No fret ye waves
Crashing in fury
The moon is your mistress
Heeding her call
You wreck havoc
On The earth below
© Rebecca Lenore Brown 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Ocean Reflection
No fret ye waves
Crashing in fury
The moon is your mistress
Heeding her call
You wreck havoc
On The earth below
© Rebecca Lenore Brown 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Declans Diary
I'm starting my work today, on Declan's diary.
These pages will contain his dark secrets, which will reveal his monstrous nature.
More to come - stay tuned!
Friday, April 2, 2010
Turn to Powder
TURN TO POWDER
I feel like I'm melting
Into the darkness
My screams unheard
My soul turning to powder
My heart becoming black
Screams unheard
Voices in the distance
No faces
No warmth
Just the drops of rain, as I turn to powder
And melt into the earth
© Rebecca Lenore Brown 2010
He Fucked Me
HE FUCKED ME
People ask me if he sexually abused me.
If I had said “yes”, they would have taken it more seriously.
When I say “no”, they just shrug and walk away.
He fucked me with his words.
He fucked me with his punches.
He fucked me every time he pulled my hair and shoved my head into a plate.
He fucked me that time he said I was worthless, when I was only eight.
He fucked me when he kicked me up the stairs.
When I cried, scared, under the covers.
But no one really cares.
“You had a fine life”, they say, “you were okay”.
“You’re smart and different”, they say.
“You’ll find your way.”
© Rebecca Lenore Brown 2010
The Beat of a Heart
THE BEAT OF A HEART
In my mind I see my brain
I see the critters crawling on it
I feel them
Blood
Blood
Blood
Like a drum
Like a machine
My brain is swimming
My brain is drowning
The air
The chemicals
In my lungs
In my brain
My brain is swimming
My brain is drowning
Death
Death
Death
In the ground
The flesh is rotting
I see the critters crawling on it
In my mind I see my brain
© Rebecca Lenore Brown 2010
Born With a Horn
BORN WITH A HORN
Once upon a time
There was a baby born
She had three nipples
And she had one horn
Her daddy didn't want her
And her mama was a whore
The baby grew older
Now she was a girl
She found four oysters
And she found one pearl
Her daddy didn't know her
And her mama wanted more
One day
Into her daddy she ran
She was holding five flowers
And holding one can
Her daddy didn't see her
And her mama hit the floor
Now into his chest she dove
With the power of her horn
He screamed six times
And he screamed once more
How I wish
And wish
You were never born
Her mama stood up
As fast as she could
She shouted at the child
I never did love you
You were never any good
© Rebecca Lenore Brown 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tick-tock
At a little over 21,000 word count, I'm almost at 100 pages now.
Sometimes it's hard to stay motivated, and continue writing at a constant pace (Higher-Power knows I've taken more than a week at a time off - shame on me! shame!).
Often times I get that Gwen Stefani song stuck in my head (whatcha waitin for)...
Tick - Tock
Tick - Tock
Tick - Tock
Tick - Tock
Tick - Tock
Tick - Tock
Tick - Tock
Tick - Tock
What you waiting for?
Take a chance you stupid hoe!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Update
An update on the book front, I have almost completed the Masquerade Ball scene, where Olive dances with Declan.
It's very tasty!
She wears one of her mothers old gowns and masks, and reluctantly escorts the much younger Raven to the Ball...
I would like to tell you more, but I don't want to give away too much of the story.
I've also pinned down the title, I should say my husband pinned down the title, because he came up with the wonderful idea.
This is the first time I'm releasing the books title, so you heard it here first. Are you ready?
The Improbable Tale of Olivia Rose Miller
Catchy, right? And classic and stylish and all that, right?
Stay tuned for more!
Friday, March 12, 2010
An agrument with an editor
There’s this retired editor, I’ll call her Saint Mary, here, who “tore up” some of my manuscript (MS). I had about enough with her negative comments, that just seemed too nit-picky, so I sent her a piece from a book (will remain unnamed) which has already been published, to see what she would say.
She asked for a short synopsis, so I made up something, which you’ll see down the article.
Here’s the piece from the already published book. I edited the characters names, to match what I had told her in the synopsis:
My older sister’s name was Rosie. She had dark brown hair, pulled back very tightly, and dark eyes, and a soft way of speaking; I thought her very pretty, though she insisted she was not.
We grew up in a village in Ontario, where our father was a stonemason, and had four brothers and three sisters; five more of our siblings had gotten sick when they were still very young. There had been no time for mourning; our mother had been far too busy looking after the rest of us. And no, we had not had a nurse; we had been too poor for that. (ps to my readers: goofed up a little on copying there).
Whenever the weather was fine, Rosie and I would go out for a walk in the afternoon. Our house was in the city, and on those walks we would sometimes pause at the orphanage to watch the orphan girls at play in their white pinafores and brown serge gowns. It looked as grand as a palace with its avenue of lamps, and more windows than you could count, and a statue of an angel before the entrance. The orphans, Rosie told me (she had a friend in service who had grown up here), had been brought here as infants by their mothers, who were too poor, or too ill to care for them. And yes it was very sad for their mothers to have to give them up, but the orphans had a much better life at the orphanage.
“So if papa were to run away,” I asked, “Would I be sent for an orphan?”
“Of course not, my child,” said Rosie, “our papa’s not going to run away, and you’ve got me to look after you. And besides, you’re too old to be an orphan.”
