tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58926813071629861072024-03-13T20:43:54.660-07:00Rebecca Israel BischoffMiscellaneous musings of a Mom, speech-language pathologist, avid reader and writer, and incurable chocoholic.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-82778441482507395872016-11-10T11:23:00.003-08:002016-11-10T11:24:42.307-08:00Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-88014127809134266272016-11-10T11:23:00.002-08:002016-11-10T11:24:37.779-08:00It's a Book Trailer!<div>
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My daughter made a trailer for my book, The French Impressionist. It's coming out very soon, December 6th, to be exact! I love what she did. Please watch the trailer and let me know what you think!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-34411604372402824102016-07-25T15:32:00.002-07:002016-07-25T15:36:07.431-07:00When Your Kid is a Reluctant Reader: What’s a Smug, Self-Assured Parent to Do?<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I was a smug parent. I admit it. I figured reading
would be easy for my kids because I’m a reader. I adore the printed word. How
could I not, when my mother, a former teacher, read to us from infancy and took
us on weekly trips to the library? Our home was filled with books. Once when I
was a teenager, a friend was scared (her word) when she stopped by my
house and everyone, including both parents and all three kids, had a book in
hand. The TV wasn’t on; we were reading. Oh, the horror! Seriously, my idea of heaven is a place like the
library from Beauty and the Beast. It's always open. And, there’s chocolate. </div>
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Well, when I had children, I was certain they’d love books the way
I did. No problemo, right? Kid #1 fulfilled my expectations in every way and then
some. She loved to be read to, and she took to reading, drinking up the
letters, sounds, syllables and words like a parched dromedary<span style="background-color: white;"> </span>in the desert. By kindergarten
she already knew basic sight words and was put in the highest reading group
right away. Now in middle school, she devours books and has read above her grade-level for a long time. *sigh* I patted myself on the back for a
job well done.</div>
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Enter kid #2. She loved to be read to, but she didn’t take
to reading. Not at all. She participated in a great preschool group taught by myself and other parents, just as I'd done with
kiddo numero uno, but that whole alphabet “thingy” never seemed to totally make sense to
her. I still vividly remember spending an entire extra week on the letter P. We ate popcorn and pizza, went to the pet
store to look at parrots, sang silly songs, traced and wrote the letter P ad nauseum, made letters out of playdo, and
everything else I could think of. When I was certain my child had that letter solidly in her sweet little head, I wrote a giant letter P on a paper and asked her what letter
it was. Her response? She shrugged, and
said: “I don’t know. What letter <i>is</i>
that?” Registering that child for school was humiliating, because when the time
rolled around, she didn’t yet know the entire alphabet. I still cringe as I
recall the expression on the kindergarten teacher’s face when she asked me if
my child had gone to preschool. When I explained I’d done it at home and with a neighborhood group, I got THE
LOOK. You know the one. </div>
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By that time, I knew something was going on. Being a speech-language pathologist, I suspected a
learning disability or a language delay. However, at that time I wasn’t
working outside the home and I no longer had access to the testing materials or
the ears of other professionals who could have helped me determine what exactly
was going on inside my kiddo’s head. So, my sweet, bright, funny reluctant
reader started school and continued to have a hard time learning her alphabet
and her sight words. It was tough for her to pay attention in class. Luckily, her teacher listened to me
as I expressed my concerns and frustrations, and agreed to have her tested for
speech/language and learning issues. Finally, things clicked into place. I
learned that my child has ADD, or Attention Deficit Disorder. This difficulty in
attending to the right things at the right times, or inability to focus,
impacted her learning and her social skills. Seeing the test results for the first time was a nice “Ah ha!” moment
for me. </div>
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Finally, I knew what was going on and knew where to go from
there! My daughter got additional help with reading and received language
therapy to build her vocabulary knowledge, which I implemented at home as well.
Guess what? She improved immensely at school, and caught up to her peers. Now
about to enter third grade, she can read at grade level. Woo hoo!</div>
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And guess what else??? She still doesn’t like to read. </div>
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Kids may be reluctant readers for many different reasons. If
reading is something that is hard for them to do, you can’t blame them for not liking to do it. But reading
is essential for success in school, and I’d also say it’s necessary for success
in life, frankly. </div>
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So, what to do??? I don’t have all the answers, here, but I
do have a few suggestions that are helping me support my daughter’s learning
and increase her interest in books.</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Make
books part of your everyday life.</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Obvious, but important. If your kid doesn’t see you read, why would she
think of it as a fun or an enjoyable part of life? If you spend hours watching Netflix or
keep your nose stuck to the screen of your smartphone for hours on end, what
does that teach your kid about the joys of reading? Whether it's from an actual book or an ebook, just read. </span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Let them
read what they want.</b> Grit your teeth and put The Hobbit aside. Let Harry
Potter go. If they don’t want to read a certain book find what they <i>do </i>want to read. I’ve had to learn to
accept all those “trademark” paperbacks, like the “My Little Pony” or
“Strawberry Shortcake” stories that make me want to puke because my daughter
was motivated to read them. Some day,
she’ll fall in love with Harry, I just know it! </div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Read with
your kids, even when they’re older.</b> <b> </b>My oldest still loves it when we read
together. (Don’t let her know I shared this.) We read out loud a lot in the evenings or during road trips. It passes the time and introduces reluctant readers to great
books they haven’t tried yet, while building their vocabulary by introducing
unfamiliar words in context.</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Try not
to make reading a chore, but DO make it a daily requirement. </b>This is hard.
