Blank pages used to give me such a rush. My mind was boggled at the sheer amount of possibilities that the creamy sheet created. Would I fill it with the words of a science fiction novel? Would I write out five tidy paragraphs to make up a school paper on the novel Maisie Dobbs? Would I type up a lengthy email to send to my good friend in the Philippines?
In the past few weeks, however, blank pages have filled me with a sense of dread. How on earth am I going to write something new and original? Shouldn’t I be editing an earlier novel? I really should be doing my biology homework…
The pure joy of writing has vanished, replaced by the unrelenting guilt of all the other things I could be doing with my time. It’s not always homework that hounds me. A surprising amount of the time, I have my homework done and my textbooks stashed away before the sun’s gone down (today is not one of those times, I admit).
But there’s always something I think I should be doing. My nephew wants to play with me, or my siblings are watching a movie and want me to join them. Unedited novels sit around my room giving me the evil eye, and I wonder if I shouldn’t use this opportunity to get ahead in reading my Cultural Anthropology book. Unread library books add their two sense to the cacophony, leaving me wanting to jump into my bed and retreat from the world entirely.
Bear with me while I digress. A week ago yesterday, I rolled out of bed at five thirty in the morning. It was still dark out while I put on my jeans, hoodie, and stable boots, and ate a banana in the deadly silent kitchen. Then I drove half an hour to the stable with only the sunrise in my rearview mirror for company. I was the first one at the barn, so I sat on my car hood and watched the sun coming up, the horses in the pasture, and the birds on the fence.
I wasn’t doing anything just yet, but I felt perfectly happy. It was quiet and cool, the sunrise was beautiful, and the sight of horses alone was enough to make me ecstatic.
Normally, you couldn’t pay me to get out of bed at five thirty in the morning. But I had a job to do (feed the horses), people were counting on me, and I was looking forward to spending some quality time with the horses. At six in the morning, there was nothing else in the world to take my attention away from that job.
Fast forward to my current situation. My attention is being pulled in fifty directions all at once. School, writing, family, piano practice, reading – they’re all clamoring for all of my time and energy. I get frustrated easily; if I get frustrated enough, I’ll literally sit down and cry.
This brings me to my point:
Singular Focus.
When I’m sitting down to do my biology homework, that’s all I need on my mind: biology homework. When I sit down at my piano to practice, the notes on the pages before me is all I need to think about. And when I set up Tasha to write or pull out a novel hard copy, that is all I need to think about.
When I decide to do something, I should give it all my attention (within reason, naturally), or I’d be better off not doing it at all. Constantly thinking ahead, or sideways or backwards, only distracts me from what I need to be doing in that very moment.
And so, I’m going to take this moment and apply it to Summer Rush, because I’m falling behind in editing! Eeek!
Adios, peeps!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Work Outs
What with finals and everything, I’ve been studying hard in class, between classes, and at home. It’s kind of exhausting. And it sucks, because I’ve always been an insomniac, and stress keeps me awake even longer at night.
So, time constraint be darned, I’ve been working out. And it’s been awesome. When I have to study a lot, I want a break even more. My usual break is lying on my back, staring at the TV. But, lately, I’ve discovered that a physical workout is the best mental break that I can give myself.
Compared to school, it’s so relaxing! I don’t have to think hard, but I’m still working. Running on a treadmill (as long as I warm up long enough; my knees are really finicky) has turned out to be the most relaxing so far, with pilates a close second.
The best part about working out more often is that I sleep like a rock. I’ve always slept like a log – now I sleep like a rock. Long, peaceful hours of unadulterated, blissful, sublime sleep. I love it.
Today I got a bunch of good grades on papers, which was a great morale booster. I can’t believe the semester is so close to ending! I’m kind of scared to get my final grades and GPA score. But I’m definitely excited to get back to writing!
So, time constraint be darned, I’ve been working out. And it’s been awesome. When I have to study a lot, I want a break even more. My usual break is lying on my back, staring at the TV. But, lately, I’ve discovered that a physical workout is the best mental break that I can give myself.
Compared to school, it’s so relaxing! I don’t have to think hard, but I’m still working. Running on a treadmill (as long as I warm up long enough; my knees are really finicky) has turned out to be the most relaxing so far, with pilates a close second.
The best part about working out more often is that I sleep like a rock. I’ve always slept like a log – now I sleep like a rock. Long, peaceful hours of unadulterated, blissful, sublime sleep. I love it.
Today I got a bunch of good grades on papers, which was a great morale booster. I can’t believe the semester is so close to ending! I’m kind of scared to get my final grades and GPA score. But I’m definitely excited to get back to writing!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Epiphany
When I started writing my novel Summer Rush, I had a vision. In fact, I was so caught up in that I went around visioning all day. And now? I’m re-visioning.
Ghosts of the old vision are still there. But there’s also a newer, stronger, more structurally sound vision that includes description, 3D characters, and a climax and ending that are worthy of those new and improved aspects.
Yes. I have had an epiphany.
I have them quite often.
I’m a bad rewriter. I’m just going to admit that right now. But my bad writing skills were exemplified when I started “rewriting” Summer Rush. Why, you ask? I was afraid to change a thing. With every little sentence that was restructured or comma I removed I was continuously, nearly in a panic, asking myself, is this changing things? Am I staying true to the story?
The thing is, I lost sight of what Summer Rush really is: just a first draft. No character, scene, or theme is set in stone. This draft was simply an on-ramp for me to get to the real story – the rewritten story.
I’m not saying everything was crap and should be destroyed. But writing is rewriting. Haven’t we all heard that one a million times?
This epiphany has been a long time coming (okay, like 2 or 3 weeks). It all started with a potential plot twist that popped into my head. At the time, I didn’t want to use it. It wasn’t “true to the story.”
But I’m letting the world and myself know right now – after careful consideration, I am taking that plot twist and going for it.
Sure, Summer Rush 2.0 will be a very different story. But the theme and the people and the real story stays the same. The story is always the same; I’m just cutting out the bad writing and telling it better.
Wish me luck.
Ghosts of the old vision are still there. But there’s also a newer, stronger, more structurally sound vision that includes description, 3D characters, and a climax and ending that are worthy of those new and improved aspects.
Yes. I have had an epiphany.
I have them quite often.
I’m a bad rewriter. I’m just going to admit that right now. But my bad writing skills were exemplified when I started “rewriting” Summer Rush. Why, you ask? I was afraid to change a thing. With every little sentence that was restructured or comma I removed I was continuously, nearly in a panic, asking myself, is this changing things? Am I staying true to the story?
The thing is, I lost sight of what Summer Rush really is: just a first draft. No character, scene, or theme is set in stone. This draft was simply an on-ramp for me to get to the real story – the rewritten story.
I’m not saying everything was crap and should be destroyed. But writing is rewriting. Haven’t we all heard that one a million times?
This epiphany has been a long time coming (okay, like 2 or 3 weeks). It all started with a potential plot twist that popped into my head. At the time, I didn’t want to use it. It wasn’t “true to the story.”
But I’m letting the world and myself know right now – after careful consideration, I am taking that plot twist and going for it.
Sure, Summer Rush 2.0 will be a very different story. But the theme and the people and the real story stays the same. The story is always the same; I’m just cutting out the bad writing and telling it better.
Wish me luck.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
My 5 Ways to Combat Writer's Block
Cross-posted from my other blog.
When I lack inspiration, I have a few fall-back options that will usually get the creative side of my brain back in gear. Right now, I need inspiration for this blog post. The inspiration that came to me was to write about things I do when I lack inspiration. Have I said inspiration too many times yet?
5) Read novels not in my genre. It need not be said that I love to read. When searching for that oomph to get me back into a writerly frame of mind, I like to read my favorite books with awesome characters and setting. It makes me want to write fiction that well, too.
4) Go for a walk with my dog. Matthew is a stubborn dog who likes to pull on his leash and scare cats, so walking him effectively takes my mind off everything, and gives me a much-needed break.
I come back from the walk not so much refreshed, but desperate to do anything other than fight with my dog. Working at my desk is like heaven in comparison.
3) Make book covers. I like to have an idea of what would go on the cover of my novel, mostly because it helps me envision the book actually being done. It’s still in an artistic medium, it still has everything to do with my novel, but it’s not writing.
When I made the cover for Angel from Hell, I really just wanted a picture of a girl with a sword. But the whole suit of armor and tattoo thing ended up sparking new ideas. I ditched the cover-making in a matter of minutes and went back to writing.
2) Brainstorm with my sister. I’m lucky in this regard; I have two sisters who love fiction writing just as much as I do. One of them has a desk perpendicular to mine, so all I have to do for a brainstorm partner is look up from my computer.