SM: What’s the brief synopsis?
ME: It's about a girl (Amanda) and her sister (Rosie), who on occasion go to visit this orphanage. One day they find one of the orphan girls outside, "lost", and they decide to keep her at their house, pretending she is a friend staying over (that's what they tell their parents). The parents come to love the girl and find out the secret, that she's an orphan and they adopt her.
SM: When and where does this take place?
ME: In 1888 Ontario Canada
SM: Are you canadian?... and do you want to write for the canadian market, or the us market?
ME: no, I'm not from Canada.
SM: the us?... or uk?
SM: sorry to say, the premise is totally unbelievable, since authorities wouldn't allow such a thing to take place... nor would parents take in someone else's child even overnight, without checking with her parents first, let alone for a long enough stay that they 'come to love' her...
ME: The girls lie and tell their parents she's from school and her parents allowed her to come over. Then they keep lying to keep her there, saying her parents just fell ill and she needs to stay away so she wont fall ill too.
SM: .still nonsensical, unless her parents are severely mentally challenged
ME: I could write in there that they're crazy.
SM: wouldn't make any sense, since you have them adopting the kid... and children weren't given over to crazy folks even then...
SM: why don’t they look for her?
ME: The orphanage had too many kids (from the black plague killing their parents).
SM: the black plague' took place in europe, in the 14th -17th centuries!... and plague killed children, too...
ME: It took place all over the world, there were cases of it still in the 19th century. And the dead kids that died from the plague wouldn't be in the orphanage.... (note to readers: She didn’t catch on to what I said!).
SM: .you're splitting hairs... there was no major 'black plague' outbreak in canada in the late 1800s, or any time at all... and I didn't say dead kids were in the orphanage...
SM: How did the girls just find the orphan, that doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t someone go looking for her?
ME: They didn't bother in 1888 to do much in terms of searching for her, she's just a drain on the system, so to speak.
SM: .doesn't explain why parents would buy the silly lies about where the girl came from and why she's staying with them
ME: I told you, they're crazy now
SM: .ok, then the whole story is crazy now
ME: I didn't want any advice on the premise or any of that, really. I was wondering if the grammar and format and all that are up to par, since that seemed to be the issue with my last story you critiqued. After that, I promise I'll get out of your hair. Just wanted to see what I did wrong as a writer. I have no intent on publishing it, it was more for writing practice
SM: ok... I'll give it a shredding later in the day...
Saint Mary’s comments, or “shredding” as follows:
My older sister’s name was Rosie. She had dark brown hair, pulled back very tightly,[all the time?... was it like that when she was born?] and dark eyes, and a soft way of speaking.; [see what I told you about these in the other piece]I thought her very pretty, though she insisted she was not.
We grew up in a village in Ontario, where our father was a stonemason, and had four brothers and three sisters[poor order… could mean the father had them];[get rid of all of these, do not use them in fiction] five more of our siblings had gotten sick when they were still very young.[so?... kids often get sick… how can all the others never have been ill?... 14 kids in all?] There had been no time for mourning[over what?... you never said anyone died]; our mother had been far too busy looking after the rest of us. And no, we had not had [awkward to the max] a nurse; we had been were too poor for that.
Whenever the weather was fine, Rosie and I would go out for a walk in the afternoon. Our house was in the city, and on those walks we would sometimes pause at the orphanage, to watch the orphan girls at play in their white pinafores and brown serge gowns[silly word choice… if you mean ‘dress’ why not say so?]. It looked as grand as a palace with its avenue of lamps,[meaning what?... do you mean a ‘drive’ or ‘driveway’?] and more windows than you could count, and a statue of an angel before the entrance. [whole sentence is a muddled mess] The orphans, Rosie told me (she had a friend in service who had grown up there),[you said kids are only 6 and 8, so how can that be true?] had been brought there as infants, by their mothers, who were too poor, or too ill to care for them.[nonsensical, since that’s not the only way kids are orphaned] And yes, it was very sad for their mothers to have to give them up, but the orphans had a much better life at the orphanage.[than what?]
“So if papa were to run away,” I asked, “Would I be sent for an orphan?”[makes no sense]
“Of course not, my child,” said Rosie., “Our[you do this a lot… need to learn proper dialog
(Note how she spelled dialog instead of dialogue. What a great editor!)
format/punctuation…] papa’s not going to run away,[also need to revisit rules of comma usage, since you often put them in where not needed and leave them out where they are] and you’ve got me to look after you. And besides, you’re too old to be an orphan.”[how does that make any sense?]
ME: Read the link on semicolon usage, I sent you.
SM: None of the pro’s are using them.
ME: But every book I have read, has them.
SM: Like who/what?
ME: Mark Twain, Gregory Maguire (Wicked), David Grann (The lost city of Z), Don Quixote, Stephen King.
SM: Mark Twain is not contemporary. Stephen King is just popular, not a good writer.
ME: You didn’t say they had to be contemporary writers.
SM: didn't think I'd have to... I assumed plain common sense would lead you to realize that only contemporary works will apply in re what's workable in today's world...
ME: In my opinion the dash looks gruff and stops the flow, and makes it look like a newspaper article.
SM: it's the ; that makes fiction look like a new article, since it's the more formal mark, while the em dash is the casual one... so, either you're not an experienced enough reader/writer, or you're british.