Since reading is difficult for many kids, by default it becomes a form of torture and
something that definitely isn’t fun. So, start a reading chart and reward your child for time
spent reading. Use whatever works, and find ways to motivate your child. For example, if a book has been made into a movie that your kiddo wants to see, require your child to read
small parts of the book, even if the entire thing is beyond them. Then, read the rest
of it out loud or have your child listen to the book on CD. Once they've read or at least heard the entire book, reward them by letting them watch the movie version. </div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Get
professional help, if possible. </b>My
kids like me as Mom. They do NOT like me as “teacher., tutor, speech therapist, etc.” For that reason, it
often helps if I enlist outside help for challenging homework or difficult
projects. There are lots of after-school
programs and tutoring services available. If it’s feasible, try extra reading
help from an outside source.</div>
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<b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Love your kid.</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Accept her the way she is. She is a reluctant reader, but that doesn’t make her any less valuable, does it? It certainly doesn't that mean you love her any less. Don’t get sucked into the comparison trap when other parents start bragging about how great or talented or mind-blowingly brilliant their kids are. Don’t let it make you feel bad when your kid doesn’t seem to measure up in every possible way. Just remember, your child is perfect the way she is.</span></div>
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So, long story short, this has been a challenge for me. Kiddo Number Two
made me question myself and humbled me to the dust. To the dust, people!! I had to
let go of my smug assumption that I “knew it all” and would raise a couple of
book-loving nerds with ease. She made me realize that I don’t have all the
answers and that’s okay. She reminded me that every kid is perfect just the
way they are. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-69524624680579991642015-09-18T12:18:00.001-07:002015-09-18T13:01:48.662-07:00Let's Start at the Very Beginning...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Maybe telling a story is a bit like running a race. Hang with me, here. It makes sense that you don't start your story or your race BEFORE you get the signal to start. It's kind of like the writing advice I've heard a lot, which is: begin your novel the moment when everything changes. <br />
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That would be like the moment you hear the starting gun go off and everyone starts to sprint.<br />
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Well, at least that's the lame analogy I came up with in my head. Apparently, it's not a very good one. <br />
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Twice now, I've entered contests, and I've been given the same advice for two different novels. Basically, it was: "You started your book too late."</div>
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In other words, I didn't begin telling the story right when everything changed in my main character's world. I started my story a while AFTER everything changed.</div>
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Oops. I guess you can say I was trying to drop the reader into the middle of the action so that they'd be hooked on the story and want to keep reading. Unfortunately, I may not have given the reader enough of "set up" of the story so that they got an idea of who the main character was, what was going on, and established some stakes so that the reader would begin to empathize with the character and understand all he or she stood to lose (or gain).<br />
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So, to go back to that race analogy, I guess that sometimes it makes more sense to actually begin your story during the warm-up to the race, not necessarily the moment when the gun goes off. Trust me, it doesn't have to be a super-long warm up. The reader doesn't want to read in excruciating detail about everything you ate the day before and how long you worked out and prepared for the race and get a description of every single stretch, not to mention get a vividly detailed account of the fashionable racing gear you were wearing. However, little set up is nice and lets you establish some stakes before the big action sets in.</div>
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To give an example, I'm going to post the original first chapter of a historical novel I wrote last year. The story starts with a young girl, Kenna, my main character (MC) who has been trapped within some narrow streets in 17th century Edinburgh, has no friends and no shelter, and doesn't know where she'll find her next meal. She remembers finding her sister dead and knowing that her brother-in-law killed his wife, and is bent on revenge. THEN, I'm going to post my "new" first chapter where I take the reader to the point a few days prior, where Kenna actually witnesses her sister's death and makes the discovery her brother-in-law is the killer and must flee for her life.</div>
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I can't decide if I like my new first chapter better or not. It does give me the chance (in a following chapter) to show how Kenna becomes trapped where she is in the first place, and lets the reader get a glimpse of the life of comfort she had before she had to run away. Hm.....please comment and let me know what you think. Which Chapter One do you like better? <br />
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(Note: the format of the second chapter I posted is all screwed up. I'm not bothering to change it, so if if the weird indentations bother you, sorry). I would also apologize about writing in present tense, because I know it bugs some people, but I like it. So there.</div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">KENNA’S CLOSE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By: Rebecca Bischoff</span><br />
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<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER ONE</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(Original: the one that "started too late in the story")</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I find Oliver, I
will plunge my knife into his heart. I
won’t trifle with potions, the method he used to murder his wife. I will not allow myself the luxury of
watching him die by inches, as pain fills his wretched soul. What I have learned in this filthy place echoing
with the squeal of rats and moans of the starving is that I will only have one
chance. I must not falter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I only want to see Oliver’s
life breath leave his body. Then my
sister will rest, and so shall I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Annie murmurs and
fidgets in her sleep. I place a hand upon
her matted hair, and my light touch is enough.
She quiets and her breathing slows.
The child clung to me the moment she saw me. Her eyes, like pools of clear water, pleaded
with me, though she said not a word. I
could not bear to push her away. Not in
a place like this. Here, I am certain
she cannot survive without me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She told me her name,
after I fed her a bit of stolen bread.
But she has said nothing else. I
blow my breath out in a long stream. What
shall I do with the child? Why did she
have to choose me, plucking at my skirts as I passed? For it is not likely that I myself will
survive this place much longer. The Close
is my prison. If I am to live, and if I
am to have my revenge, I must find a way out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dawn approaches. I can tell by the feel in the air. Early morning light doesn’t truly penetrate
here. Only during a brief hour at midday
when the sun is directly overhead is it truly bright. At daybreak, there is only a gradual
lessening of the darkness, as though someone has pushed aside a curtain that
covers a filthy window and allowed a few weak rays to filter inside a room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Careful not to disturb the
child, I rise from my bed, and nearly laugh aloud that I could think of it as
such. This is no more than a worn spot on
the cobbles, a tiny space between towering houses where I cower behind a barrel
left ages ago to rot. This corner has
become a refuge of sorts, out of view and out of reach of the slops thrown at
all hours from the upper windows. I have
but a single wall at my back and the stinking barrel to hide me from the
street. They provide no protection from
the weather. My bones ache with the
cold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Stretching and rubbing
my back, I close my eyes and count the hours in my head. How long ago was I locked in the Close? My mind is sluggish, a slow-moving river
filled with thoughts that take an eternity to surface. My eyelids fly open. I am shocked when I realize that this is only
the start of my third day here. Already,
I fear that I shall not last much longer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A babe cries from
somewhere above. Then a dog commences a
shrill barking and a man shouts to silence the creature. I am surrounded by walls of dark stone that team
with life, vile as it may be. These tall
houses hold many, many inhabitants, but every door is locked to me. A roof overhead is the one thing I do not
have. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I pat my pocket,
relieved to feel the solid presence of my knife. I’d taken it soon after arriving in the
Close. Not many hours had passed before
I knew I needed a weapon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A sound like stone
clattering upon the cobbles reaches my ears and I duck down beside the child,
holding my breath. Has the Watchman
returned? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I chose this spot so as
to remain hidden at night, when The Watchman wanders up and down, up and down,
his footsteps interminable, echoing. He
must not find me. My captors spoke their
warning as they pushed me down crumbling steps and locked the gates behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Make certain ye keep
out of sight of the Watchman, lassie,” one of them had said. “All keep to their beds sundown to
sunup. If he finds you, it will no’ go
well for ye.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They did not then tell
me that I would have to find a bed in the first place. Nor that no one in this dreadful place would
take pity upon me and offer one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> I hear nothing more. I stand, take a deep breath and wrinkle my
nose at the smells that invade my being.
I’m not yet used to the odor here.
Our latrine at home never smelled this bad. Mrs. Harris kept it clean by pouring lime
into it each week. Drains carried away
slops and kitchen scraps from the main house to the river. Our home smelled of beeswax polish and herbs
hung in the kitchen to dry. Baking bread
and fresh flowers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> I fear the stench of this place will
always be with me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Kenna?” Annie says. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes,” I whisper. My heart lifts as I kneel beside her. “I’m here.”
If she will now speak, perhaps I shall be able to find her family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hungry,” she
says. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well then,” I say,
patting her shoulder. The feel of her
thin frame, skin stretched over bone, calls to mind a starving cat I once
found. “Shall we find your mama?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Her eyes regard me for
a long moment. I hold my breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hungry,” she
repeats. Her voice is not
plaintive. She knows far better than I
that hunger is a faithful companion whose claws never let go. I sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Let’s go, then,” I
say, helping her to her feet. She
clutches her doll and smiles at me, and I force my face into what I hope is a
cheery expression. I adjust my dress,
tightening the laces of the bodice and scratching at my dirty skin. My hair must look much as Annie’s does,
though I’ve tried to keep it braided and off my face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> We
ease past the barrel and pick our way into the street. All is quiet, except for the continued squalling
of the babe from a few stories above our heads.