Talking/thinking aloud helps me get things straightened out in my head, which in turn helps me get things straightened out on paper. I had an epiphany while thinking aloud just the other day. I can’t put it to use yet, but when May 5 gets here, look out! ^^
1) Complain. Yep, I said it. My number one way to combat writer’s block is to whine and complain. It’s like therapy for me. I lie on my bed and complain to all who dare to venture within earshot. At first, it feels nice to blame everything under the sun for my problems.
A few minutes – okay, maybe ten or twenty minutes – and then I start to feel like the laziest writer in the world. Feeling guilty overcomes my feeling abused. I rolled out of bed, park my bottom in my desk chair, scoot into my desk, and next thing you know, I’m typing out a few words.
Those few words lead to another few words, and voila! I’m off.
I’m not even going to pretend my methods would be helpful to anyone, so I’m curious. How do you get rid of your writer’s block?
When I lack inspiration, I have a few fall-back options that will usually get the creative side of my brain back in gear. Right now, I need inspiration for this blog post. The inspiration that came to me was to write about things I do when I lack inspiration. Have I said inspiration too many times yet?
5) Read novels not in my genre. It need not be said that I love to read. When searching for that oomph to get me back into a writerly frame of mind, I like to read my favorite books with awesome characters and setting. It makes me want to write fiction that well, too.
4) Go for a walk with my dog. Matthew is a stubborn dog who likes to pull on his leash and scare cats, so walking him effectively takes my mind off everything, and gives me a much-needed break.
I come back from the walk not so much refreshed, but desperate to do anything other than fight with my dog. Working at my desk is like heaven in comparison.
3) Make book covers. I like to have an idea of what would go on the cover of my novel, mostly because it helps me envision the book actually being done. It’s still in an artistic medium, it still has everything to do with my novel, but it’s not writing.
When I made the cover for Angel from Hell, I really just wanted a picture of a girl with a sword. But the whole suit of armor and tattoo thing ended up sparking new ideas. I ditched the cover-making in a matter of minutes and went back to writing.
2) Brainstorm with my sister. I’m lucky in this regard; I have two sisters who love fiction writing just as much as I do. One of them has a desk perpendicular to mine, so all I have to do for a brainstorm partner is look up from my computer.
Talking/thinking aloud helps me get things straightened out in my head, which in turn helps me get things straightened out on paper. I had an epiphany while thinking aloud just the other day. I can’t put it to use yet, but when May 5 gets here, look out! ^^
1) Complain. Yep, I said it. My number one way to combat writer’s block is to whine and complain. It’s like therapy for me. I lie on my bed and complain to all who dare to venture within earshot. At first, it feels nice to blame everything under the sun for my problems.
A few minutes – okay, maybe ten or twenty minutes – and then I start to feel like the laziest writer in the world. Feeling guilty overcomes my feeling abused. I rolled out of bed, park my bottom in my desk chair, scoot into my desk, and next thing you know, I’m typing out a few words.
Those few words lead to another few words, and voila! I’m off.
I’m not even going to pretend my methods would be helpful to anyone, so I’m curious. How do you get rid of your writer’s block?
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Polka-Dot Fingernails and the Public Library
I am, once more, sequestered in the corner of the library, head capped with massive Sony headphones, library books and textbooks spread across the table to my right, and a shiny, stainless steel lamp to my left. There are big windows on my left, too, and through them I can see quickly-moving, Thursday afternoon traffic and faint rays of sunshine.
The library is quiet. There are people on computers, and rows and rows of shelves crammed full of awesome books dominate the center of the entire building. I can hear the air conditioning going in spite of my headphones. The carpet is gray with patterns of circles in a darker shade of gray.
The lady sitting across from me at a table is about twenty-something. She has on a white baseball cap that looks like it was originally intended for a guy. Her arms are crossed, and she has on headphones. Her gaze is riveted on the computer screen of her slightly beaten up, white Mac computer. Her expression is slightly grim, which makes me wonder if she’s even enjoying what she’s doing.
Have I bored you to death yet? I’m practicing. Not to bore people to death, of course. I’m practicing recording the things I see in order to make my descriptions better in my writing. Obviously I wouldn’t put all that info in if my MC happened to be sitting at a library, supposedly to do her homework, but writing a blog post instead ^_^
Lack of description is way high up there in my list of writing faults, and I have decided it’s high time I attempt to fix it. So, for the past week or so, I’ve been trying to be more alert to my surroundings. You know what I’ve learned? I am sadly oblivious. I breeze through a room without even noticing there are people sitting there. I can stare at my sister all day but not remember what color t-shirt she was wearing. Sad, I know.
But practice makes perfect (perfect practice makes perfect, as my Dad says) so I can fix this, even if I have to walk around recording everything I see with notebook and pen until I can teach myself to see everything but just pick out the important things.
For instance: a non-important thing, at least at the moment, is the fact that my nails are bright green with peach-colored polka dots. My youngest sister, Jasmine, painted them for me last night. But I’ve been oddly obsessed with staring at the color for this entire day.
So, that is what I’m working on – descriptions and setting. I have everything in my head, I just need to learn to get it on paper!
The library is quiet. There are people on computers, and rows and rows of shelves crammed full of awesome books dominate the center of the entire building. I can hear the air conditioning going in spite of my headphones. The carpet is gray with patterns of circles in a darker shade of gray.
The lady sitting across from me at a table is about twenty-something. She has on a white baseball cap that looks like it was originally intended for a guy. Her arms are crossed, and she has on headphones. Her gaze is riveted on the computer screen of her slightly beaten up, white Mac computer. Her expression is slightly grim, which makes me wonder if she’s even enjoying what she’s doing.
Have I bored you to death yet? I’m practicing. Not to bore people to death, of course. I’m practicing recording the things I see in order to make my descriptions better in my writing. Obviously I wouldn’t put all that info in if my MC happened to be sitting at a library, supposedly to do her homework, but writing a blog post instead ^_^
Lack of description is way high up there in my list of writing faults, and I have decided it’s high time I attempt to fix it. So, for the past week or so, I’ve been trying to be more alert to my surroundings. You know what I’ve learned? I am sadly oblivious. I breeze through a room without even noticing there are people sitting there. I can stare at my sister all day but not remember what color t-shirt she was wearing. Sad, I know.
But practice makes perfect (perfect practice makes perfect, as my Dad says) so I can fix this, even if I have to walk around recording everything I see with notebook and pen until I can teach myself to see everything but just pick out the important things.
For instance: a non-important thing, at least at the moment, is the fact that my nails are bright green with peach-colored polka dots. My youngest sister, Jasmine, painted them for me last night. But I’ve been oddly obsessed with staring at the color for this entire day.
So, that is what I’m working on – descriptions and setting. I have everything in my head, I just need to learn to get it on paper!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Stream of Consciousness Writing
Stream of consciousness writing is absolutely fascinating. You put pencil to paper and just write every word that comes to mind, paying no attention to grammar, spelling, or even coherence. It's a near seamless transition from brain to paper; true mind to hand writing.
I've done this a couple of times, although I find it a fight to not think about grammar and such. The editing book I'm currently reading, Revision and Self-Editing from the Write Great Fiction series, suggests a similar technique to get into your characters' heads; it's sort of like the Write or Die tactic that I first learned of during NaNoWriMo (I learned a LOT during NaNo; it was like a crash course in the butt-in-chair-hands-on-keyboard technique and everything even remotely related).
While I was waiting for my sister to get out of class today, I sat in my car and started brainstorming. I've currently sworn off writing fiction until school lets out, but I'm allowed to brainstorm. The reason my brain was suddenly overflowing with ideas? In history, whilst discussing the 50s, my teacher mentioned an author. I can't remember his name now, or the name of his book, but he wrote a book entirely using the stream of consciousness method. Wow.
My teacher had us listen to an audio of the author reading it, and I was mesmerized. It was an endless stream of babble, and I was scrabbling to try to find meaning in it as the guy threw out phrases like "God is Pooh Bear" and "the utter darkness that is death."
But, for some reason I can't fathom, it got my mind working. All through the rest of history class my brain was frozen on a phrase I'd heard. But in my mind, it had stopped being a phrase by the author and had become the title of a nameless project I'd been working on for months. Sitting there, the project took off in a dozen different directions at once, all under the heading of this new title.
This is one more thing to add to my to-do list for summer - practice stream of consciousness writing!
I've done this a couple of times, although I find it a fight to not think about grammar and such. The editing book I'm currently reading, Revision and Self-Editing from the Write Great Fiction series, suggests a similar technique to get into your characters' heads; it's sort of like the Write or Die tactic that I first learned of during NaNoWriMo (I learned a LOT during NaNo; it was like a crash course in the butt-in-chair-hands-on-keyboard technique and everything even remotely related).
While I was waiting for my sister to get out of class today, I sat in my car and started brainstorming. I've currently sworn off writing fiction until school lets out, but I'm allowed to brainstorm. The reason my brain was suddenly overflowing with ideas? In history, whilst discussing the 50s, my teacher mentioned an author. I can't remember his name now, or the name of his book, but he wrote a book entirely using the stream of consciousness method. Wow.