ME: No, exactly my point! If I'm writing historical gothic fiction, I want it to look formal.
SM: no, you only want it to be 'worded' a bit more formally... using archaic punctuation doesn't work with today's readers...
ME: Ok, are they mentally handicapped? If I were writing modern-day fiction, more casual stuff, I would use the dash to make it look trendy, or whatever that would be
SM: the problem is that most readers today have no clue what a semicolon means and it's annoying to them, to have fiction peppered with them... or have any at all... and, since you must write for your readers, if you hope to sell your work, you must put your own preferences aside and write what will be best received by agents/publishers/book-buyers.
ME: it's all about pandering to the masses.
SM: of course it is!... what did you think it was?!... who do you think would be willing to pay good money to buy from you something no one would want to buy from them?... if you want to be a professional writer, you'll have to start dealing with the real world...
ME: The other thing is, that every publishing house is going to have their own editor, that will edit the ms to fit their style
SM: but you won't get that far, if your ms looks like a clueless amateur wrote it...
ME: I may use all semicolons and get a house that hates it and vise versa. Damned if you do or don't, basically.
SM: not at all... because while no one will mind your not using semicolons, some will surely mind having them there... and you're supposed to be trying to maximize your chances of getting published, not minimize them..
ME: I just want to write and they can figure out what to edit later.
SM: the 'they' you're referring to won't get to see what you write, if it turns them off before they even read the whole thing... first you have to get an agent to want to rep it and then the agent needs to get a publisher to take it on... so why be so stubborn and stack the odds against any of that happening, even more than they are already?
ME: I would never think they would be so petty as to disregard it based on semicolons.
SM: I never said they would... but it's one thing that is instantly noticeable and added to other problems the ms may have, could be enough to tip the scales against taking it on... and, as I said, why narrow your chances instead of maximizing them?... if you're aiming for uk, or commonwealth publishers, it doesn't matter, as long as you don't use them improperly [which you have done, in places]
ME: Which is why they have editors. No ms is perfect and NO published book is even perfect! You're a cranky old person, who crushes people's creativity and dreams.
She asked for a short synopsis, so I made up something, which you’ll see down the article.
Here’s the piece from the already published book. I edited the characters names, to match what I had told her in the synopsis:
My older sister’s name was Rosie. She had dark brown hair, pulled back very tightly, and dark eyes, and a soft way of speaking; I thought her very pretty, though she insisted she was not.
We grew up in a village in Ontario, where our father was a stonemason, and had four brothers and three sisters; five more of our siblings had gotten sick when they were still very young. There had been no time for mourning; our mother had been far too busy looking after the rest of us. And no, we had not had a nurse; we had been too poor for that. (ps to my readers: goofed up a little on copying there).
Whenever the weather was fine, Rosie and I would go out for a walk in the afternoon. Our house was in the city, and on those walks we would sometimes pause at the orphanage to watch the orphan girls at play in their white pinafores and brown serge gowns. It looked as grand as a palace with its avenue of lamps, and more windows than you could count, and a statue of an angel before the entrance. The orphans, Rosie told me (she had a friend in service who had grown up here), had been brought here as infants by their mothers, who were too poor, or too ill to care for them. And yes it was very sad for their mothers to have to give them up, but the orphans had a much better life at the orphanage.
“So if papa were to run away,” I asked, “Would I be sent for an orphan?”
“Of course not, my child,” said Rosie, “our papa’s not going to run away, and you’ve got me to look after you. And besides, you’re too old to be an orphan.”
SM: What’s the brief synopsis?
ME: It's about a girl (Amanda) and her sister (Rosie), who on occasion go to visit this orphanage. One day they find one of the orphan girls outside, "lost", and they decide to keep her at their house, pretending she is a friend staying over (that's what they tell their parents). The parents come to love the girl and find out the secret, that she's an orphan and they adopt her.
SM: When and where does this take place?
ME: In 1888 Ontario Canada
SM: Are you canadian?... and do you want to write for the canadian market, or the us market?
ME: no, I'm not from Canada.
SM: the us?... or uk?
SM: sorry to say, the premise is totally unbelievable, since authorities wouldn't allow such a thing to take place... nor would parents take in someone else's child even overnight, without checking with her parents first, let alone for a long enough stay that they 'come to love' her...
ME: The girls lie and tell their parents she's from school and her parents allowed her to come over. Then they keep lying to keep her there, saying her parents just fell ill and she needs to stay away so she wont fall ill too.
SM: .still nonsensical, unless her parents are severely mentally challenged
ME: I could write in there that they're crazy.
SM: wouldn't make any sense, since you have them adopting the kid... and children weren't given over to crazy folks even then...
SM: why don’t they look for her?
ME: The orphanage had too many kids (from the black plague killing their parents).
SM: the black plague' took place in europe, in the 14th -17th centuries!... and plague killed children, too...
ME: It took place all over the world, there were cases of it still in the 19th century. And the dead kids that died from the plague wouldn't be in the orphanage.... (note to readers: She didn’t catch on to what I said!).
SM: .you're splitting hairs... there was no major 'black plague' outbreak in canada in the late 1800s, or any time at all... and I didn't say dead kids were in the orphanage...
SM: How did the girls just find the orphan, that doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t someone go looking for her?
