Posted in Writing

Metamorphose

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At first your story is what you want it to be. At first. Then, you leave it for a determined amount of time, after which you go back to it. You read through it again, and other ideas begin to churn in your mind. You end up deleting much of the original, adding to it, and/or changing it. This period I like to call the cocoon because it’s not yet ready to see the light of day. How do you know when it will be ready? Well….you’ll know.

My novel The Triunix of Time started out as a romance under a different title. Talk about change. The beginnings of it and my notes and jottings in my journal were nothing that ended up in the final draft (I still saved it all. See my post entitled Old Writings.). How did this change come about? I talked to a college professor of mine who gave me some suggestions having to do with magic. This turned me on to the fantasy genre. I started thinking of all the possibilities that could come from writing in that genre, and the ideas were endless. I could still put some romance in it, but that ultimately took a back seat.

Over all, our minds are the main focus of that change. We collect information from the outside, bring it inside, work with it by molding it and let it take shape. Then our creation appears for everyone to see and take part in.

Posted in Writing

The Writer’s Mark

Whether you know it or not, you leave tracks of yourself in places. No, I don’t mean visible tracks. Although, I bet that’s what many of you were thinking after you read that sentence, LOL. Seriously though, when we write and others read our work, something from you is left behind. It could be a mental picture, an emotion, a thought(s) or opinion about the story or stories, a yearning to read more (or less). Whatever it is you leave behind, a mark is left, and it’s a mark no other writer can leave.

Each writer has his/her own mark that is indigenous to them. No other writer can replicate it no matter how hard they try. It’s all in your word choice and expressions you use. When someone edits your work, be sure they don’t alter the YOU you put in it. If they do, then they’re putting themselves in it, and you don’t want that. I don’t think they do this on purpose. It’s something that happens and we need to be aware of it. But hey, you might like what they did with it and keep the changes they made.

Leaving a mark also means giving of yourself, so others can take the good you pass on and use it. Maybe it will inspire them to become a writer. That happened with me. When I was in middle school, I read a short story my older sister wrote about a young girl who goes and stays with her grandpa for the summer. It was a very heart warming story, and it left me wanting to write like that too. Although, I don’t write like her. I write like me, and I write fantasy fiction. That’s the only story she ever wrote, and I wish she wrote more. She’d make a great children’s author. But I was inspired by her because of the MARK she left by her own writing.

Posted in Social

Book News

I received notification today that the order containing my books, which was supposed to arrive today (January 29th), has been delayed until February 15. My plan was to begin selling them on Monday February 1st, but now it will have to wait until the February 16th (this gives me a day to set things up).

I am so sorry for the delay. Thank you for understanding.

Posted in Fiction

The Box: Part III

The silhouettes faded and the small room filled with tiny boxes. Chris reached for one but drew back just as quick, remembering what happened when he tried to take a box the last time. Tucking his hands into his chest, he shrank against a wall and slunk to the floor in a seated position. The tiny boxes continued to fill the room, getting ever so much closer to him. He wanted nothing to do with them.

“Get away,” the boxes multiplied, closer, and closer still. “No! Get away!” He swiped at them sending them flying across the room. He needed to get out of there. Shooting glances in every direction proved futile as no doors existed. “Noooo! Get me out of here, please,” cried Chris. The tiny boxes closed in.

Then he spied it. A tiny light appeared from across the far right of the room. A way out? Scrambling to his feet, he tripped over the boxes landing on his knees. The boxes appeared faster now. He picked himself back and continued. The closer he came to the light the faster the boxes grew until they became immovable. The light sat within inches of his fingertips and began to fade. His heart sped up. His breathing heavy, suffocating.

“Beep, beep, beep, beeeeeep.”

“We’re going to lose him. Charge it again.”

“Charging. Clear!”

Chris stretched every muscle he had. His fingers hung in the balance. Blood rushed to his head and the room darkened. A gray haze floated like fingers across his vision. His head lolled to the side, then “POP”. His body thrust backward, slammed against the back wall and slunk to the floor.

“Beep, beep, beep.”

“He’s coming around.”

Chris’s eyes trudged upward, then slunk shut. An eyelid lifted and a bright light entered. Oh good. He reached the light. How, he didn’t know. A pop, body flying, couldn’t breath. His other eye lifted and again a bright light invaded.

“Chris, Chris can you hear me?”

The voice. Distant. The room. The silhouettes. “uhhhh,” moaned Chris.

“Easy does it now. That’s it.”

Again, Chris lifted his eyelids, resting them at half mast. His fuzzy vision swam in front of him at first. He drooped his lids closed, then open, then closed, then open. His hazy vision cleared. The hospital room was painted a dusty pink with white trim. A wide wooden door with a vertical window above the handle stood ajar. A doctor stood on his right and a nurse stood on his left. The bed was hard and his back ached.

“What?” asked Chris in confusion.

“It seems you passed out. When you did, you hit your head pretty bad,” said the doctor.

“We though we lost you there for while,” said the nurse.

Chris’s body hurt like it had been steam rolled. He blew out a breath and looked out the window to his left. But something caught his attention on the window sill. A box.