My teacher had us listen to an audio of the author reading it, and I was mesmerized. It was an endless stream of babble, and I was scrabbling to try to find meaning in it as the guy threw out phrases like "God is Pooh Bear" and "the utter darkness that is death."
But, for some reason I can't fathom, it got my mind working. All through the rest of history class my brain was frozen on a phrase I'd heard. But in my mind, it had stopped being a phrase by the author and had become the title of a nameless project I'd been working on for months. Sitting there, the project took off in a dozen different directions at once, all under the heading of this new title.
This is one more thing to add to my to-do list for summer - practice stream of consciousness writing!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
I Am a Writer at Heart
And when I'm not writing or talking about writing, I like to talk to other writers about their writing! It never ceases to fascinate me when I learn about all the different types of writing, writing rituals, and ways of procrastinating that we writerly people engage in.
Although my opinion is clearly biased, I think teenaged writers are doubly interesting. We are a curious lot. There're thousands of different wonderful things that we could be doing in life, yet we choose to labor over a keyboard (or with writing utensil and paper).
What makes teen writers, or any writers for that matter, choose writing over other things? Where do their ideas come from? How do they force themselves to keep at it when they get frustrated? What are they working on now? How'd they get started writing? What are their plans for the future? Do they want to be published? Have they finished your project? When do they think you'll finish? Do they belong to any writers groups? All of this stuff is so much fun to discover.
As a writer myself, I know there are all sorts of different opinions on teenage writers. Some people think we all suck just because we're young. Some people think we're geniuses. It runs to all ends of the spectrum. The truth? We're all writers, regardless of age, and there are good ones and bad ones.
My plan: I want to interview writers! Young, old, beginner, old hand, whatever - I'm curious to know your stories and share them with others. At the moment, I'm working on compiling a list of prospective interviewees, and a list of questions that I'll be asking. If you have any suggestions for questions, people to interview, or even if you want to be interviewed yourself, let me know!
Although my opinion is clearly biased, I think teenaged writers are doubly interesting. We are a curious lot. There're thousands of different wonderful things that we could be doing in life, yet we choose to labor over a keyboard (or with writing utensil and paper).
What makes teen writers, or any writers for that matter, choose writing over other things? Where do their ideas come from? How do they force themselves to keep at it when they get frustrated? What are they working on now? How'd they get started writing? What are their plans for the future? Do they want to be published? Have they finished your project? When do they think you'll finish? Do they belong to any writers groups? All of this stuff is so much fun to discover.
As a writer myself, I know there are all sorts of different opinions on teenage writers. Some people think we all suck just because we're young. Some people think we're geniuses. It runs to all ends of the spectrum. The truth? We're all writers, regardless of age, and there are good ones and bad ones.
My plan: I want to interview writers! Young, old, beginner, old hand, whatever - I'm curious to know your stories and share them with others. At the moment, I'm working on compiling a list of prospective interviewees, and a list of questions that I'll be asking. If you have any suggestions for questions, people to interview, or even if you want to be interviewed yourself, let me know!
Monday, September 27, 2010
Random lovely, sparkly, wonderfully good things
Today has been a day of lovely, sparkly, wonderfully good things. I love good things, as I’m sure everybody does. Although today started out with over-sleeping and almost being late for school, plus rain and dreariness and freezing half to death in my classroom, it ended awesomely.
Reason number one: I got an A on my history paper! YES! I was worried sick about the grade I was going to get but it worked out well. That’s mostly due to my awesome teacher, Mr. Flagel. I was only around halfway through with the essay when I ran out of time, so he assigned points to my line of reasoning and where I’d been headed with it, instead of taking points off for incompletion.
Reason number two: I got to stay for a couple of hours at my sister’s apartment, which was lovely and peaceful and very quiet. I love my siblings like crazy but they can be loud. When I have a lot of homework, that can be a bother. Instead of noise, I got to sit in blissful quiet, watching a movie with Liz.
Reason number three: I got good reviews on California Girl! Enough said.
Reason number four: I had math tutoring, which was fun and invaluable, as I have a math test this Friday. I need all the help I can get; I’m still not one hundred percent sure how to use my borrowed graphing calculator.
Reason number five: I got to hang out with Kyra and Elizabeth and I got to see Chenise and my sweet, sweet baby. I love you EJ! I am your number one fan! I love that baby so much. He’s such a sweetie.
Tomorrow will be non-stop history and math studying so I’ll be prepared for both the math test and the history debate on Wednesday. That makes up twenty points of my final grade. Mr. Flagel said we get five points for each good answer we give, so I just need four good answers. Naturally I’ll be going for more than that, since extra points are always good, but four is the minimum.
Anyway, I decided to cut myself a break for good behavior tonight. I’ll just lounge around and read or write; I’ll do the bulk of my studying and homework tomorrow.
Reason number one: I got an A on my history paper! YES! I was worried sick about the grade I was going to get but it worked out well. That’s mostly due to my awesome teacher, Mr. Flagel. I was only around halfway through with the essay when I ran out of time, so he assigned points to my line of reasoning and where I’d been headed with it, instead of taking points off for incompletion.
Reason number two: I got to stay for a couple of hours at my sister’s apartment, which was lovely and peaceful and very quiet. I love my siblings like crazy but they can be loud. When I have a lot of homework, that can be a bother. Instead of noise, I got to sit in blissful quiet, watching a movie with Liz.
Reason number three: I got good reviews on California Girl! Enough said.
Reason number four: I had math tutoring, which was fun and invaluable, as I have a math test this Friday. I need all the help I can get; I’m still not one hundred percent sure how to use my borrowed graphing calculator.
Reason number five: I got to hang out with Kyra and Elizabeth and I got to see Chenise and my sweet, sweet baby. I love you EJ! I am your number one fan! I love that baby so much. He’s such a sweetie.
Tomorrow will be non-stop history and math studying so I’ll be prepared for both the math test and the history debate on Wednesday. That makes up twenty points of my final grade. Mr. Flagel said we get five points for each good answer we give, so I just need four good answers. Naturally I’ll be going for more than that, since extra points are always good, but four is the minimum.
Anyway, I decided to cut myself a break for good behavior tonight. I’ll just lounge around and read or write; I’ll do the bulk of my studying and homework tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
I have just about one more chapter to write on Summer Rush and then I will be done! Whooo! I'm super excited about that (I always reward finishing a book with chocolate or ice cream or both). But that is not the only thing I'm excited about today.
My college acceptance letter came today! AAAAHHHH!
It might not be my dream college (I love you Murray State University!) but it is the first step in getting to my dream college. And besides all that, hey! I've been accepted into college! I made it! Hold on just a second while I play that song, I Made It (Kevin Rudolf ft Lil Wayne and somebody I can't remember).
Okay, it's playing. I feel like jumping up and doing a victory dance! On top of all this wonderfulness - I've been making words up left and right lately - my birthday is in nineteen days! I will be seventeen years old! Yay!
My college acceptance letter came today! AAAAHHHH!
It might not be my dream college (I love you Murray State University!) but it is the first step in getting to my dream college. And besides all that, hey! I've been accepted into college! I made it! Hold on just a second while I play that song, I Made It (Kevin Rudolf ft Lil Wayne and somebody I can't remember).
Okay, it's playing. I feel like jumping up and doing a victory dance! On top of all this wonderfulness - I've been making words up left and right lately - my birthday is in nineteen days! I will be seventeen years old! Yay!
Friday, July 30, 2010
An old story...
I was reading through some old stories the other day and came across this story I started called The Companion. It’s a typical fantasy with a quest, a chosen one, etc. Apparently I was telling it through the eyes of the Chosen One’s companion, a halfling named Sonora. Anyway, I just thought I’d share the prologue :)
<>
It was early morning. Mist swirled lazily across the ground like scuttling snakes, around the roots of the white trees, and above the surface of the water of the river. There was absolute silence, so think it was almost like a blanket over the entire world. Not a single animal stirred. Not even ghosts were about.
But wait. Perhaps there were…ghosts.
From nowhere came a soft sound, like ghostly feet on dew-dampened dirt. Slowly, through the mist, came a figure.
It was a young woman. She had delicate, elfin features and long hair not much darker than the mist with a faint bluish tint. She was as pale as snow and wore a garment the color of a starless night. In her hands she held a bundle. As she walked soundlessly across the ground, the bundle squawked. It was a child.
The woman stopped. She stood in the center of a meadow, surrounded by the crystal clear waters of the river on three sides, and a stately line of white trees on the fourth.
There was no sound now. She stood there, clutching the squirming child to her chest tightly. It was so very still. She seemed frozen.
Then, more movement.