ME: They didn't bother in 1888 to do much in terms of searching for her, she's just a drain on the system, so to speak.
SM: .doesn't explain why parents would buy the silly lies about where the girl came from and why she's staying with them
ME: I told you, they're crazy now
SM: .ok, then the whole story is crazy now
ME: I didn't want any advice on the premise or any of that, really. I was wondering if the grammar and format and all that are up to par, since that seemed to be the issue with my last story you critiqued. After that, I promise I'll get out of your hair. Just wanted to see what I did wrong as a writer. I have no intent on publishing it, it was more for writing practice
SM: ok... I'll give it a shredding later in the day...
Saint Mary’s comments, or “shredding” as follows:
My older sister’s name was Rosie. She had dark brown hair, pulled back very tightly,[all the time?... was it like that when she was born?] and dark eyes, and a soft way of speaking.; [see what I told you about these in the other piece]I thought her very pretty, though she insisted she was not.
We grew up in a village in Ontario, where our father was a stonemason, and had four brothers and three sisters[poor order… could mean the father had them];[get rid of all of these, do not use them in fiction] five more of our siblings had gotten sick when they were still very young.[so?... kids often get sick… how can all the others never have been ill?... 14 kids in all?] There had been no time for mourning[over what?... you never said anyone died]; our mother had been far too busy looking after the rest of us. And no, we had not had [awkward to the max] a nurse; we had been were too poor for that.
Whenever the weather was fine, Rosie and I would go out for a walk in the afternoon. Our house was in the city, and on those walks we would sometimes pause at the orphanage, to watch the orphan girls at play in their white pinafores and brown serge gowns[silly word choice… if you mean ‘dress’ why not say so?]. It looked as grand as a palace with its avenue of lamps,[meaning what?... do you mean a ‘drive’ or ‘driveway’?] and more windows than you could count, and a statue of an angel before the entrance. [whole sentence is a muddled mess] The orphans, Rosie told me (she had a friend in service who had grown up there),[you said kids are only 6 and 8, so how can that be true?] had been brought there as infants, by their mothers, who were too poor, or too ill to care for them.[nonsensical, since that’s not the only way kids are orphaned] And yes, it was very sad for their mothers to have to give them up, but the orphans had a much better life at the orphanage.[than what?]
“So if papa were to run away,” I asked, “Would I be sent for an orphan?”[makes no sense]
“Of course not, my child,” said Rosie., “Our[you do this a lot… need to learn proper dialog
(Note how she spelled dialog instead of dialogue. What a great editor!)
format/punctuation…] papa’s not going to run away,[also need to revisit rules of comma usage, since you often put them in where not needed and leave them out where they are] and you’ve got me to look after you. And besides, you’re too old to be an orphan.”[how does that make any sense?]
ME: Read the link on semicolon usage, I sent you.
SM: None of the pro’s are using them.
ME: But every book I have read, has them.
SM: Like who/what?
ME: Mark Twain, Gregory Maguire (Wicked), David Grann (The lost city of Z), Don Quixote, Stephen King.
SM: Mark Twain is not contemporary. Stephen King is just popular, not a good writer.
ME: You didn’t say they had to be contemporary writers.
SM: didn't think I'd have to... I assumed plain common sense would lead you to realize that only contemporary works will apply in re what's workable in today's world...
ME: In my opinion the dash looks gruff and stops the flow, and makes it look like a newspaper article.
SM: it's the ; that makes fiction look like a new article, since it's the more formal mark, while the em dash is the casual one... so, either you're not an experienced enough reader/writer, or you're british.
ME: No, exactly my point! If I'm writing historical gothic fiction, I want it to look formal.
SM: no, you only want it to be 'worded' a bit more formally... using archaic punctuation doesn't work with today's readers...
ME: Ok, are they mentally handicapped? If I were writing modern-day fiction, more casual stuff, I would use the dash to make it look trendy, or whatever that would be
SM: the problem is that most readers today have no clue what a semicolon means and it's annoying to them, to have fiction peppered with them... or have any at all... and, since you must write for your readers, if you hope to sell your work, you must put your own preferences aside and write what will be best received by agents/publishers/book-buyers.
ME: it's all about pandering to the masses.
SM: of course it is!... what did you think it was?!... who do you think would be willing to pay good money to buy from you something no one would want to buy from them?... if you want to be a professional writer, you'll have to start dealing with the real world...
ME: The other thing is, that every publishing house is going to have their own editor, that will edit the ms to fit their style
SM: but you won't get that far, if your ms looks like a clueless amateur wrote it...
ME: I may use all semicolons and get a house that hates it and vise versa. Damned if you do or don't, basically.
SM: not at all... because while no one will mind your not using semicolons, some will surely mind having them there... and you're supposed to be trying to maximize your chances of getting published, not minimize them..
ME: I just want to write and they can figure out what to edit later.
SM: the 'they' you're referring to won't get to see what you write, if it turns them off before they even read the whole thing... first you have to get an agent to want to rep it and then the agent needs to get a publisher to take it on... so why be so stubborn and stack the odds against any of that happening, even more than they are already?
ME: I would never think they would be so petty as to disregard it based on semicolons.