The little one cries most of the time.
I’ve grown used to the sound.
Annie cradles her doll and shushes it.
The toy is no more than a scrap of tattered wool fallen from a
clothesline high above that I’d wrapped about a bit of wood. My heart turns over for a moment. Where is her family? I must find them, or someone to take her in. And I must escape this place!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Though we need food, I first
wish to ascertain that the gates remain closed.
It is a fool’s errand, I know, but I must see for myself. Hurrying as fast as I can manage while my
silly embroidered shoes slip and slide upon the cobbles, I drag the child
behind me and move to the head of the Close.
The Close is not a street, but a long and exceedingly narrow alleyway
between tall houses. Moreover, it is not
one but several such passageways, which all manage to twist themselves together
into a labyrinth of sorts. A carriage
would be hard-pressed to pass through.
Not that I’ve seen one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The tall iron gates come
into view. Visible in the dawn light are
the sharp spikes at the top, high above my head. They are like black spears pointing to the
sky. The iron chains are yet in place. Locked.
I knew they would be, but I wished to make certain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> “Who goes there?” a voice calls from
the other side.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> We melt into the shadows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> My heart has slowed by the time we
inch our way to the next gate, moving downhill.
This gate is located at the far opposite end of this stinking alleyway.
“Stewart’s,” I think they call it here.
Annie and I return to our corner but pass on, following the twists and
turns of the winding passage until we reach the northernmost end, many minutes
later. We pass a few souls already
about: a servant emptying slops onto the cobbles, a shopkeeper placing what few
remaining wares he has into his market stalls.
He eyes me with distrust as the child and I pass; certain, I am sure,
that I mean to steal one of the two wilted cabbages he possesses. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> I am considering it. Though I have been raised to fear God, I never
knew how hunger could make one turn to sin until now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We reach our
destination. Tall gates bar our way as
well. I can see the soldiers encamped on
the other side. Smoke from their fires
curls upon the cold morning air. I smell
something that makes my mouth water.
They are cooking meat over one of the fires. Game, perhaps, or is it a goose? I sniff the air, drawing in the scent like a
hound at the hunt. God, but I am hungry!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> The soldiers do not starve. Why do they stand guard and keep us locked between
these iron gates so that all within will eventually perish with hunger? Who has given such orders? The Town Council? The King?
And why was I, a mere girl of fifteen, taken here?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> It was Oliver who caused the
soldiers to lock me in here. It must be! Of that I am nearly certain, but the mystery
of why the Close has been sealed off from the rest of the city outside is not
yet clear to me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Hearing footsteps approach, I pull
Annie to my side and sweep into a doorway.
Unfortunately, someone else was there before us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> “Shove off,” a rough voice grunts,
and a hard fist punches me in the side.
Gasping for air, I back away, trying to apologize but unable to form
words.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Annie whimpers as we move away,
stumbling along uneven cobbles. I turn
back, straining to see who approaches in the pale darkness of early morning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="NormalWebChar"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> A doorway opens and flickering light
allows me a glimpse of the hard face of Mr. Shaw, the baker. He is not one I’d wish to encounter
alone. His shop is back at the opposite
end of the Close, not far from my sleeping corner. He’s carrying what appears to be a heavy
parcel in his arms, and his eyes dart about as though he fears something. I know the look; I see it in the faces of
everyone here. I suppose I wear that
expression most of the time as well. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I back away, holding
tight to the child’s arm, and we press ourselves to the wall. Shaw passes by. He pays us no mind at all, and I sigh in
relief. Once his footsteps no longer
ring upon the cobbles, I move away from the wall but am stopped short when
something seizes my foot. I cry out as I
struggle, unable to break free. While
teetering and flinging my arms out in a wild manner as I seek to retain my
balance, I spy the thickly muscled arms that extend from between the bars of a
low window. Two large hands have a tight
grip upon my ankle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Don’t be alarmed,
pretty lass. Fancy coming down here to
give me a bit of company? I’ll share my
ale with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Let me be,” I blurt,
tugging and straining in vain against the ever-tightening grip. Annie begins to whimper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Use your blade, girl,”
a familiar voice grunts. It’s the person
from the doorway who struck me! Why should
he wish to assist us? Yet, with a gasp
of relief, I remember my knife. I’ve not
yet had occasion to use it, but circumstances warrant its use, and quick!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The clutching fingers
release me the moment I begin to slash at them.
Howls and curses emit from the low window as I hurry Annie away from the
spot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Best to stay on the other
side from now on when you pass by here,” my doorway companion says. “And keep your knife at the ready.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Thanks,” I manage to
breathe, now able to turn my attention to the man who assisted us. He is no taller than I and thin as a bundle
of sticks, and though the day has but begun and the light is still grey, I can
see the long years etched upon his face.
Annie clings to my side and I clutch my knife, wary of my so-called
protector, the one who punched me only moments before. I pray he can’t see how I tremble head to
foot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You’ve naught to eat I
warrant? That child is like to blow away
in a gust of wind,” the man says.
“Come.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He marches up creaking
steps to the entrance of his home. I
hear the scrape and click of a key turning in a lock. I remain where I am, unsure, but Annie tugs
at my skirts, and my stomach is as empty as the tiny, crumbling chapel at the other
end of the Close, so reluctantly, I follow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Inside, the man lights
a taper and sets it on a low wooden table.
He shuffles to another room and I look about me, keeping one hand on the
knife and another on the child’s shoulder, ready to flee at any moment. No telling what my protector actually
wants. It’s what I’ve learned in the
Close these past few days. Trust no one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The room is bare and
worn. The stone walls weep with moisture. There is no fire in the grate, though I am
certain the man must feel the chill. His
beak-like nose is red with cold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Eat,” the man grunts,
as he shuffles back into the room carrying a trencher of bread and cheese,
which he places upon a little table. My
mouth waters at the sight. With a cry,
Annie darts over and seizes a bit of bread, stuffing it into her mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Easy, little mouse,”
the man says with a soft chuckle. “Go
slow or it’ll come back out. I know that
kind of hunger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Do you,” I venture to
ask, snatching a bit of cheese. I wolf
it down in a manner that I know would have shocked my genteel sister, so proper
and dignified. Pushing away the memory
of her face, I reach for another piece.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Aye,” the man
says. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That is all. Then he takes his own bit of bread and sits
upon a worn bench, the only other furniture I spy within the room. Close-cropped white hair caps his skull like
a sprinkling of ashy snow, and his face is crinkled as a shriveled potato. He stares at me as he munches, and his pale eyes,
peering out as they do from between folds of ancient skin, regard me with
calculation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What does he want? I must be wary. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Annie makes whimpering
noises as she eats, taking bites that are far too large. I shush her, though I can hardly blame her
for eating like an animal. We had naught
but potato peelings yesterday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My shoulders sag as I
chew. I used to come here to give
charity. With my sister, I handed out
food from baskets Mrs. Harris prepared each Sunday. I was proud to say I fed the poor. But I shrank from the grabbing, grubby
fingers that reached for the pitiful offerings I so officiously gave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, my own filthy
hands are grateful for any bit of food they can find.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A wheezy chuckle interrupts
my musings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You don’t belong here,”
the man says, dipping his head at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How do you know that?”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I curl my fingers
around the handle of the knife in my pocket as I speak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “I know who you are, Poisoner. We all do.