Something dark moved through the white trees and missed. It was tall and so very, very dark; it seemed to suck all light into it. The woman watched it approach, her features frozen in a mask of iron.
Carefully, the darkness moved into the meadow. It was not quite human. Its skin was jet black and covered in gleaming bluish-black scales. It had large ears like those of an elf and long black hair. Its eyes, the only discernable feature on its face, were the color of pure gold. It had a cloak, also black, and it held it round about itself.
“Did you bring the child?” Its voice was harsh yet gentle at the same time.
The woman smiled and held out the bundle. The darkness moved to stand before the woman, its slate smooth and almost mirror-like face tilted down to view the child.
“Sonora,” he said softly.
The child glared at him. Her eyes were the same hypnotic gold as the darkness’ but rather than being a single disc of color, they were like the slitted eyes of a snake.
“She is not like the others,” the woman said. “But they will not cast her out. She is one of us, no matter her parentage.”
The darkness stroked the child’s curly, whitish hair with a slightly humanistic claw. “She is the One. Nobody can deny it.”
“We shall see.”
From deep in the white woods – a snarl. The darkness stiffened. “They come for her.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. Two large, jet black wings exploded into view. She stepped back, once again hugging the child to her chest. The darkness watched silently as she flapped her wings once and took swiftly to the air.
A low, reptilian hiss came from behind him. “The Chosen One… she is ours…”
Something began to emerge from the mist. The darkness pulled his cloak about him and, with a puff of black smoke, disappeared.
<>
It was early morning. Mist swirled lazily across the ground like scuttling snakes, around the roots of the white trees, and above the surface of the water of the river. There was absolute silence, so think it was almost like a blanket over the entire world. Not a single animal stirred. Not even ghosts were about.
But wait. Perhaps there were…ghosts.
From nowhere came a soft sound, like ghostly feet on dew-dampened dirt. Slowly, through the mist, came a figure.
It was a young woman. She had delicate, elfin features and long hair not much darker than the mist with a faint bluish tint. She was as pale as snow and wore a garment the color of a starless night. In her hands she held a bundle. As she walked soundlessly across the ground, the bundle squawked. It was a child.
The woman stopped. She stood in the center of a meadow, surrounded by the crystal clear waters of the river on three sides, and a stately line of white trees on the fourth.
There was no sound now. She stood there, clutching the squirming child to her chest tightly. It was so very still. She seemed frozen.
Then, more movement.
Something dark moved through the white trees and missed. It was tall and so very, very dark; it seemed to suck all light into it. The woman watched it approach, her features frozen in a mask of iron.
Carefully, the darkness moved into the meadow. It was not quite human. Its skin was jet black and covered in gleaming bluish-black scales. It had large ears like those of an elf and long black hair. Its eyes, the only discernable feature on its face, were the color of pure gold. It had a cloak, also black, and it held it round about itself.
“Did you bring the child?” Its voice was harsh yet gentle at the same time.
The woman smiled and held out the bundle. The darkness moved to stand before the woman, its slate smooth and almost mirror-like face tilted down to view the child.
“Sonora,” he said softly.
The child glared at him. Her eyes were the same hypnotic gold as the darkness’ but rather than being a single disc of color, they were like the slitted eyes of a snake.
“She is not like the others,” the woman said. “But they will not cast her out. She is one of us, no matter her parentage.”
The darkness stroked the child’s curly, whitish hair with a slightly humanistic claw. “She is the One. Nobody can deny it.”
“We shall see.”
From deep in the white woods – a snarl. The darkness stiffened. “They come for her.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. Two large, jet black wings exploded into view. She stepped back, once again hugging the child to her chest. The darkness watched silently as she flapped her wings once and took swiftly to the air.
A low, reptilian hiss came from behind him. “The Chosen One… she is ours…”
Something began to emerge from the mist. The darkness pulled his cloak about him and, with a puff of black smoke, disappeared.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Writing
I always thought writing on two books at the same time would be really hard but it's not so bad. My two current projects, Summer Rush and Dark Angel Rising, are complete opposites of each other but I can write on them on the same day without batting an eyelash.
Usually when I write I have to really get into it. I'll read back over what I wrote yesterday or look at my brainstorm document so I can get back into the right character mode.
Anyway, I'm about halfway done on both books. Hopefully I'll finish them before the end of the month. I have to write at least ten thousand more words for July Novel Writing Month. I can't lose that. My friend Karlee would never let me hear the end of it :)
Usually when I write I have to really get into it. I'll read back over what I wrote yesterday or look at my brainstorm document so I can get back into the right character mode.
Anyway, I'm about halfway done on both books. Hopefully I'll finish them before the end of the month. I have to write at least ten thousand more words for July Novel Writing Month. I can't lose that. My friend Karlee would never let me hear the end of it :)
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
A Funny Story
Why did I say this was a funny story? Because it’s not funny. AT ALL. It’s a terrible story, actually, filled with my misery. This is what happened.
Sunday night, me and my friend Karlee decided to have a writing contest. I forgot I had a dentist appointment. Early Monday morning my mom drags my sorry self out of bed to the dentist so I can get my spacers on. I had no idea what spacers were and in case you don’t know, either, I’ll tell you. THEY SUCK. They’re tiny little rubberbands stuck between your teeth. You’d think they wouldn’t hurt at all. Think again. My teeth are so close together, when the spacers went on my mouth was so sore I couldn’t even sleep. I couldn’t eat, either, so I had to sit at the dinner table and have yogurt while my family had chicken.
Early Tuesday morning I am once again dragged out of bed and to the dentist to get the braces put on. First they had to yank the spacers out, in which process I just about cried, and then they jammed on these metal bands in the back of my mouth. My eyes watered then. It hurt, and the only thing I had for comfort was Spongebob on TV. So finally the braces are on and I’m thinking, not too bad. By the time I got home, I was thinking something else entirely.
Mom gave me aspirin. My mouth had actually stopped hurting so bad by then so I figured I’d take some aspirin and I’d be back to normal. After all, I had a piano recital later that I needed to be in top condition for. The aspirin didn’t do anything and the recital was absolute misery. There was even a reception afterward, and I couldn’t eat anything, which put me in an exceptionally bad mood. My bad mood was helped along even further when we got home and I found my sister had made my favorite dinner, which I also couldn’t eat.
So, starving and miserable, I took that wretched aspirin that hadn’t helped at all, and took…well, a bit more than they said to take. It was just the generic stuff – how potent could it be? Pretty potent, turns out. I got a headache, a stomachache, and a couple of interesting hallucinations for my trouble. The whole point of this to say, while I couldn’t write, the last hallucination gave me a great idea for a plot twist for my novel.
Sunday night, me and my friend Karlee decided to have a writing contest. I forgot I had a dentist appointment. Early Monday morning my mom drags my sorry self out of bed to the dentist so I can get my spacers on. I had no idea what spacers were and in case you don’t know, either, I’ll tell you. THEY SUCK. They’re tiny little rubberbands stuck between your teeth. You’d think they wouldn’t hurt at all. Think again. My teeth are so close together, when the spacers went on my mouth was so sore I couldn’t even sleep. I couldn’t eat, either, so I had to sit at the dinner table and have yogurt while my family had chicken.
Early Tuesday morning I am once again dragged out of bed and to the dentist to get the braces put on. First they had to yank the spacers out, in which process I just about cried, and then they jammed on these metal bands in the back of my mouth. My eyes watered then. It hurt, and the only thing I had for comfort was Spongebob on TV. So finally the braces are on and I’m thinking, not too bad. By the time I got home, I was thinking something else entirely.
Mom gave me aspirin. My mouth had actually stopped hurting so bad by then so I figured I’d take some aspirin and I’d be back to normal. After all, I had a piano recital later that I needed to be in top condition for. The aspirin didn’t do anything and the recital was absolute misery. There was even a reception afterward, and I couldn’t eat anything, which put me in an exceptionally bad mood. My bad mood was helped along even further when we got home and I found my sister had made my favorite dinner, which I also couldn’t eat.
So, starving and miserable, I took that wretched aspirin that hadn’t helped at all, and took…well, a bit more than they said to take. It was just the generic stuff – how potent could it be? Pretty potent, turns out. I got a headache, a stomachache, and a couple of interesting hallucinations for my trouble. The whole point of this to say, while I couldn’t write, the last hallucination gave me a great idea for a plot twist for my novel.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
My WIP
My current work in progress is Nobody’s Angel, the fourth part of the Promise Trilogy. Yes, I know, a trilogy is only supposed to have four parts. But the third book, Promise Child, only opened up a thousand new plot threads and it was impossible to end them all. I’m still calling it a trilogy, though. A trilogy plus one, maybe.
At the moment, the novel has thirty-eight pages, 21.300 words, and four chapters. It’s a decent count. I started the novel on the seventeenth of this month. My sister Dominique and I are racing to see who can finish their novel first. It’s not really a fair race. I have my own laptop, my navy blue Toshiba named Tasha, and Dominique uses the ancient desktop in my parents’ room.