SM: I never said they would... but it's one thing that is instantly noticeable and added to other problems the ms may have, could be enough to tip the scales against taking it on... and, as I said, why narrow your chances instead of maximizing them?... if you're aiming for uk, or commonwealth publishers, it doesn't matter, as long as you don't use them improperly [which you have done, in places]
ME: Which is why they have editors. No ms is perfect and NO published book is even perfect! You're a cranky old person, who crushes people's creativity and dreams.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
semicolon VS em dash
I just got into it with and editor, over semicolon VS em dash.
I was under the impression that the semicolon was proper grammar, which turns out to be true.
But the newest style in fiction writing, is to put an em dash (-), where you would normally put a semicolon (;).
Her argument, was that, no one knows what a semicolon is anymore, and that it confuses the readers.
Honestly, I think anyone over the age of 16, should, if not does, know what one is.
I read on the writer's digest WEBSITE, a simple way of describing it: "its intention is to be stronger than a comma, but not as final as a period."
Well, there you go.
It's like, "Team Jacob" and, "Team Edward", in the literary world, you've got, "Team semicolon" and, "Team em dash". Actually there are also the bi-croud, who like to use them both in the same body of work.
Only you can decide.
I was under the impression that the semicolon was proper grammar, which turns out to be true.
But the newest style in fiction writing, is to put an em dash (-), where you would normally put a semicolon (;).
Her argument, was that, no one knows what a semicolon is anymore, and that it confuses the readers.
Honestly, I think anyone over the age of 16, should, if not does, know what one is.
I read on the writer's digest WEBSITE, a simple way of describing it: "its intention is to be stronger than a comma, but not as final as a period."
Well, there you go.
It's like, "Team Jacob" and, "Team Edward", in the literary world, you've got, "Team semicolon" and, "Team em dash". Actually there are also the bi-croud, who like to use them both in the same body of work.
Only you can decide.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Deleted scene two
Here's the practice piece when I was still playing with POV and whatnot.
Written in the third person.
Here you go:
She left on her way to the market to get everything on her list, which her mother had written and she had added to. It read: Milk, eggs, bread, butter, sliced ham, tomatoes; she had added milk as her mother had forgotten it. She walked quickly, arms by her side, although it was windy and cold and she felt like crossing her arms , she wouldn’t, if no one would love her, she wouldn’t love herself either. The flat leather souls of her boots clacked lightly on the cobblestone sidewalk as she made her way to the village center. First she passed the book store with its large window displays of all the recent books, then she took a right by the village church with its massive clock tower that seemed a mile high. Around the church is where the local venues would set out their tables and their goods and yell out their specials of the day. She walked over to the dairy stand, a local farmer who had milk, eggs and cheese. He was on the short side with a white head of hair and beard, he donned a friendly yet stern smile, as though to say “I want to help you but I mean business”. She shivered a bit while she stood before his booth and fished the folded list out of her black jacket pocket. “Good day” he said and nodded. “Hello sir…” she looked at him briefly and then quickly down at her list. “What can I get for you today, miss?” he asked kindly, his voice a bit raspy. She imagined he may be a smoker, possibly a pipe smoker; he looked like he may enjoy a nice pipe in the evening s with a glass of scotch or something of the sorts. “Um, I need a gallon of milk, a pound of aged cheese and also a pound of creamed butter please, sir.”
Written in the third person.
Here you go:
She left on her way to the market to get everything on her list, which her mother had written and she had added to. It read: Milk, eggs, bread, butter, sliced ham, tomatoes; she had added milk as her mother had forgotten it. She walked quickly, arms by her side, although it was windy and cold and she felt like crossing her arms , she wouldn’t, if no one would love her, she wouldn’t love herself either. The flat leather souls of her boots clacked lightly on the cobblestone sidewalk as she made her way to the village center. First she passed the book store with its large window displays of all the recent books, then she took a right by the village church with its massive clock tower that seemed a mile high. Around the church is where the local venues would set out their tables and their goods and yell out their specials of the day. She walked over to the dairy stand, a local farmer who had milk, eggs and cheese. He was on the short side with a white head of hair and beard, he donned a friendly yet stern smile, as though to say “I want to help you but I mean business”. She shivered a bit while she stood before his booth and fished the folded list out of her black jacket pocket. “Good day” he said and nodded. “Hello sir…” she looked at him briefly and then quickly down at her list. “What can I get for you today, miss?” he asked kindly, his voice a bit raspy. She imagined he may be a smoker, possibly a pipe smoker; he looked like he may enjoy a nice pipe in the evening s with a glass of scotch or something of the sorts. “Um, I need a gallon of milk, a pound of aged cheese and also a pound of creamed butter please, sir.”
Deleted Scene
Sometimes You just have to cut something you've written.
I thought the girls might want to read this before it gets thrown into my desk top's recycle bin.
This takes place after Olive is at her grandmothers (gimmy) house, and is going on an adventure with Raven, Coyotes (gimmy's friend) son.
Here you go, enjoy:
“Hello, Olive.” Said Coyote. “This is my son Chogan.” His son looked about my age. He was also tall, like his father but his shoulders weren’t quite as broad. His skin looked smooth and tight, wrapped around his muscles. For a brief moment I felt my heart rate excite a little. Then gimmy came up from behind me “Coyote and Raven! You came to get my dear Olive.” She said with pleasure. I looked at her blankly “Get me for what?”
“Oh, Coyote brought Raven to take you to town to show you around, so you know where to go if you need to run errands.”