You’re that uppity granddaughter of Lord Ramsay who murdered her sister.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">CHAPTER ONE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">(Newer one, where I move the story back to a few days earlier)</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Ladies
do not scramble up the outer walls of their homes with their skirts hiked up and
bound about their knees. They do not
cling to trellises filled with shriveled roses, pricking their fingers upon
thorns and biting back oaths they are not supposed to know as they push open the
windows of chambers they were forbidden to enter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> How
Grandfather would chide me, though always with a spark of amusement in his
eye. How Oliver would freeze me with his
stern gaze! He takes upon himself the
role of father when it suits him, which is usually when <i>Kenna has behaved in an unseemly manner once again</i>. He
sheds the role of parent most of the time, though, removing it from his person
as one flicks a bit of dust from his sleeve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
land with a soft thump upon the carpets in my sister’s chamber. She moans and stirs but does not open her
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
room smells of dust and something sour like curdled milk. Wrinkling my nose, I fling the curtains wide
and leave the casements open, though the air is cool and filled with the gray autumn
mist that descends upon our hills this time of year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Oliver’s
orders are that the heavy curtains are to be kept drawn tight in his wife’s
chamber. It is as though my sister is
not allowed to know the day from the night.
Her husband insists the sunlight hurts her eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
do not believe him. I need light, at any
rate. With my bare foot, (climbing is
near to impossible wearing one’s slippers) I shove a stool close to Cinaed’s
bed and sit, pulling the bit of parchment filched from Grandfather’s desk from my skirts. And I begin. Squinting, I sketch a few lines, regard them
with more than a tinge of criticism, and add more lines to my drawing. My sister is both mother and father to
me. She has been since the time our
parents died, so long ago their faces do not come to mind. I cannot bear the thought that one day I may
no longer recall my sister’s image, either.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> If
she does not recover. But she must! I cannot lose her!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
am only drawing her portrait because she has asked me to, so many times. That is why.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> There. That is much better. I had first made the mistake of recreating in
exactness what I saw before me, drawing the curve of my sister’s cheek,
shrunken with illness. Scrubbing with my
fingers, I redraw her as I remember her before.
Round cheeks and clear eyes that dart about, quick like a robin’s. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Cinaed’s
eyes are the color of storm clouds. They
mask her true nature. Hers is a
disposition far more akin to a day of bright sun than to a brooding sky filled
with the promise of cold rain. I shall
never forget her smile. Frowning, I
trace the lines of my drawing with a smudged finger. It is still not right!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Miss,”
our maid, Lorna, says. Yelping in
surprise, I dart to my feet. I had not
once noticed her, sitting silent in the shadows in the far corner, her knitting
in her lap. Treacherous little snip! She will likely flee and tell Oliver what I
have done in her sniveling voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
scowl at her, knowing my face betrays the frustration I feel, and caring not
one whit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Lorna
rises with her yarns in her hands and bobs a timid </span>curtsy<span style="font-size: 12pt;">. “Please, miss,” she falters, “It is nearly
twelve o’clock. The physician will be
here, and Sir Oliver says no one is allowed in.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “No,”
I say from between clenched teeth. My
drawing is not right. “I’ll not leave
until I have finished!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Yes,”
Oliver announces, entering swiftly and sweeping me off my stool as our cook
might shoo a kitten away from her favorite chair. “You
shall. The physician has arrived.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
plead with my eyes, but my sister’s husband does not bother to look upon
me. He marches to stand beside the bed
of his wife, whose damp hair clings to her glistening forehead, and whose pale
cheeks have sunken into her face, giving her the look of a crone rather than a
woman not yet thirty. Her illness caused
some of her teeth to fall out. She lost
another this morning. It still lies upon
the tray on the carved table beside the bed.
No one bothered to remove it. The
chip of bone tinged with red holds my gaze for a moment, and my stomach sours
at the sight. I am glad my sister does
not appear to be aware of her surroundings.
For the past three days she has not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dismissed,
I close the door softly behind me and bite my tongue against the many retorts I
would hurl at the man who calls himself my brother. The thick carpets beneath my feet are a
mockery to me. Oliver’s fool idea! They were unrolled in the corridors only
yesterday so that my sister need not be disturbed by the sound of passing
footsteps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My
sister is not dead. Why does Oliver
insist we creep about upon silent feet, as though we are in a church? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Ah,
Kenna,” Grandfather murmurs my name. His
tall form approaches from the direction of the stairs. Thanks to the carpets, I had not heard his
usually heavy, measured tread. I flee to
his side and he places his arms about me, holding me so close I feel his heart
beating. “Do not fret so, child. No, do not fret, my dear.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “She
is so ill,” I murmur into his coat. He
smells of apples and mulled wine, as though he has come from the kitchens. Our paths cross often when we sneak into the
larder searching for a bit of sweet or sip of claret. Comrades in household thievery we are,
causing no end of grief to Mrs. Harris. Stepping
back, I swipe at my tears and straighten my shoulders. Aside from our clandestine meetings over
midnight repasts, Grandfather does expect me to behave like a lady, after
all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Grandfather,
Cinaed is so ill! What can we do?” I ask
him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Grandfather
eyes crinkle as he smiles down at me. He
is weary. I can see it in the dark
smudges and bags beneath his great blue eyes, but I still feel comfort from the
strength that emanates from him. He
squeezes my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “My
good friend and physician, Sir Robert Ogilvie, is here, Kenna. He shall help your poor sister. I am certain of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Swallowing
the lump in my throat, I back away and finally remember my manners in time to sink
in an ungainly </span>curtsy<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> at the sight of the portly man beside Grandfather. As I do so, I feel the air upon my bare legs
and remember my knotted skirts and bare feet.
I do not even wear stockings! Cheeks
stinging with the flush that creeps upon them, I struggle to untie the knots I
have made in the brightly colored stuff of my lemon-yellow skirts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Smoothing
my crumpled skirts, I lift my gaze in time to spy the clear look of disapproval
the esteemed physician wears upon his round and thoroughly unpleasant face. His head is shaped like an egg; wider at the
bottom than the top, as his chin simply dissolves into the folded flesh of his
neck. His coat is mussed and he wears a
look of self-importance. I do not like
his demeanor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
shall certainly do all within my power to help your sister, lass,” the man says
in a smooth voice that is surprisingly high-pitched. “Though I must say I’ve not heard of such a
case before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Please,
sir,” I begin to say, but that is all I can manage. My throat closes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Grandfather
pats my shoulder again. “Go, Kenna. The tailor and Mrs. Harris await you in your
chambers. Oliver has ordered you a new
dress. You must try it on.” He pauses and wipes his brow. “Go, lass,” he repeats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <i>A new dress</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
stare after Grandfather and the haughty physician who hurry down the silent
hall and disappear inside my sister’s chamber.
My drawing falls from numb fingers.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Does
Oliver truly believe that all shall be well with me if I have a new dress? Never mind that my sister lay dying! Kenna shall have pretty new clothes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Does
he believe that is all I care for?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Rage
surges like boiling oil through my body.