My word count goal is 80.000, the same as the other three books. The plan is to be done with the first draft before the end of the month, so I can devote all my time to studying for the ACTs. Not to mention my mother and sisters are threatening to read the first two books. They probably won’t appreciate not knowing what happens in the end.
At the moment, the novel has thirty-eight pages, 21.300 words, and four chapters. It’s a decent count. I started the novel on the seventeenth of this month. My sister Dominique and I are racing to see who can finish their novel first. It’s not really a fair race. I have my own laptop, my navy blue Toshiba named Tasha, and Dominique uses the ancient desktop in my parents’ room.
My word count goal is 80.000, the same as the other three books. The plan is to be done with the first draft before the end of the month, so I can devote all my time to studying for the ACTs. Not to mention my mother and sisters are threatening to read the first two books. They probably won’t appreciate not knowing what happens in the end.
Friday, March 19, 2010
I finally got my book!
I've been sick for a couple of days (during spring break no less) but on Thursday I finally managed to get up and walk around without running into any walls :) And I got my proof copy from Createspace!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Old Writings
I was cleaning out my desk area today and I came across an old binder. I used to write these newsletters for my nana and the binder was full of them. It was so much fun to read back over all my old writings. I documented everything from the completion of my first novel to the weight of my dog. But my absolute favorite were the poems. Here’s one I wrote about school, oh so originally titled “School”:
Pencils, paper, and my math book.
“Here you are, Teacher, take a look.”
No more free time, no more play
Everyone waits for Saturday.
Lots of homework every night.
Will I ever get these problems right?
Gotta’ go to bed with no TV
I have to go to school in the morning, y’see.
All these math problems in my head
Never get no rest, even in bed.
Teacher says I’m smart and I don’t see why
She says I’ll learn a lot if only I try.
I can already do addition ad count to ten.
So why do I need to go to school again?
Pencils, paper, and my math book.
“Here you are, Teacher, take a look.”
No more free time, no more play
Everyone waits for Saturday.
Lots of homework every night.
Will I ever get these problems right?
Gotta’ go to bed with no TV
I have to go to school in the morning, y’see.
All these math problems in my head
Never get no rest, even in bed.
Teacher says I’m smart and I don’t see why
She says I’ll learn a lot if only I try.
I can already do addition ad count to ten.
So why do I need to go to school again?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
New Story!
I started a new novella a little while back. I love writing novellas. You don't have to make it really short, like short stories, but it's not a massive long-term thing, like a novel. Here's the first part:
1
The thing about jumping out of planes was, sooner or later you landed. And it hurt. Bridget Caseman was considering this.
“You’re making this harder on yourself.” Her captor, Jerk #1 as she had fondly named him, jabbed her in the ribs with the muzzle of his machine gun. That hurt, too, but not half as bad as her landing was going to.
The Brazilian jungle flew by in dark green shades below. She was going to land on those trees. She’d die. And even if the fall didn’t kill her – which it definitely would – the wild animals would eat her alive. Vampire bats and jaguars and man-eating ants would be stuffing their faces today. The thought of ants stuffing their faces made Bridget smile.
“Bridget?”
Oh. Right. Bridget turned her head, her fleeting moment of amusement gone. There he was. The man who was making her jump out of this plane and to her death.
“You know,” Bridget said, forcing her voice to remain steady, “You killed my parents a long time ago. I don’t remember it.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” Wesley Martin was so thin he looked like a scarecrow. The two big bodyguards always on either side of him didn’t help. His stern brown eyes gazed at Bridget. “This is really very unfortunate, that you would have to go like this. But if you refuse to tell me what I want to know then I’m afraid I have no choice.”
That was the only reason Jerk #1 hadn’t kicked her out of the plane already. The only reason Bridget had been kept alive for the harsh, multi-thousand mile trip from home sweet home Alabama to the jungles of Brazil.
“I’m not going to tell you.” Bridget’s voice faltered.
Wesley smiled. “I think you will.”
“All my family is dead, Wesley. Thanks to you, I have nothing left to lose.” Bridget held up her arm, displaying the fresh, ugly scars over it. “You’ve already tortured me.”
Wesley grimaced. “I didn’t want to do it.”
“But you did.” Bridget faced the open plane door again. She’d have to jump, sooner or later, but she was so scared. Her heart was pounding and her palms were sweating.
“God, please don’t let me die. I know you don’t want him to know what I know. Please help me.” She closed her eyes, barely even thinking the prayer, afraid Wesley would take that last bit of comfort from her. If only she had wings. If she were an angel, she could fly away. She wouldn’t be in this mess. She would have stopped Wesley from killing her parents, three years old or not, and she wouldn’t have to hide this terrible secret.
“Very well.” Wesley shrugged his shoulders. “Push her.”
Bridget didn’t even have time to protest, to cry out. Jerk #1 shoved her hard between her shoulder blades, and she tumbled through midair, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Total Randomness
I am soooo bored. I read all my books. I finished the summer reading program. I cleaned my room a thousand times. My computer at the house is so slow I can’t stand using it. I’ve been watching way too many movies lately so I am on a movie fast. I think I’ve listened to every song I own about a bajillion times. So that leaves me with these options.
1) Edit my book
2) Practice piano
3) Read books
4) Write some more
5) Haven’t figured it out yet
Speaking of the summer reading program, I got a jump drive for reading ten hours. Getting stuff for reading is as close to getting something for nothing as you can get. And that reminds me. Mom is wiping her hard drive so I have to take all my stuff off her computer and put it on a disk. I remember she wiped my computer two years ago but I didn’t take all my stuff off in time and there went three years of writing. I was pretty upset at the time but since I couldn’t even remember what she’d wiped, I decided it couldn’t be that important. I doubled what I’d already had in a few months anyway. And it’s probably better this way. Some of the stuff I used to write makes me cringe it was so awful. And talk about grammatical mistakes… Mom is a teacher and it’s a good thing she never read any of that stuff. She’d run out of red pens.
1) Edit my book
2) Practice piano
3) Read books
4) Write some more
5) Haven’t figured it out yet
Speaking of the summer reading program, I got a jump drive for reading ten hours. Getting stuff for reading is as close to getting something for nothing as you can get. And that reminds me. Mom is wiping her hard drive so I have to take all my stuff off her computer and put it on a disk. I remember she wiped my computer two years ago but I didn’t take all my stuff off in time and there went three years of writing. I was pretty upset at the time but since I couldn’t even remember what she’d wiped, I decided it couldn’t be that important. I doubled what I’d already had in a few months anyway. And it’s probably better this way. Some of the stuff I used to write makes me cringe it was so awful. And talk about grammatical mistakes… Mom is a teacher and it’s a good thing she never read any of that stuff. She’d run out of red pens.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Writing, Editing, Covers, & Brainstorming
In my opinion, the hardest part of writing is when you look back over what you’ve written and it doesn’t add up. Sometimes there’re those totally awesome times when you realize two or three instances link up to strengthen your story. And sometimes, not.
That’s what I love about poems. You don’t have to worry so much about the plot. I wrote three linked poems one time. And then I wrote a short story about the horses in the poem. And I turned the short story into a novella. It was a lot of fun. It was fantasy, and there were flying horses and horses with silver eyes. That would look really weird, now that I think about it.
Anyhow, I really should be brainstorming about the second book in my Sacred Promise Trilogy, “The Promise Child.” It has a telepathic filly named The Desecration in it. She’s Sacred’s daughter; Sacred being the white Friesian stallion in the first book in the trilogy, called Sacred Promise. I love trilogies. I’m reading one right now, as a matter of fact. It has selkies in it.
Anyhow (I like that word) now I’m thinking about a cover for the Sacred books. My sister Liz was supposed to be drawing one for me. The plan is for there to be a white Friesian (Sacred) on a cliff (The Ciel) in a storm. In the foreground will be my character, Angelica. It was weird, I first started the Promise books years ago. And then I read the Horse Angel books, and my Angelica and that Angelica have the same golden hair. My Angel has hazel eyes and I think Angela Dorsey’s Angel has golden.
Here’s the first part of the trilogy of poems I wrote.
Wild Things
There is a place in the sky
Near the middle of the sunrise
Where the spirits of the pure at heart
Live when their body dies.
In colors of gold, red, silver
With wings made of white gold
They are the magical Wild Things
Brave, true, magnificent, bold
The wildest of the Wild Things
Mighty Saber, the Stallion of Flight
He gallops, mane and tail streaming,
Through the sky in dark of night.
His sister rules the red dawn
Bellalyse, the Lovely Red Mare
Her coat, as red as the setting sun
Brings dawn from here to there.