“Yes, I will gladly show you around” Said Chogan, with a beaming smile. His teeth were so white, I was taken back. His English was also far better than his Father’s.
“Fetch your Jacket dear, Coyote will stay here and keep me company. I’ll watch your little dog too.” I did as gimmy said and put my coat on. We stepped out into the brisk morning air. The air was heavy and moist and smelled of rain. Great, I saw the horses again.
“So, we wont be walking there?” I asked sarcastically.
“Not if you want to get there and back today.” He shot back at me.
“What’s wrong, you don’t like riding?”
“No, not particularly. I hardly had to ride a horse in San Francisco.” Realizing this sounded a bit prissy, after I had said it.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you up.” He said in a teasing manner.
“No, I don’t need your help, thank you.” He helped me up anyway, and laughed as he put his hand on my behind.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing. White women are funny, that’s all.” He laughed again. I resented that and didn’t smile in return. I think he realized he had maddened me because he trailed quite a ways in front of me.
“Why does grandma call you “Raven?” I shouted. He slowed his horse and waited for me to catch up.
“She used to call me “Little Raven”, then I got tall and now she just calls me “Raven”. He said proudly.
“Yes, you’re quite tall.”
“Chogan is Indian for Raven. She was teaching us English and kept calling me Raven and my father Coyote, those are our English names.”
“Well, I like your name. I like ravens.” I said a bit awkward. He smiled at me, causing my heart to skip a beat. I thought maybe I had fallen ill.
He smiled at me as he pet the neck of my horse. For a moment I did feel protected and safe. And I secretly hoped our friendship would continue.
After a few turns down the dirt road we made it to town. We got off our horses and tied them up in front of the Saloon.
“You can tie your horse here when you come to town by yourself.” He said. I was so used to doing everything by myself, but now I found myself hoping he would come with me on my future trips to town.
“Follow me and I’ll show you where to go.” I followed him past the saloon. As we walked past the Apothecary and Bank I could feel the heat of his body next to mine.
“Are you cold?” He asked.
“I’m all right. I have my gloves and my coat.” I said while I lifted my hands to show him my gloves. For a brief moment in my mind I imagined saying “Yes, I’m so cold” and him pulling me closer, wrapping his arms around me, kissing my neck and warming my hands in his. The look in his eyes said that he would be more than willing. Instead I had just said “I’m all right.” And now we walked past the Apothecary.
“This is where you can buy white man’s medicine.” And he pointed at the Apothecary.
“And down here you can buy your meat at the butcher.” We walked past the butcher, and I looked inside, seeing a large man wearing a black apron.
I thought the girls might want to read this before it gets thrown into my desk top's recycle bin.
This takes place after Olive is at her grandmothers (gimmy) house, and is going on an adventure with Raven, Coyotes (gimmy's friend) son.
Here you go, enjoy:
“Hello, Olive.” Said Coyote. “This is my son Chogan.” His son looked about my age. He was also tall, like his father but his shoulders weren’t quite as broad. His skin looked smooth and tight, wrapped around his muscles. For a brief moment I felt my heart rate excite a little. Then gimmy came up from behind me “Coyote and Raven! You came to get my dear Olive.” She said with pleasure. I looked at her blankly “Get me for what?”
“Oh, Coyote brought Raven to take you to town to show you around, so you know where to go if you need to run errands.”
“Yes, I will gladly show you around” Said Chogan, with a beaming smile. His teeth were so white, I was taken back. His English was also far better than his Father’s.
“Fetch your Jacket dear, Coyote will stay here and keep me company. I’ll watch your little dog too.” I did as gimmy said and put my coat on. We stepped out into the brisk morning air. The air was heavy and moist and smelled of rain. Great, I saw the horses again.
“So, we wont be walking there?” I asked sarcastically.
“Not if you want to get there and back today.” He shot back at me.
“What’s wrong, you don’t like riding?”
“No, not particularly. I hardly had to ride a horse in San Francisco.” Realizing this sounded a bit prissy, after I had said it.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you up.” He said in a teasing manner.
“No, I don’t need your help, thank you.” He helped me up anyway, and laughed as he put his hand on my behind.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing. White women are funny, that’s all.” He laughed again. I resented that and didn’t smile in return. I think he realized he had maddened me because he trailed quite a ways in front of me.
“Why does grandma call you “Raven?” I shouted. He slowed his horse and waited for me to catch up.
“She used to call me “Little Raven”, then I got tall and now she just calls me “Raven”. He said proudly.
“Yes, you’re quite tall.”
“Chogan is Indian for Raven. She was teaching us English and kept calling me Raven and my father Coyote, those are our English names.”
“Well, I like your name. I like ravens.” I said a bit awkward. He smiled at me, causing my heart to skip a beat. I thought maybe I had fallen ill.
He smiled at me as he pet the neck of my horse. For a moment I did feel protected and safe. And I secretly hoped our friendship would continue.
After a few turns down the dirt road we made it to town. We got off our horses and tied them up in front of the Saloon.
“You can tie your horse here when you come to town by yourself.” He said. I was so used to doing everything by myself, but now I found myself hoping he would come with me on my future trips to town.
“Follow me and I’ll show you where to go.” I followed him past the saloon. As we walked past the Apothecary and Bank I could feel the heat of his body next to mine.
“Are you cold?” He asked.