I shall show Oliver what I think of my new dress!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Kenna,”
Mrs. Harris gasps as I burst through the doors of my chamber. “What is it, my dear?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Go!”
I scream, pointing at the elderly woman and the straw-haired young man who
waits with her. His mouth gapes wide and
he stares, giving him the appearance of a scaly herring lying in a market
stall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Leave
NOW!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Our
old housekeeper hurries out of the room with her handkerchief over her face.
The tailor follows. My entire body
trembles. I should be ashamed for how I
have treated the kindly woman, but I can feel nothing but the anger that surges
through my veins. I am tipsy with the
feeling, unsteady on my feet as though I have taken too much wine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
dress lies upon my bed. It is silk, the color
of soot. Ribbons, lace, the finest of stitches,
nearly invisible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Mourning
garb. Oliver does not think to distract
me with pretty things. He sends a
message.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My
shoulders sag at the sight and I bury my face in my hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “She
is not dead,” I say. I raise my face and
gulp air. “She is not dead!” I shout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
tailor left his satchel upon the table.
I rifle through it until I locate his scissors. They slice through the silk with ease. Within moments, the remains of my dress
slither to the floor, slain by my own hands.
I step back to admire the sight, a pool of ink at my feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> A
new black dress. Carpets upon the floors
to muffle our footsteps. And even straw
scattered upon the cobbles outside, to muffle the sound of passing hooves. Oliver ordered it this morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Slowly,
I turn and move to the window. A gust of
early November wind tosses withered leaves against the glass. They tap and hiss like the voices of spirits
seeking shelter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Were
any lost spirits to entreat me for welcome, I should warn them they seek to
enter a place that holds as much joy as a graveyard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My
sister’s lute lies upon a table. I took
it from her chambers after she fell ill.
The hint of a song whispers in the air as my fingers brush against the
strings. A teardrop splashes against the
polished wood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Cinaed
loves music and singing. She loves the
sound of the larks upon the branches outside her window; even the crows as they
cark and caw in the fields come autumn.
She dearly loves to laugh. Why
must we remain so silent? Though she
lies weak and mute, perhaps she still hears what transpires around her. Would she not wish to hear the voices of
those who are most beloved? Would that
not cheer her heart and help her grow strong once more?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
nearly trip upon my skirts as I pivot on my heel. And as
I fly to my sister’s chamber, I spy the heads of Grandfather and his physician
as they descend the stairs, their voices indistinct. Oliver’s low baritones murmur as well. Good. There
shall be no one to chase me away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> According
to our music master, my voice is not nearly so lovely as Oliver’s, yet it will
do. My sister’s husband no longer sings
for her. Well, then. <i>I</i>
shall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Her
chamber is stifling. The fire roars in
the grate. Beneath the coverlet, my
sister’s body is slight. I seize her
hand, startled at how cold it is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Cinaed,”
I murmur. “It’s Kenna, come to sing for
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> She
breathes in and out again, her lips quiver.
Her eyelids flutter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My
voice is hardly above a whisper when I begin.
The lullaby is one my sister used to sing to me when I feared the
shadows of night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The swallows are gone</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">,<i> </i>I manage to warble, quite off-key. My wretched voice! It is hardly more than a croak. I breathe in and try again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The summer has flown. Dear little child, come with me</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My voice
trembles and I must pause once more to draw breath. Cinaed’s cracked lips part and I lean closer,
but she does not speak. I brush her hair
from her face and stroke her cheek while I continue to sing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The world shall await, ‘ere long you are grown, but
for now you shall sleep</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oliver!” my sister gasps. Her eyes open and she thrashes about, bucking
and kicking like a new colt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
leap to my feet and turn to call for aid, but before I utter a sound Oliver
flings the door wide and hurtles inside.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “What
are you doing here, Kenna?” he growls.
“Leave her be!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Oliver
flies to Cinaed’s bed and kneels beside her.
My sister seizes her husband’s waistcoat with one flailing fist and with
the other hand scratches at his eyes; though I do not believe she is aware of
what she does. In vain, Oliver struggles
to detach her hands and to hold his wife’s slight form still. The velvet tears and he shrugs it off and
flings the torn clothing to the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Go,
Kenna,” he calls, turning his head to me.
His face is contorted with pain.
A livid streak of red creases one cheek.
“Seek the physician! He cannot
have gone yet!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
do not move. It is as though my feet are
woven into the stuff of the carpet beneath them. I cannot do what Oliver says, for I have
finally allowed myself to admit what everyone else sought to tell me. I know now that it is too late to call for
aid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My
sister is dying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
pain of my realization nearly causes me to sink to the floor. I clamp a hand over my mouth and bite my lip
to keep from crying out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Wrapped
in her husband’s tight grip, Cinaed convulses once, twice. Her eyes lose their wild look, and for a
brief moment, I believe that she is coming to herself. Oliver bends his head so that their faces
nearly touch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
step forward, holding my breath. It is
as though I am gazing at a painting, a tableau of tender intimacy, something I
should not witness. My heart turns over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My
sister gazes into the eyes of her husband, so close at hand. He murmurs words, too soft for me to hear. Cinaed listens. Her ebony hair spills across her pillow; her face
is pale as chalk. Her body is nothing
but skin tight across sharp bone. Her
eyes, far too large, gaze at her husband with an intense longing. The love she possesses for this man is
written in every single pain-caused line on her wasted face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
take another step and my foot touches something upon the floor. It is Oliver’s torn waistcoat. Reaching down to move it aside, my fingers
brush against something smooth and cold.
Beneath the fallen waistcoat lies a tiny bottle. I close my hand around it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Oliver
continues to murmur low words to his wife.
His eyes are upon only her, so that he does not see what I have found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
recognize the bottle at once. It is the
same poison we use to kill rats and mice in the barns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Cinaed
gasps for air. The sound pierces
me. Then my sister breathes out once
more, a long, slow sigh. And she is
still, though her eyes remain fixed on my brother, a heartbeat away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> For
several long moments, I stay where I am, clutching the glass bottle, staring at
my sister’s beloved face, willing her to breathe again. But she does not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Oliver
finally turns in my direction. His eyes
are dry and his face is a mask of utter stillness. Until he sees what I hold in my hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Kenna,”
he says in a strangled voice. His eyes
dart from the bottle to my face and back again.