Guardian of All That Sails on Wind,
Jade’s tail is the clouds floating by
The mare’s hooves bring thunder, storms
Her eyes, stars, stud the velvet sky
Troy, the charismatic blue stallion
He lives in the depths of the waves
The exception, rescuing drowning souls
The depths is where he stays
The magical horses, the Wild Things
Live in the place where sun meets earth
Wild Things guard things wild at heart
Each one its weight in gold is worth.
I am off. Here’s a joke my sister just told me. What can you break with one word?
Later-later, Gabrielle
That’s what I love about poems. You don’t have to worry so much about the plot. I wrote three linked poems one time. And then I wrote a short story about the horses in the poem. And I turned the short story into a novella. It was a lot of fun. It was fantasy, and there were flying horses and horses with silver eyes. That would look really weird, now that I think about it.
Anyhow, I really should be brainstorming about the second book in my Sacred Promise Trilogy, “The Promise Child.” It has a telepathic filly named The Desecration in it. She’s Sacred’s daughter; Sacred being the white Friesian stallion in the first book in the trilogy, called Sacred Promise. I love trilogies. I’m reading one right now, as a matter of fact. It has selkies in it.
Anyhow (I like that word) now I’m thinking about a cover for the Sacred books. My sister Liz was supposed to be drawing one for me. The plan is for there to be a white Friesian (Sacred) on a cliff (The Ciel) in a storm. In the foreground will be my character, Angelica. It was weird, I first started the Promise books years ago. And then I read the Horse Angel books, and my Angelica and that Angelica have the same golden hair. My Angel has hazel eyes and I think Angela Dorsey’s Angel has golden.
Here’s the first part of the trilogy of poems I wrote.
Wild Things
There is a place in the sky
Near the middle of the sunrise
Where the spirits of the pure at heart
Live when their body dies.
In colors of gold, red, silver
With wings made of white gold
They are the magical Wild Things
Brave, true, magnificent, bold
The wildest of the Wild Things
Mighty Saber, the Stallion of Flight
He gallops, mane and tail streaming,
Through the sky in dark of night.
His sister rules the red dawn
Bellalyse, the Lovely Red Mare
Her coat, as red as the setting sun
Brings dawn from here to there.
Guardian of All That Sails on Wind,
Jade’s tail is the clouds floating by
The mare’s hooves bring thunder, storms
Her eyes, stars, stud the velvet sky
Troy, the charismatic blue stallion
He lives in the depths of the waves
The exception, rescuing drowning souls
The depths is where he stays
The magical horses, the Wild Things
Live in the place where sun meets earth
Wild Things guard things wild at heart
Each one its weight in gold is worth.
I am off. Here’s a joke my sister just told me. What can you break with one word?
Later-later, Gabrielle
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Sacred Promise
Here is the first chapter of my book. Enjoy!
Prologue
Under the full moon, the sea raged. Black waves beat against the rocks. As far as the eye could see there were towering waves. To the left of Moonstar Bay was a beach. To the right was The Ciel. The cliff towered above the sea.
And then there was a scream.
It split the night in half, rising above the pounding waves. The air seemed to shudder with the force of it.
On the top of The Ciel there was movement.
A horse, as white as the moon brokenly reflected in the sea, stood on the cliff. Rising in a rear, he seemed suspended in midair. The rain increased. A frothy white mane clung to the horse’s neck and his ice white tail touched the ground.
He screamed again.
Somewhere far away, perhaps even the other side of the world, a young girl screamed.
They didn’t know each other – yet. But their fears were inexplicably woven together. And while the girl’s friends comforted her, the white horse stood there. Alone.
Chapter One or Triste
I was running through the woods, trying to breathe, trying to see. But all I could do was hear; hear something tearing through the brush after me. It was panting hard. Every now and then I heard a deep, animal growl that seemed to reverberate through the darkness.
Should I yell to try to frighten it away? Or hide?
Panic threatened to choke me and I stopped running, wiping at my tears. Where could I go? Nothing seemed familiar.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”
“Mom!” I jerked around at the sound of my mother’s voice. “Mom, please help me!” I tried to run to the sound of her voice but I couldn’t pinpoint the direction it was coming from. “Where are you?”
Her haunted voice kept singing.
She’ll never help you, a little voice whispered. She left you, didn’t she? She never said goodbye. She just left.
“She died! She couldn’t help that!”
I broke into a run again, as the Thing grew closer.
“Dad,” I sobbed. There was no reassuring answer from my father. He wasn’t there. He never had been. I ran faster. Tree branches slapped at my face and exposed roots seemed to leap up to trip me.
A gentle neigh suddenly sounded.
I ran towards the sound. The faster I ran, the louder it became. And then I saw two green eyes appear in the darkness, at the top of a hill, looking down at me. Slowly, the ghostly-white body of a horse began to appear around them. I knew if I could just reach him, I would be okay.
My foot caught on a root and I hit the ground.
And then the Thing caught me. I screamed.
Noir Cheval, Écouter Valley, I thought sleepily, finally. The place I’d been born, where I’d spent the first five years of my life, where my mother died; the place where I would be spending the next three months.
“We’ll bring the stuff in the house tomorrow, Angel,” Dad said. “Let’s just get some sleep.”
He fumbled through his bag to find the key for the front door and we both got out of the Jeep. It had been a long drive from New Lake, Washington Florida, and then from there, a long plane ride to the tiny town of Chevalier in Écouter Valley, a little place situated on the sea; the only noticeable feature about it.
Dad got the front door open and we both went inside.
The caretaker had made up beds for both of us a note pinned on the inside of the door said. Dad’s bedroom was down the hall. Mine was upstairs.
I climbed into the soft sheets without even kicking off my shoes. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
When my eyes opened again, Dad was standing in the doorway. “C’mon Angel, we’ve got a lot of stuff to do today.”
Yawning, I sat up. “Are you going to tell me about your project?”
It seemed like years since Dad had first mentioned we were here on business, and that it had something to do with horses. I’d guessed at that, since the Noir Cheval had once been a Friesian breeding farm, back when my grandparents were alive. But that had been years ago, before I inherited it.
“If you get out of bed right now,” Dad countered. He left, and the door slammed shut behind him.
I looked around the room I’d slept in. I hadn’t really looked at it the night before. It was done in fawn and lavender; my favorite colors. All of the furniture was massive because it was practically a hundred years old. A portrait of a smoky-gray Friesian hung on the wall over the dresser.
“Angel!” Dad yelled.
“I’m coming!”
Sliding out of bed, I ran a hand through my hair. My bones were aching after endless hours on a plane and then another two driving from the capitol to Écouter. They cracked a little as I washed my face and rinsed out my mouth.
Dad had brought in all the bags when I got downstairs and he was rummaging through the fridge.
“Oh, it looks like Gram sent over some breakfast for us.” He produced a box of cereal and some milk. “What a thoughtful old lady. Hurry up and eat, Angel. We’re driving into town in twenty minutes.”
“Tell me about your project!” I yelled at his back, as he went out the front door again. He ignored me.
I gulped down my breakfast so fast it gave me hiccups, than ran out the door after him. I started to, anyway. I stopped on the front step. I felt a breeze in my mouth and had to snap shut my jaw, which had fallen open.
It’d been eleven years since I last saw the Noir Cheval and I’d forgotten how amazing it was. From the front step I could see all the way down to the road in front of the house. The front yard was an acre of the greenest grass I’d ever seen in my life. Separating the road from the yard was a huge black iron-gate set in a stone fence.
“What do you think?” Dad was rummaging through a bag on the hood of the car.
“Charmante,” I said, with my best French accent.
“How’s your French, Angel?”
“My – French?” I gave Dad a confused glance. “I can speak it, write it, and understand it, like I always have.”
Dad, the dramatist as always, held up a picture and said one word. “Triste.”
“Sad,” I returned.
“What do you think?” Dad held the picture out to me, almost reverently, and carefully I took it.
I recognized the horse as a Friesian immediately. There was heavy feathering on his legs. His mane was swept back, a few strands hooked over one ear. He had lower tail carriage than normal but judging from the length of his tail – it touched the ground – I wasn’t surprised.
There was a thick, dirty rope around his shoulders. The horse was rearing, and another loop of rope was visible around his fetlock. There was blood on his neck and his legs.
In the corner of the picture you could see the chestnut colored ear of a horse, as if the picture had been taken from horseback.
Even Dad, who knows pretty much nothing about horses, knew that all Friesians are supposed to be black. This one wasn’t. He was pure white.
“They call him Triste,” Dad said in a deep, mysterious voice, “the French word for sad, because all eye-witnesses swear the horse is crying.”
When Dad got into his story-telling mode, he was gone. I went down the steps and sat on the hood of the car.