“I’m all right. I have my gloves and my coat.” I said while I lifted my hands to show him my gloves. For a brief moment in my mind I imagined saying “Yes, I’m so cold” and him pulling me closer, wrapping his arms around me, kissing my neck and warming my hands in his. The look in his eyes said that he would be more than willing. Instead I had just said “I’m all right.” And now we walked past the Apothecary.
“This is where you can buy white man’s medicine.” And he pointed at the Apothecary.
“And down here you can buy your meat at the butcher.” We walked past the butcher, and I looked inside, seeing a large man wearing a black apron.
Friday, February 26, 2010
3 am thoughts
Ok, I'm awake now. I'm hungry. Screw it, I'm not getting up now. I'll drink some water. I should go on an all tuna diet. Wait, those guys that went on the all sushi diet got poisoned. What's that stuff in tuna that makes you sick? Lithium? No, that's in batteries. Titanium? Wait that's a different metal. It is some kind of metal right? Sodium's salt, so that's not it. Shit, I'm going back to sleep!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Writing ritual
I've read on many message boards, people asking if authors and writers have their own ritual for writing. All of them have said no.
I'm somewhat embarrassed to say that I'm one of those writers who actually does have a ritual!
Now, can I write anywhere? Yes.
But, I can totally write better in a certain environment.
My best writing is done in my sunny bedroom (it has sky light). I have one of those alarm clocks that has different "soothing" settings, like "rain forest" and "waterfall", I'll usually turn it on to "rain forest" to hear the birdies chirp.
Then I like to get all the pillows in the right position, for back and neck support. Usually I'll light a good smelling candle or incense, and then it's time to get to work!
Simple but effective. Nonetheless, I have quite a lot of my ideas come to me when I'm out at the beach or in the car or even at 4am. So, no, I don't go running home and set up my laptop in my perfectly situated bedroom, I pull out my notebook, jot down the idea and come back to it later.
It seems to work well for me, as for other writers, well, I have no idea!
I'm somewhat embarrassed to say that I'm one of those writers who actually does have a ritual!
Now, can I write anywhere? Yes.
But, I can totally write better in a certain environment.
My best writing is done in my sunny bedroom (it has sky light). I have one of those alarm clocks that has different "soothing" settings, like "rain forest" and "waterfall", I'll usually turn it on to "rain forest" to hear the birdies chirp.
Then I like to get all the pillows in the right position, for back and neck support. Usually I'll light a good smelling candle or incense, and then it's time to get to work!
Simple but effective. Nonetheless, I have quite a lot of my ideas come to me when I'm out at the beach or in the car or even at 4am. So, no, I don't go running home and set up my laptop in my perfectly situated bedroom, I pull out my notebook, jot down the idea and come back to it later.
It seems to work well for me, as for other writers, well, I have no idea!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Great new site for writers
I wanted to share with you all, a great new site for writers, publishers and agents.
It's called Writer's advance.
It has articles, groups, forums, agent lists and more. A lot of support for writers! Check it by CLICKING HERE.
It's called Writer's advance.
It has articles, groups, forums, agent lists and more. A lot of support for writers! Check it by CLICKING HERE.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Chicken soup
The homemade chicken soup tasted exactly like riding on a horse, through the forest and on the beach, in the rain.
It's true you can find characters everywhere and anywhere
For Valentine's day my husband and I went to our favorite local pub to enjoy some beer on tap.
Once we were seated we could see one of the bartender/waitress ladies wearing a latex glove on her left hand.
We could see one finger was wrapped in bandages. It was kind of hard to miss, and not surprisingly the lady next to us at the bar asked "What did you do to your finger?" The bartender lady was more than eager to share, "I axed it off last night!"
We all gasped in horror, but she went on as if it wasn't anything out of the ordinary, "I was chopping wood and chopped right through my finger tip, clear through my nail."
"That's not real!" I exclaimed, but she assured me it was real and went on to say; "My boyfriend went out to look for the piece but he couldn't find it. So, I just cleaned it and wrapped it up." The lady next to us looked on in horror and asked;"Didn't you go to the hospital?"
"No, there aint nothin the doctors can do for me."
"Ok, stop, I believe you!" Said the lady, not wanting to hear more.
I had had my ear's full myself and after that my french fries didn't seem so appetizing.
This just goes to show, that it's true, you can find characters anywhere you go. These are the kind of things we can draw on as fiction writers.
Once we were seated we could see one of the bartender/waitress ladies wearing a latex glove on her left hand.
We could see one finger was wrapped in bandages. It was kind of hard to miss, and not surprisingly the lady next to us at the bar asked "What did you do to your finger?" The bartender lady was more than eager to share, "I axed it off last night!"
We all gasped in horror, but she went on as if it wasn't anything out of the ordinary, "I was chopping wood and chopped right through my finger tip, clear through my nail."
"That's not real!" I exclaimed, but she assured me it was real and went on to say; "My boyfriend went out to look for the piece but he couldn't find it. So, I just cleaned it and wrapped it up." The lady next to us looked on in horror and asked;"Didn't you go to the hospital?"
"No, there aint nothin the doctors can do for me."
"Ok, stop, I believe you!" Said the lady, not wanting to hear more.
I had had my ear's full myself and after that my french fries didn't seem so appetizing.
