house blowing up, so I'd turn it off in a hurry.

I actually ended up cooking a frozen meal in the microwave (which I never do) because I had no clue how to use the oven.

Now, how my lovely mother factors into this.

We were chatting on Facebook, and she asked what I was planning on having for dinner.

I said I didn't know.

Somehow, the stove situation came up, and she's like "Oh, those are easy".

She coached me step-by-step through how to use it.

And it worked.

God bless the mothers who make sure their "independent" children are able to cook for themselves.

Things I will (eventually) Re-create . . .

I've decided to make a list of all the things that I will eventually rewrite and gift to the world . . .
. . . for a small fee . . .
(By the way, this list is actually more for my benefit than yours, simply because I may 1. forget, 2. become distracted, and / or any combination of the two. But if you like what you see, shoot me an electronic smoke signal if there's something you really want in the story. Who knows? Might just end up there.)

- Romeo and Juliet
- Beauty and the Beast
- Lady and the Tramp
- Snow White and the Seven Dwarves
- Sleeping Beauty
- The Little Mermaid
- (a twist on) Peter Pan
and, of course, my personal pet:
- Phantom of the Opera

(Do I have an obsession with Disney? . . . Nope.)

My Valentine's Day . . . Thing

I'm calling this "From Paris, with Love"
(Yes, I have an obsession with 'Romeo and Juliet'. And no, Romeo is not the ultimate guy. That other guy is. And if you want to see the Paris I'm talking about, watch the 1936 version of "Romeo and Juliet". Much less awkward than the newer ones.)

The Capulet Mausoleum.
Near mid-night.

His footsteps were of an unsteady tempo, but they matched the beat that made sore his ribs, that throbbed in his skull. The darkness of the moonless night was compounded by his moist blindness. He fell, tasted blood, spat behind him.
His pain, his frenzy, the blood: they all reminded him he was alive.
He didn't desire to be alive.
He desired Juliet, the innocent, glowing flower he'd danced with at the masquerade.
And Juliet lie dead, just beyond the cold, stone door before him.
He held the torch before him, the flame bouncing wildly, and - as he heaved the door open - it cast unnatural shadows within the crypt.
The flame was reflected by the silk that his bride had been cocooned in.
His fingers numbed and he heard the torch fall.
He collapsed at her side, gathering her into his arms.
"Juliet . . ."
His tears splattered on the girl's face. It looked as if they were her own.
"If I could give my life for thine, I would fain commence the exchange," he whispered, stroking her hair.
He imagined a waking sigh, and buried his face in her chocolate locks, drinking in the scent of lavender and vanilla.
"I know I had not your love. I know the young Montague has stolen your heart."
He forced down the bile that choked him, his face stinging with passion.
"But . . . if your heart desired him . . . I would . . . gladly . . . yielded."
A small void cooled his cheek. His numb hand registered movement within her, and he watched - stupefied - as Juliet's eyelids opened, revealing crystalline azure eyes.

. . . TO BE CONTINUED.

Happy Valentine's Day . . .

Who do I think I'm kidding?

Happy Singles Awareness Day! =3

Anyhoo, I had hoped to have a story done for today, but unless a miracle explodes in my cranium - unlikely - we'll have to do without that.

But, I did find some pretty nifty love quotes that I thought were pretty sweet. (I'd tell you where I got them, but I got them about a year ago, and I can't even remember what I did last week, let alone way back then.)

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

- Aristotle

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

- Lao Tzu

Young love is a flame; very pretty, often very hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. The love of the older and disciplined heart is as coals, deep-burning, unquenchable.

- Henry Ward Beecher

Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.

- Zora Neale Hurston

He gave her a dozen roses, 11 real and 1 fake, and he told her, “I’ll love you until the last one dies.”

- Anonymous

She asked him if he thought she was pretty, and he said no. She asked him if he would want to be with her forever, and he said no. She asked him if she were to leave would he cry, and once again he replied no.

She had heard enough.

As she walked away, tears streaming down her face, he grabbed her arm and said, “You’re not pretty, you're beautiful. I don't want to be with you forever, I need to be with you forever. And I wouldn't cry if you walked away, I’d die.”

- Anonymous 


Girl: "I'm having my surgery today!"
Boy: >Says nothing.<
Girl: >Lies on the operating table.<
Boy: >cries and mouths 'I love you'.<
>> A WEEK LATER <<
Girl: >Looks for Boy.< "Where is he?"
Mother: "Didn't they tell you who gave you your heart?"
- Anonymous

Wasted . . . Redeemed

A little something I wrote for a fiction class last week:

She stared at the empty hourglass, asking herself when the bits of sand had joined the others at the bottom. Her eyes ceased to focus on the device and she lost herself in reflection.

One hour – wasted.

One hour was the least of things she had allowed to slip through her malcontented fingers. She had been given a chance for an excellent education in any field of expertise she chose. She had declined it, much less than gracefully.

A mind – wasted.

Finding herself destitute after nigh a year, she had thrown herself at the richest man she could find. For a year, she was his mistress, paid a king’s ransom for her charms. But despite the riches and ‘quirks’ that came with her position, she felt perpetually filthy, eternally tainted.

A soul – wasted.