“According to legend,” Dad began, “Triste was born on one of the breeding farms further upstate, between the mountains and Écouter Wildlife Park. Supposedly he is a purebred Friesian stallion imported from Holland. A lot of things seem to belie that, however. As a colt barely six months old, he stood at an incredible five feet, three inches at the shoulder. And,” Dad nodded to the photograph, “He was as white as a full moon.”
“How’d he end up in Écouter?” I demanded.
Dad went on as if he hadn’t heard. “As a colt, Triste was always a handful. He’d fight with his own mother and he bullied the other foals. His owner, although nobody knows for sure who he was, considered putting the angry, unhappy horse out of his misery. How they know this since they don’t know the owner, I don’t know.
“One particular day, after Triste had nearly killed his owner’s dog, bit his owner, and injured another foal, his owner decided it was time. He blindfolded Triste and led him to where he’d already dug his grave.”
I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t say anything.
“But when he raised his gun to fire,” Dad’s voice deepened, “Triste bolted. The bullet missed him by inches. The man was furious. Triste had injured other horses and tormented the man beyond what he could bear. The man took his whip –”
I closed my eyes.
“– and began to beat Triste. He beat him until blood stained the white coat red. At first, Triste cried out in pain and tried to get away. Then, he fought back.”
Dad went on to describe the horrible fight that ensued. I kept my eyes closed and imagined the big white colt lashing out with his hooves, neighing in pain and fear. The man lashed out with his whip and as in my mind’s eye the whip licked Triste’s flank, I flinched.
“And when Triste could no longer stand the pain,” Dad was saying, “He ran. He charged the fence and ran as fast as his legs could take him.”
For a long moment Dad was silent, as if turning the story over in his head. We knew we had to take the story with more than a grain of salt. After all, how did anyone know that’s what happened if nobody knew who Triste had belonged to? But still, it made me feel sad.
“The man’s daughter had been the only one who loved Triste. And when the colt showed up near the barn the next morning, she tried to look after him in secret. But it was storming, and Triste had always been afraid of storms. Her father heard them and he came out of the house to finish the job he’d started.
“The girl refused to let him. She mounted Triste and galloped off. Her father followed them. They galloped for miles, the girl’s deranged father trying desperately to catch them, and the girl trying desperately to handle Triste’s fear. And then they came to the Ciel, the biggest cliff on the north side of the bay. The man continued to close in, pushing Triste and the girl closer and closer to the edge.
“Terrified of the one who’d put him in so much pain, Triste reared, and threw the girl over the cliff. And then he ran past the man. And nobody ever saw him again.”
I sighed.
Death was awful in itself. Especially for a young person (I imagined the girl was fifteen, like me). But to be thrown over a cliff and drowned? I shuddered. The Ciel jutted straight out over the sea, with a bit of a sandy beach at its base. I remembered Grandma taking me to the beach below the Ciel, and being awed by its majesty.
“And then….” Dad captured my attention again with the second part of the story. “May 16th of last year, Kevin Lowell came home from military school.”
I glanced at Dad to make sure I’d heard him correctly.
“Kevin Lowell?”
Dad started to roll his eyes. “Come on Angel, let me finish the story.”
“What does he have to do with anything?” I demanded. Kevin Lowell had been – still was, as far as I knew – my mortal enemy. He was older than me by eleven months and a lot bigger. A normal toddler isn’t capable of doing what he did; tying my shoelaces to chairs, putting gum in my hair, yanking my hair until I cried.
“Intrigued by the stories of the mysterious Triste, Kevin probed deeper into the story and began to stalk the now seven and a half year old stallion.”
Typical of Kevin Lowell; he had to have everything. They should change that saying from curiosity killed the cat to curiosity killed the boy.
“After months of planning and watching, he finally roped him from horseback. Triste, now at least twenty hands tall dragged Kevin and his horse Jess for almost three hundred yards. The snubbed rope suffocated Jess and gave Kevin a severe concussion.”
“Serves Kevin right,” I said, now that the story was over.
Dad gave a longsuffering sigh. “Really, Angelica.” Calling me by my full name, instead of the usual Angel, told me he was getting tired of going over this.
“So you’re filming Triste?” I said, by way of conclusion.
“Yes.” Dad gave me a warning look. “And since Kevin Lowell knows more about the stallion than anybody else, he’s going to be my guide.” He went on quickly before I could speak. “Since Triste is on our property it’ll be easy for me to keep an eye on you, Angel, while I’m working.”
I didn’t offer my opinion on Dad’s “keeping an eye” on me. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought about a white Friesian stallion. And I imagined he had green eyes.
Prologue
Under the full moon, the sea raged. Black waves beat against the rocks. As far as the eye could see there were towering waves. To the left of Moonstar Bay was a beach. To the right was The Ciel. The cliff towered above the sea.
And then there was a scream.
It split the night in half, rising above the pounding waves. The air seemed to shudder with the force of it.
On the top of The Ciel there was movement.
A horse, as white as the moon brokenly reflected in the sea, stood on the cliff. Rising in a rear, he seemed suspended in midair. The rain increased. A frothy white mane clung to the horse’s neck and his ice white tail touched the ground.
He screamed again.
Somewhere far away, perhaps even the other side of the world, a young girl screamed.
They didn’t know each other – yet. But their fears were inexplicably woven together. And while the girl’s friends comforted her, the white horse stood there. Alone.
Chapter One or Triste
I was running through the woods, trying to breathe, trying to see. But all I could do was hear; hear something tearing through the brush after me. It was panting hard. Every now and then I heard a deep, animal growl that seemed to reverberate through the darkness.
Should I yell to try to frighten it away? Or hide?
Panic threatened to choke me and I stopped running, wiping at my tears. Where could I go? Nothing seemed familiar.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”
“Mom!” I jerked around at the sound of my mother’s voice. “Mom, please help me!” I tried to run to the sound of her voice but I couldn’t pinpoint the direction it was coming from. “Where are you?”
Her haunted voice kept singing.
She’ll never help you, a little voice whispered. She left you, didn’t she? She never said goodbye. She just left.
“She died! She couldn’t help that!”
I broke into a run again, as the Thing grew closer.
“Dad,” I sobbed. There was no reassuring answer from my father. He wasn’t there. He never had been. I ran faster. Tree branches slapped at my face and exposed roots seemed to leap up to trip me.
A gentle neigh suddenly sounded.
I ran towards the sound. The faster I ran, the louder it became. And then I saw two green eyes appear in the darkness, at the top of a hill, looking down at me. Slowly, the ghostly-white body of a horse began to appear around them. I knew if I could just reach him, I would be okay.
My foot caught on a root and I hit the ground.
And then the Thing caught me. I screamed.
Noir Cheval, Écouter Valley, I thought sleepily, finally. The place I’d been born, where I’d spent the first five years of my life, where my mother died; the place where I would be spending the next three months.
“We’ll bring the stuff in the house tomorrow, Angel,” Dad said. “Let’s just get some sleep.”
He fumbled through his bag to find the key for the front door and we both got out of the Jeep. It had been a long drive from New Lake, Washington Florida, and then from there, a long plane ride to the tiny town of Chevalier in Écouter Valley, a little place situated on the sea; the only noticeable feature about it.
Dad got the front door open and we both went inside.
The caretaker had made up beds for both of us a note pinned on the inside of the door said. Dad’s bedroom was down the hall. Mine was upstairs.
I climbed into the soft sheets without even kicking off my shoes. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
When my eyes opened again, Dad was standing in the doorway. “C’mon Angel, we’ve got a lot of stuff to do today.”
Yawning, I sat up. “Are you going to tell me about your project?”
It seemed like years since Dad had first mentioned we were here on business, and that it had something to do with horses. I’d guessed at that, since the Noir Cheval had once been a Friesian breeding farm, back when my grandparents were alive. But that had been years ago, before I inherited it.
“If you get out of bed right now,” Dad countered. He left, and the door slammed shut behind him.
I looked around the room I’d slept in. I hadn’t really looked at it the night before. It was done in fawn and lavender; my favorite colors. All of the furniture was massive because it was practically a hundred years old. A portrait of a smoky-gray Friesian hung on the wall over the dresser.
“Angel!” Dad yelled.
“I’m coming!”
Sliding out of bed, I ran a hand through my hair. My bones were aching after endless hours on a plane and then another two driving from the capitol to Écouter. They cracked a little as I washed my face and rinsed out my mouth.
Dad had brought in all the bags when I got downstairs and he was rummaging through the fridge.
“Oh, it looks like Gram sent over some breakfast for us.” He produced a box of cereal and some milk. “What a thoughtful old lady. Hurry up and eat, Angel. We’re driving into town in twenty minutes.”
“Tell me about your project!” I yelled at his back, as he went out the front door again. He ignored me.
I gulped down my breakfast so fast it gave me hiccups, than ran out the door after him. I started to, anyway. I stopped on the front step. I felt a breeze in my mouth and had to snap shut my jaw, which had fallen open.