This just goes to show, that it's true, you can find characters anywhere you go. These are the kind of things we can draw on as fiction writers.
Monday, February 22, 2010
The word count is on
You see it out of the corner of your eye and can't help looking at it every few minutes, that's right it's the word count!
"What does this word count mean?" you ask.
So lets break it down:
(This given to us by: Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America)
7,500 words is a short story
7,500 to 17,500 word is a Novelette
17,500 to 40,000 words is a Novella
and over 40,000 words is considered a Novel
So now we both know!
"What does this word count mean?" you ask.
So lets break it down:
(This given to us by: Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America)
7,500 words is a short story
7,500 to 17,500 word is a Novelette
17,500 to 40,000 words is a Novella
and over 40,000 words is considered a Novel
So now we both know!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Researching location
As a fiction writer, or most any writer for that matter, research is usually a large part of the process.
In this case I had to research San Fransisco CA and New Era OR in the 1800's.
Here's some interesting info on New Era, found at this website. It's interesting stuff. And as a fiction writer you can add your own twist on history too.
"The New Era Spiritual Society, a religious group settled on a hill above Parrott Creek flowing into the Willamette River above the falls, was the source of the name for the settlement beginning to form a short distance away. As the town began to grow, so did the name New Era as an appropriate name for the town. The rich soil was ideal for farming and potato was the crop of choice. Shipments were made by wagon to Oregon City, transferred to boats below the falls and on to Portland. After a system of locks was built, boats could put in at New Era and after the arrival of the railroad, the produce was shipped by train. There are structures still intact in New Era. SUBMITTED BY: Henry Chenoweth
UPDATE: The origin of the name of New Era is incorrect. Although more research is needed to verify the history, the Spiritualist Camp was founded after the name “New Era” was used. Taken from Clackamas County Historic Survey records regarding the Spiritualist Camp:
“Communities sprang up along streams where water power allowed industrial development. A post office was established in the early 1850s (original name unknown at this time), at the confluence of Beaver and Parrot creeks, now known as New Era. The New Era Rolling Mill was established in 1868, continuing operation until 1935. The origin of the name New Era is unclear, however, some inaccurately relate it to the Spiritualist Camp, founded in 1873, located near the mill site. James Washington Offield, a child when his family arrived via the Barlow Road in 1850, stated that he named "New Era" when he built a commission warehouse circa 1860 at the same site where his mother's oxen died en-route to their Donation Land Claim in the Macksburg area years earlier.” Submitted by: Peggy Sigler"
In this case I had to research San Fransisco CA and New Era OR in the 1800's.
Here's some interesting info on New Era, found at this website. It's interesting stuff. And as a fiction writer you can add your own twist on history too.
"The New Era Spiritual Society, a religious group settled on a hill above Parrott Creek flowing into the Willamette River above the falls, was the source of the name for the settlement beginning to form a short distance away. As the town began to grow, so did the name New Era as an appropriate name for the town. The rich soil was ideal for farming and potato was the crop of choice. Shipments were made by wagon to Oregon City, transferred to boats below the falls and on to Portland. After a system of locks was built, boats could put in at New Era and after the arrival of the railroad, the produce was shipped by train. There are structures still intact in New Era. SUBMITTED BY: Henry Chenoweth
UPDATE: The origin of the name of New Era is incorrect. Although more research is needed to verify the history, the Spiritualist Camp was founded after the name “New Era” was used. Taken from Clackamas County Historic Survey records regarding the Spiritualist Camp:
“Communities sprang up along streams where water power allowed industrial development. A post office was established in the early 1850s (original name unknown at this time), at the confluence of Beaver and Parrot creeks, now known as New Era. The New Era Rolling Mill was established in 1868, continuing operation until 1935. The origin of the name New Era is unclear, however, some inaccurately relate it to the Spiritualist Camp, founded in 1873, located near the mill site. James Washington Offield, a child when his family arrived via the Barlow Road in 1850, stated that he named "New Era" when he built a commission warehouse circa 1860 at the same site where his mother's oxen died en-route to their Donation Land Claim in the Macksburg area years earlier.” Submitted by: Peggy Sigler"
The search for an editor
If you're lucky your manuscript looks amazing, and an agent readily takes it on and pitches it to a publisher who then in turn edits and publishes your book. However, writing an amazing manuscript isn't so easy, and hiring your own editor at that stage is ideal. Some charge by the hour, some by the page. They also offer other services such as proofreading. I found a page of local Seattle editors that do freelance work by doing a search on a site called Biznik Click here, and got in contact with a local editor Lori Zue, hopefully to be my future editor, if all works out.
Olive
I'm currently working on my newest project, "Olive". I hope to turn it into a novel of around 300 pages. Hopefully I'll be finished in about 6months. My ideal situation would be to have a publishing house publish the book, but if that doesn't happen I will be self publishing.
Olive is 22 in 1890, she struggles with her opium addicted mother in San Fransisco and is sent off to care for her grandmother in New Era Oregon.
She learns about her heritage, encounters ghosts and falls in love for the first time and is faced with a mystery to solve all while meeting a cast of interesting characters.
Olive is 22 in 1890, she struggles with her opium addicted mother in San Fransisco and is sent off to care for her grandmother in New Era Oregon.
She learns about her heritage, encounters ghosts and falls in love for the first time and is faced with a mystery to solve all while meeting a cast of interesting characters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