After her initial rise to the status of near celebrity, the inevitable happened, as she knew it would: she was cast out . . . and replaced. Marred and jaded, she was passed from man to man, her wealth and health deteriorating and fragmenting along the way.

A lifetime – wasted.

But then, she saw him.

William had won her body through gambling – the only time he’d ever gambled – but he never really won her heart. She knew he’d loved her selflessly: he’d even married her to extend legal and social protection to her, besmirching his own good name in the process. He’d known her past and the kind of attention she was used to from men, but he never expected it, not even after the marriage. He had loved her unconditionally for seven years . . . and never asked for anything in return.

Every night, she’d ask him why he had bought her – for essentially he had: she was his legally – and every night she’d receive the same response.

“Everyone deserves to be loved,” he’d tell her just before kissing her gently.

He had died a slow and agonizing death, his life’s blood slowly escaping its proper place in his veins from a tragically misplaced bullet lodged near his heart. As he lay dying, she felt her own heart shatter as he uttered his last words.

“Never forget that I love you.”

In the exposed moment of her life, she had even told him a truth she’d hidden away, a truth she didn’t want to admit even to herself: she loved him. Not the fickle, conditional lust and desire she had felt for every other man in her wretched life, but a pure, unadulterated love. He had laughed with his eyes; his breath had long ago become filled with blood.

“I know.”

He had died without the fanfare she knew his spirit deserved, his gentle loving-kindness unknown to the masses.

A love – wasted.

Now, in her own last moments fifty-six years later, she sat in the garden he had built for her, staring at his hourglass. Slowly, she stood and turned it over, a new hour flowing through the narrow crevice in the middle. Golden rays from the rising sun filled the garden, and she could see William standing before her, his hand held out in welcome. As darkness overtook her senses, she felt herself melt into his warm, tender embrace.

A life – redeemed.  

The story I spoke of . . .

Ah, yes, I knew there was at least one  . . .

I wrote this . . . I dunno, two years ago (?) when I was really, really, painfully bored.
Yes, this is based on the ending of Halo 2.
Yes, I have played that game many times.
Yes, I continue to play it.
No, I do not expect you to get the story. (Heck, you don't even have to like it; I'm that nice!) =D
And, no, I haven't finished it on Legendary difficulty yet; thanks for asking. Hahahaha . . .

Enjoy!

“Don’t make a girl a promise . . . if you know you can’t keep it.”

~

Her own words came back to haunt her. Her protector, John-117, was gone, stowed away on the Covenant Prophet of Truth’s ship. She was alone in the Covenant city High Charity, left behind at her own request to complete what essentially amounted to a suicide mission should Truth find a way to activate Installation 05.

     Echoes of both Covenant and Human weapons discharging reached her as she watched Truth’s ship disappear into subspace. She suddenly felt bereft and frightened, sensations she had never fully experienced until now. She realized she had never been alone before. For the past three years, she had been constantly surrounded by UNSC personnel, analyzing Covenant tactics and advising Captain Keyes, commander of the Pillar of Autumn on appropriate strategies.

     Sadness filled her as she remembered Jacob Keyes. He had been a brilliant man, able to process information quickly and make excellent decisions, a trait she had admired him greatly for. She remembered the day they had stumbled upon the first Halo with perfect clarity. Keyes had misunderstood, along with the rest of them, herself included for a time, the intended use of the Ring. While searching for what he thought was a weapons cache, he had been captured by-

     The Flood.

     She tensed as she recalled the Parasite that had prompted the Forerunners to build the Rings. Weapons of mass destruction to all sentient life. Fortress worlds of last resort.

     Keyes had been assimilated into the start of a new collective mind before John could rescue him.

   “Why did you do it, Captain?” she murmured mournfully. She knew there was nothing anyone could have done differently at the time. The impetuous captain would have met his demise by the Flood anyhow.

     Just then, she realized that all was silent. She turned and surveyed her surroundings. Corpses, both Flood and Covenant littered the floors, plasma-scoring and bullet-holes riddled the walls, columns and tiers. She quickly accessed the security controls, searching for any Covenant still alive. There were none. She was truly alone.

     Suddenly, the terminal she hovered above began to tremble, vibrating as if crumbling apart. As quickly as it had started, it stopped. A low rumble passed throughout the city. Fearing the unknown, she semi-stored, taking refuge in the terminal, mercifully blind, but cursed to hear what followed.

     A voice, terrifyingly familiar, made of a chorus of thousands of other voices, rumbled through the passages.

   “Silence fills the empty grave, now that I have gone. But my mind is not at rest, for questions linger on. Now I will talk, and you will answer.”

     The Gravemind, the true Flood plague, was here.

     A strange sensation settled on her, one she neither expected nor had ever felt before. Then, the realization came: it was resignation. With a sigh, she appeared above the terminal. The Gravemind’s tentacles surrounded the terminal and she wondered why she suddenly felt so detached.

     Is this it, then? Is this how it ends?

     “All right,” she said defiantly. “Shoot.”

   “Your name,” came the deep reply. “How do they call you?”

   “I am . . .” Her voice trailed off as she found she could not remember. Gaps were forming in her memory, and she became frightened.

     Rampancy.

     The thought reverberated in her mind as the answer came slowly.

     “Cortana. I am Cortana.”