Something dawns in his eyes. Something
cold and fierce. And his face contorts
and darkens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
stumble backwards, clutching the bottle to my chest. He killed her. <i>He
killed her! </i>This man has murdered
his wife, my only sister!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Oliver
rises to his feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
scream. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-21439894126021149552015-09-04T12:43:00.004-07:002015-09-04T12:44:10.290-07:00Revisiting Revising: Contests Can Help <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2eQbgX3VN4iQNIm5gM8ZUHDIqtvne4E67qKgLFE4O10UKbU2nQy-zkcGP3mnr83pd1gXog7LZWTnwbzGRZ0FegBsA_OMTv3TPZFsy0gvwwUdItCydlzEPdiB8xA13Oi_1xOYEftsTI4/s1600/typewriter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2eQbgX3VN4iQNIm5gM8ZUHDIqtvne4E67qKgLFE4O10UKbU2nQy-zkcGP3mnr83pd1gXog7LZWTnwbzGRZ0FegBsA_OMTv3TPZFsy0gvwwUdItCydlzEPdiB8xA13Oi_1xOYEftsTI4/s200/typewriter.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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This summer was a season of revising for me. I have written six complete novels so far, and three of them need serious work. So, I spent some quality time on revising, editing, changing and fixing them. This meant I ignored housework and other less-necessary items on my "to do" list while I poured over, worried over, and agonized over my books. Good times! Seriously, I love writing and even revising, so it wasn't half as bad as I made it sound.</div>
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Well, this summer was also a time of contests for me. Brenda Drake's fabulous site, www.brenda-drake.com, offers lots and lots of them, and I highly recommend entering. Just to make this immediately clear, I didn't "win" anything or really get that far in any of the contests I entered. However, I got some outstanding advise from several of the contest judges (or mentors) who were incredibly kind and emailed me their suggestions, even when they didn't chose my entered manuscripts.</div>
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Along with the contests I entered, I participated in a July workshop where authors would critique 1st pages sent in to the site. I swallowed my pride, since the way this is set up is that after you enter, your writing, along with any suggested changes or advice, will appear on Brenda Drake's site for the world to see. Gulp. That was a little hard to swallow, but I did it anyway, and I'm glad I did. Here's a link to brenda-drake.com on the day that my work was critiqued. It was hard to put myself out there like that, but I'm glad I did. The advice I got was solid and made me look much more carefully at the entire novel.</div>
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<a href="http://www.brenda-drake.com/2015/07/day-eighteen-of-julys-first-page-workshop-with-pitch-wars-mentors-dee-romito-monica-bustamante-wagner/" target="_blank">http://www.brenda-drake.com/2015/07/day-eighteen-of-julys-first-page-workshop-with-pitch-wars-mentors-dee-romito-monica-bustamante-wagner/</a></div>
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Keep writing and definitely keep revising, and if you can stand the idea, enter a contest or two. You may learn something that will make your writing sing. (Or, you may be far better than I am and actually win the contest!) :-)</div>
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<a href="http://www.brenda-drake.com/2015/07/day-eighteen-of-julys-first-page-workshop-with-pitch-wars-mentors-dee-romito-monica-bustamante-wagner/"></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-54407647445963543922015-05-21T08:31:00.000-07:002015-05-21T20:20:23.375-07:00Entry for "The Writer's Voice" Contest<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Query:</b></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Mr./Ms. XXXXX,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the granddaughter of an Earl, fifteen-year-old Kenna
Somerled is used to a life of privilege and ease. But in the fall of 1665, when
her sister dies under mysterious circumstances, Kenna discovers the killer and
must flee for her own safety. Instead of
a refuge, she finds herself locked behind the guarded gates of the Close, a
warren of narrow alleyways in the poorest section of Edinburgh, with no money,
friends, or shelter. What’s worse is
that somehow, word of her arrival preceded her.
To the residents of the Close, Kenna is “the Poisoner,” a girl who murdered
her own sister. Armed only with her wits
and a stolen knife, hampered by a young street urchin who has latched onto her,
Kenna must seek any means to survive.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kenna gradually gains the trust of mysterious benefactors, but soon discovers they are none other than the leaders of the Guild, a band of thieves who steal from the
dead. Bent on escaping the locked
streets and seeking revenge for the murder, Kenna joins the thieves. In so doing, she begins to learn the secrets
of the Close and its residents, and gain their respect as they earn hers in
return. But time is running out, for the
so-called quarantine that locks all within the Close continues with no end in sight and
Kenna now has a price on her head. With
no supplies going in our out, food grows scarce and the residents of the Close grow
restless and angry. Kenna must have the
aid of the Guild in order to escape. But
will Kenna’s new friends be able to trust her when her own secret is revealed?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“KENNA’S CLOSE,” a YA historical novel set in 17<sup>th</sup>
century Edinburgh, is complete at 76,000 words.
I have been a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and
Illustrators since 2008, and have written other novels, including contemporary
and historical genres. I’ve worked as a
speech-language pathologist for many years, a profession that continues to
increase my love for children’s literature.
I appreciate your time and
consideration. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sincerely,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rebecca Bischoff</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>First 250 Words:</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>KENNA'S CLOSE</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I find Oliver, I
will plunge my knife into his heart. I
won’t trifle with potions, the method he used to murder his wife. I will not allow myself the luxury of
watching him die by inches, as pain fills his wretched soul. What I have learned in this filthy place
echoing with the squeal of rats and moans of the starving is that I will only
have one chance. I must not falter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I only want to see
Oliver’s life breath leave his body.
Then my sister will rest, and so shall I.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Annie murmurs and
fidgets in her sleep. I place a hand upon
her matted hair, and my light touch is enough.
She quiets and her breathing slows.
The child clung to me the moment she saw me. Her eyes, like pools of clear water, pleaded
with me, though she said not a word. I
could not bear to push her away. Not in
a place like this. Here, I am certain
she cannot survive without me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She told me her name,
after I fed her a bit of stolen bread.
But she has said nothing else. I
blow my breath out in a long stream.
What shall I do with the child?
Why did she have to choose me, plucking at my skirts as I passed? For it is not likely that I myself will
survive this place much longer. The Close
is my prison. If I am to live, and if I
am to have my revenge, I must find a way out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-20789138514728406662015-02-24T13:06:00.001-08:002015-02-24T13:06:57.280-08:00Chen Loves His Mummy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9vQVuKjfMbV_Vp82dcmzpNjdg8iSPwQnxfOFPVcED9tDSipHaxTg4qhXarsOZyV2-scesQISgB2Ytw9Xk96rw-FyKn-gge9V6Ymd6b4LKVV1uZlQHBIfCXD05GpG0JDKQIS2pb1dUPM/s1600/hands-compassion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9vQVuKjfMbV_Vp82dcmzpNjdg8iSPwQnxfOFPVcED9tDSipHaxTg4qhXarsOZyV2-scesQISgB2Ytw9Xk96rw-FyKn-gge9V6Ymd6b4LKVV1uZlQHBIfCXD05GpG0JDKQIS2pb1dUPM/s1600/hands-compassion.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></div>
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I was watching a National Geographic special the other day about Caucasian-looking mummies found in the Tarim Basin in China. I couldn't help chuckling as one man, someone in charge of some of the mummies kept at a museum, waxed poetic about one particularly well-preserved body. "If I lived in her day, or if she were alive today, I would marry this woman. She is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he said.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Wow, he needs to get out more," I thought to myself. True, she looked pretty good for someone who'd been dead for centuries. Most bodies don't look too great after a while in the ground. Anyway, that prompted me to write this silly, sappy short story. I posted it as a comment in my friend's blog, "Write Now Anyway," but had to do it anonymously, since I'm terrible with computers and couldn't get logged in. I decided to also post it here on my blog. Just a random bit of silliness for a random Tuesday. I like to call it: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chen Loves His Mummy</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Present Day<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>XinJiang Region,
China<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Good morning, my love,” he
whispered. She did not respond. He knew she would not; yet, he couldn’t help
it. His soft greeting must be the first
sound to reach her each day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He felt it right away; what he
could only describe as a slight “shimmer” in the air. It wasn’t an audible sound, yet Chen had long
ago learned to recognize it. She was
letting him know that she heard him. And
she was pleased.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Chen Hai smiled to himself as
uncovered dusty glass cases. This room, <u>her</u>
room, was in a far corner of the building.