It’d been eleven years since I last saw the Noir Cheval and I’d forgotten how amazing it was. From the front step I could see all the way down to the road in front of the house. The front yard was an acre of the greenest grass I’d ever seen in my life. Separating the road from the yard was a huge black iron-gate set in a stone fence.
“What do you think?” Dad was rummaging through a bag on the hood of the car.
“Charmante,” I said, with my best French accent.
“How’s your French, Angel?”
“My – French?” I gave Dad a confused glance. “I can speak it, write it, and understand it, like I always have.”
Dad, the dramatist as always, held up a picture and said one word. “Triste.”
“Sad,” I returned.
“What do you think?” Dad held the picture out to me, almost reverently, and carefully I took it.
I recognized the horse as a Friesian immediately. There was heavy feathering on his legs. His mane was swept back, a few strands hooked over one ear. He had lower tail carriage than normal but judging from the length of his tail – it touched the ground – I wasn’t surprised.
There was a thick, dirty rope around his shoulders. The horse was rearing, and another loop of rope was visible around his fetlock. There was blood on his neck and his legs.
In the corner of the picture you could see the chestnut colored ear of a horse, as if the picture had been taken from horseback.
Even Dad, who knows pretty much nothing about horses, knew that all Friesians are supposed to be black. This one wasn’t. He was pure white.
“They call him Triste,” Dad said in a deep, mysterious voice, “the French word for sad, because all eye-witnesses swear the horse is crying.”
When Dad got into his story-telling mode, he was gone. I went down the steps and sat on the hood of the car.
“According to legend,” Dad began, “Triste was born on one of the breeding farms further upstate, between the mountains and Écouter Wildlife Park. Supposedly he is a purebred Friesian stallion imported from Holland. A lot of things seem to belie that, however. As a colt barely six months old, he stood at an incredible five feet, three inches at the shoulder. And,” Dad nodded to the photograph, “He was as white as a full moon.”
“How’d he end up in Écouter?” I demanded.
Dad went on as if he hadn’t heard. “As a colt, Triste was always a handful. He’d fight with his own mother and he bullied the other foals. His owner, although nobody knows for sure who he was, considered putting the angry, unhappy horse out of his misery. How they know this since they don’t know the owner, I don’t know.
“One particular day, after Triste had nearly killed his owner’s dog, bit his owner, and injured another foal, his owner decided it was time. He blindfolded Triste and led him to where he’d already dug his grave.”
I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t say anything.
“But when he raised his gun to fire,” Dad’s voice deepened, “Triste bolted. The bullet missed him by inches. The man was furious. Triste had injured other horses and tormented the man beyond what he could bear. The man took his whip –”
I closed my eyes.
“– and began to beat Triste. He beat him until blood stained the white coat red. At first, Triste cried out in pain and tried to get away. Then, he fought back.”
Dad went on to describe the horrible fight that ensued. I kept my eyes closed and imagined the big white colt lashing out with his hooves, neighing in pain and fear. The man lashed out with his whip and as in my mind’s eye the whip licked Triste’s flank, I flinched.
“And when Triste could no longer stand the pain,” Dad was saying, “He ran. He charged the fence and ran as fast as his legs could take him.”
For a long moment Dad was silent, as if turning the story over in his head. We knew we had to take the story with more than a grain of salt. After all, how did anyone know that’s what happened if nobody knew who Triste had belonged to? But still, it made me feel sad.
“The man’s daughter had been the only one who loved Triste. And when the colt showed up near the barn the next morning, she tried to look after him in secret. But it was storming, and Triste had always been afraid of storms. Her father heard them and he came out of the house to finish the job he’d started.
“The girl refused to let him. She mounted Triste and galloped off. Her father followed them. They galloped for miles, the girl’s deranged father trying desperately to catch them, and the girl trying desperately to handle Triste’s fear. And then they came to the Ciel, the biggest cliff on the north side of the bay. The man continued to close in, pushing Triste and the girl closer and closer to the edge.
“Terrified of the one who’d put him in so much pain, Triste reared, and threw the girl over the cliff. And then he ran past the man. And nobody ever saw him again.”
I sighed.
Death was awful in itself. Especially for a young person (I imagined the girl was fifteen, like me). But to be thrown over a cliff and drowned? I shuddered. The Ciel jutted straight out over the sea, with a bit of a sandy beach at its base. I remembered Grandma taking me to the beach below the Ciel, and being awed by its majesty.
“And then….” Dad captured my attention again with the second part of the story. “May 16th of last year, Kevin Lowell came home from military school.”
I glanced at Dad to make sure I’d heard him correctly.
“Kevin Lowell?”
Dad started to roll his eyes. “Come on Angel, let me finish the story.”
“What does he have to do with anything?” I demanded. Kevin Lowell had been – still was, as far as I knew – my mortal enemy. He was older than me by eleven months and a lot bigger. A normal toddler isn’t capable of doing what he did; tying my shoelaces to chairs, putting gum in my hair, yanking my hair until I cried.
“Intrigued by the stories of the mysterious Triste, Kevin probed deeper into the story and began to stalk the now seven and a half year old stallion.”
Typical of Kevin Lowell; he had to have everything. They should change that saying from curiosity killed the cat to curiosity killed the boy.
“After months of planning and watching, he finally roped him from horseback. Triste, now at least twenty hands tall dragged Kevin and his horse Jess for almost three hundred yards. The snubbed rope suffocated Jess and gave Kevin a severe concussion.”
“Serves Kevin right,” I said, now that the story was over.
Dad gave a longsuffering sigh. “Really, Angelica.” Calling me by my full name, instead of the usual Angel, told me he was getting tired of going over this.
“So you’re filming Triste?” I said, by way of conclusion.
“Yes.” Dad gave me a warning look. “And since Kevin Lowell knows more about the stallion than anybody else, he’s going to be my guide.” He went on quickly before I could speak. “Since Triste is on our property it’ll be easy for me to keep an eye on you, Angel, while I’m working.”
I didn’t offer my opinion on Dad’s “keeping an eye” on me. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought about a white Friesian stallion. And I imagined he had green eyes.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
More....
This blog is partly for my story, A Sacred Promise. My picture is of a "white mystery friesian" named Nero, who was the exact kind of horse I was picturing when I wrote A Sacred Promise. The story is about said horse, who everyone calls Triste. It's sorta-kinda set in the French West Indies, but I don't know if the climate and the backdrop I gave the story fits in with that. Anyway, I refrain from mentioning the exact location so I can run wild if I want to. My main character is named Angelica Fulleri - Angel, for short. My sister is helping me edit it.
I'm planning on posting at least some of it on here so I can get more than my sis's opinion on it. It has a narrow audience, I think - girls 9-16 who like horses.
But as my picture shows, Sacred is the more beautiful horse in the world. At least, I think so. And his eyes are green. An equestrian anomaly, I know, but then, Sacred isn't your average horse...
For starters, he seems to have lost the gene that stops him from growing, he has a mean streak in him, and he lives - actually, I'm going to stop right there. No point in ruining the story. I've rewritten the story a dozen times. Originally Sacred was going to be black, like your average Friesian, but I thought I'd mix it up a little. As t was, I managed to incorporate the whole white coat thing into the story. It has something to do with a Marquis from way back before the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror. I had to do a little homework for this story, which I hated, but there you go.
This is sort of off subject. Who has watched Matrix II? I love that part where Agent Random says, "You..." and Mr. Smith goes, "Yes. Me...me...me..." My Dad just loses it when that part happens. It's pretty funny. That's what's up with the title of this blog, anyway.
Well, I'm off. I have to finish reading Journey to the Lands Beyond (journeytothelandsbeyond.blogspot.). It's a great story. You should read it.
Later-later.
I'm planning on posting at least some of it on here so I can get more than my sis's opinion on it. It has a narrow audience, I think - girls 9-16 who like horses.
But as my picture shows, Sacred is the more beautiful horse in the world. At least, I think so. And his eyes are green. An equestrian anomaly, I know, but then, Sacred isn't your average horse...
For starters, he seems to have lost the gene that stops him from growing, he has a mean streak in him, and he lives - actually, I'm going to stop right there. No point in ruining the story. I've rewritten the story a dozen times. Originally Sacred was going to be black, like your average Friesian, but I thought I'd mix it up a little. As t was, I managed to incorporate the whole white coat thing into the story. It has something to do with a Marquis from way back before the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror. I had to do a little homework for this story, which I hated, but there you go.
This is sort of off subject. Who has watched Matrix II? I love that part where Agent Random says, "You..." and Mr. Smith goes, "Yes. Me...me...me..." My Dad just loses it when that part happens. It's pretty funny. That's what's up with the title of this blog, anyway.
Well, I'm off. I have to finish reading Journey to the Lands Beyond (journeytothelandsbeyond.blogspot.). It's a great story. You should read it.
Later-later.
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