It was no more than a wooden addition tacked on when interest in the new
acquisitions first brought attention to Chen’s insignificant museum. Surely no one outside of China, no, perhaps
even no man outside his own province, had even heard of the town before. Then, Chen had found her. Now, his tiny town perched on the edge of the
brutal Takla Makan desert was known to many.
Scientists from the world over had come to visit. A crew
from National Geographic had just packed up and left the day before.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He was glad that the foreigners had
left. Signing in relief, Chen hit the
switch to turn on the overhead lights.
At first they buzzed like angry horseflies, but finally, the room was
bathed with a soft, though inadequate glow.
Now that they were gone, those lank Westerners with their cameras and
questions and sun burnt flesh, he relished the silence. He turned to her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Did you enjoy your moment in the
spotlight?” he asked, feeling a slight flush creep over his face. More than two years in her presence and he
was still so shy! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
While he waited for a response,
Chen busied himself with his morning routine.
First, he replaced the flowers in the vase beside her bed. Then, he dusted every imaginable surface. Grit got everywhere in this harsh, brown land,
blowing in upon the interminable wind through the tiniest of cracks. Once Chen had gotten sick, and had not come
for several days. Upon his return, he
was shocked by the thick layers of dust.
He knew it had hurt her very badly that he had neglected her
comfort. She had not spoken to him for
weeks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She spoke now. Chen felt as though a tiny bird were beating
its wings inside his chest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I am glad of it,” he said, hearing
the tremor in his voice. He put his
cloth away. “Now for your hair.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She liked it plaited, with brightly
colored wool threads woven throughout the long braids. Chen made certain that her hair was perfect
each day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She was pleased. The air crackled with electricity as she
spoke to Chen, sharing her secrets.
Telling him of her gratitude. Her
love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He arranged her cloak, his hands
caressing the rough woven fibers. The
colors were so bright. They suited his
lady, with her flowing locks and her face like the carving of an ancient goddess. Her long, lean limbs. Chen sighed aloud.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Will you permit me, my love?” he
murmured. The assent came
immediately. His heart would burst
inside him! He leaned down, his lips
searching for hers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Chen! What are you doing?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Laughter burst from behind and
echoed through the small chamber. The
harsh sounds pummeled Chen all over his body; hard, painful jabs. Zhu Tan, the museum’s director, as well as
his assistant, Ping, and several other workers crowded into the narrow doorway
to stare, laughing so hard tears poured down their cheeks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He’s making out with the mummy
again,” one of the younger assistants said, gasping for air. “You win, guys! I never would have believed it! Guess I owe you all a drink tonight after
work!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Chen shoved past them and
fled. Their laughter remained in his
head long after he reached his apartment.
She called out for him, desperation and loneliness clear in her voice. Her voice reached him even there, blocks
away. He would not leave her alone with
them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was a simple matter to puncture
a hole through the room’s thin wooden walls.
The next morning, the museum director found the hole, as well as the
empty bed. Nothing else had been
disturbed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Twenty Years Later:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Li
Sheng stared at her newest find. She’d been
excavating the cache of Caucasian mummies in the Takla Makan desert for quite
some time. Now that China’s silly desire
to preserve its long-cherished cultural beliefs about existing in a vacuum with
no outside influence was finally waning somewhat, she and the others in her
international team had made fascinating discoveries.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
cave held many surprises. But this one
took her breath away. She did not
understand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
first mummy was that of a woman. Tall,
with long braided hair and the distinctly Causcasian features of the other
mummies of the Tarim Basin, she wore a colorful cloak. She was very old. Two or three thousand years, at least. She lay in a semi-reclined position, her arms
folded upon her chest. Li Sheng
frowned. This mummy was what she’d
expected. But the other one was not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
other mummy, sitting beside the woman, was clearly the remains of a Chinese
man. Short of stature, his facial
features were frozen in a look of peaceful complacency. And instead of the coarsely woven wool
clothing of the other mummies, he wore a…cotton t-shirt! Li Sheng leaned closer and raised her
flashlight. A <u>National Geographic </u>logo
was on the front of the man’s shirt.
Jeans covered his legs and his feet were clad in a dusty pair of Nikes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Swallowing
bile, Li Sheng backed away. She’d call
the police. Someone must have used this
cave to hide their murder victim. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she
turned to go, a strange feeling shot through the air, almost like a spark of
electricity. Li Sheng’s hair stood on
end. Slowly, she turned. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
Chinese man’s head now rested upon the shoulder of the tall woman, whose long,
brown arms were wrapped possessively about her companion. Li Sheng blinked. Then, she cursed, and turned to run. She needed a drink.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-74720528469054117562015-01-14T10:10:00.002-08:002015-01-14T10:10:16.805-08:00The Courage to Revise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwNqfZQBU_n2iO8JyWmLzmEQ8ACyXOmIv-56apIjM4uFQk_a7e0f1xmboA1jtNnGwlQeTYOyjJEN70WIj7JXd72OSebVa5B-Mj2a_CiVrVsxkGhZn_caoNwJQjN_aqyimnEyUpXC4bhOc/s1600/Eraser.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwNqfZQBU_n2iO8JyWmLzmEQ8ACyXOmIv-56apIjM4uFQk_a7e0f1xmboA1jtNnGwlQeTYOyjJEN70WIj7JXd72OSebVa5B-Mj2a_CiVrVsxkGhZn_caoNwJQjN_aqyimnEyUpXC4bhOc/s1600/Eraser.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m occasionally
surprised to find that there are a few people out there who read my blog once
in a while. I’m not being sarcastic or
whiny, just stating a fact. I figure
most traffic on my blog consists of family members or friends, and once in a
while some random person who might stumble across it by accident while Googling
writing tips, Sandra Bullock, or maybe is looking for outlet websites selling
discounted designer clothing. It could
happen. Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised
when a friend’s husband mentioned a blog post of mine, and gave me a great idea
for a way to improve something I’d written.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I was thrilled,
actually. Why? Because I want, and desperately need, input,
suggestions, tips, thoughts, intuitions, opinions, or even statements of
extreme disgust regarding my creative writing attempts. I want this because I will never be able to
improve without learning to stand back and objectively critique what I write. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Back in February
of 2014, I’d written a post about a middle grade (though now I’m thinking it’s
more of a YA, or young adult) novel that I’m writing, about something rather
creepy. I included my first chapter. No comments were posted on my blog, so I
suppose I thought no one had seen it.
Happily, last month I learned that wasn’t true, and my friend’s husband,
Lars, made a great suggestion about a scene where my protagonist, a young grave
robber named Cap, touches the face of a young girl he’s just helped dig up from
her coffin. At his touch, she seems to
revive and opens her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lars said that
when reading this passage, he’d expected there to be a “beat,” or a moment or
two after Cap touches the girl’s face, when nothing seems to happen and Cap is
then convinced he’d imagined things, before the girl actually does open her
eyes. Whoa, hold the phone! That had never crossed my mind, but as soon as
he said it, I thought it was a fantastic suggestion and decided to do a little
re-writing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ll admit that
revising is hard. It truly is for
me. I recently read some writing tips
from a well-known and respected author, sadly I can’t remember who right now,
whose said: “Have the courage to revise.”
It <u>does</u> take courage. It
takes courage to decide that you can, in fact, make your writing better, but that
takes humility and a willingness to listen to others who aren’t so emotionally “wrapped
up” in the story as you, the creator of it, happen to be. It takes courage to listen to those others
who can take that proverbial step back and tell you when your writing…stinks. There, I said it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So, thank you
Lars, for making a great suggestion! I
like adding a few moments of waiting, when Cap is convinced nothing really
happened. I think it adds a bit of
tension to the scene, and allows for Cap to have the more startled response
(scream) at the end of the scene. His scream,
of course, attracts attention and keeps the momentum of the story moving
forward. So, here they are: the following paragraphs include my original
excerpt from chapter one of “The Digger,” and after that is my revised excerpt,
based on Lars’ recommendation. Hope you
like it, but if you don’t, feel free to tell me. Please.
</span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Original:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She was serene
as before, eerily beautiful in the dim moonlight. <u>Why can’t you be sleeping</u>? Cap
thought, wishing it with all his heart.
Then, without thinking, he reached down to touch her soft cheek. As he did so, a brief sensation of warmth
shot up his finger and traveled up his arm.
His eyes widened in shock. Her flesh
was warm? Cap gasped and pulled his hand
away. Jessamyn’s eyelids seemed to
flutter, a slight movement, no greater than the merest flicker, so slight that
Cap thought he must have dreamed it.
Then, nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Gaping,
trembling, hardly daring to breathe, Cap reached down again and touched the
girl’s soft cheek, then placed his palm on her forehead. And then, something happened that he never
expected. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She opened her
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Revised Version</span></u></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Why can’t you be
sleeping</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">?
Cap thought, wishing it with his heart.
Without thinking, he reached down to touch her cheek. As he did so, a sensation of warmth shot
through him, moving from his fingers and up his arm. His eyes widened in shock. Her flesh should be cold! Cap gasped and pulled his hand away. He swore he saw Jessamyn’s eyelids
flutter. It was a slight movement, no
greater than a flicker. Cap thought he
must have dreamed it. He stared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Gaping,
trembling, hardly daring to breathe, Cap reached down again and touched the
girl’s soft cheek, then placed his palm on her forehead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She was
still. So, so still. A girl carved in stone. Moments passed. Leaves skittered in the wind. Cap waited, eyes wide. His heart sped up. He counted the beats. Ten.
Fifteen. Thirty-two. His heart slowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally, he let
his hand fall away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The girl was
dead. He was a fool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> He
sat back on his heels and reached down to cover her face. And then he screamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She opened her
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-65187935031738523202014-12-11T08:54:00.004-08:002014-12-11T08:54:31.230-08:00Stinky Writing: Using All Five Senses (Including Smell)<div class="MsoNormal">
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Writers often draw their readers into the imaginary world they've created through the use of descriptive language. They do this by using sensory details, which should include all five of the senses: sight, sound, smell, touch and taste. I always thought that I had a tendency to focus solely on visual details, but in the past year I've realized something else. I am obsessed with smells. <br />
<br />
A description of the scent that wafts from a nearby bakery is included in the first paragraph of my contemporary YA novel, "The French Impressionist." I discuss smell (or odors) quite often in my historical YA novel "The Digger," about a young boy who works digging up the recently dead to sell to medical schools. And, in chapter one I include details regarding the odiferous properties of the slums where my protagonist is trapped in my latest historical "work in progress," (WIP,) which I call: "Kenna's Close." <br />
<br />
Hmmm...I suppose I am a bit obsessed with what my nose knows.<br />
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A while ago, a friend wrote about the use of sensory details in writing, as a prompt on her blog. I wanted to try to include descriptions of all five senses in a writing exercise. This is what I came up with:</div>
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“Bet you’re too scared to go in there.”</div>
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Addison’s words stung.
They rattled around in my brain and would pop up to hit me, hard, like
those stupid brown grasshoppers that plonked against my legs as I crossed the dry grass
out back. All through breakfast my brother
had whispered “coward,” so Mom wouldn’t hear.
I showed him a big mouthful of mushy, sugary, Fruit Loops to
show I didn’t care, but I did. He knew
it. Finally, when Mom left for work, I stuck
my chin out and snuck out back to crawl through a gap in the fence that
separates our house from the old Milford place.
If my big brother wasn’t too scared to go inside the town’s “haunted
house,” I wouldn’t be either. After all,
I was nine years old. I was too old to
be scared.</div>
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The rusted knob rattled under my grasp but finally turned with a
screech, like the old house was protesting against the intrusion. The door opened toward me with a soft groan. I felt
like the house was breathing out its hot, stale breath all over me. Old houses have a smell to them, and this
place was no exception. The odor of
rotting wood and something almost sweet, like a summer garden filled with dying
flowers, filled my nose and mouth, and I swear I tasted it. Chewed on it.
I spat and shoved the neck of my Captain America t-shirt over my mouth
and nose so all I could smell was the scent of Downey fabric softener and my
own sweat. Then, before I could change
my mind, I hurtled inside, mega-fast, before ninety-seven year-old Mrs. Compton
across the street could spy me through her lace curtains and call the cops.</div>
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This house was alive.
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It creaked, it
moaned, it popped and crackled, like Mrs. Compton when she tries to stand up in
church. What were all those sounds? Was someone else in here? After being out in the bright mid-summer sun,
I was blind in this old, dim cave of a place. My heart
nearly pounded itself out of my chest, but after I blinked a few thousand
times, I could finally see. There was no
one but me. In fact, there wasn’t much
at all to look at. A front
room with a low ceiling, an empty fireplace, pale circles and squares where pictures must have
once hung on faded wallpaper that was printed with sickly-looking yellow roses. Dust-covered floorboards displayed a set of
footprints that led away from where I stood, on out into a hallway, where I spied a
set of stairs.</div>
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“You gotta wave to me from THAT window,” Addison had told me
with a sneer. “If you don’t, I’ll know
you’re chicken.” </div>
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The steps shivered under my bare feet. I bounced up and down a bit to test them out,
but they held my weight, so I crept upward, fast as I dared. The treads were covered with threadbare carpet
that may have been green at one time. The
carpet felt so gritty under my feet it was like walking on dirt. Breathing harder, I got to the top where
there was a small landing, and then another hallway stretched out in front of
me. Two doors on the left, one to my
right, and one down at the end. That was
the room I needed to enter; the one that faced the back of our house and our kitchen
window. It’s where I’d find THAT window,
the one where Addison insists he sees a face staring out sometimes, like a pale
smudge on a sheet of black paper, at night when everyone else is asleep.</div>
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The knob was shiny. I
didn’t know why, but that kinda struck me as funny. Everything else in this house is dusty or rusty,
faded and ancient, but that doorknob was brand new. </div>
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I swallowed and could still taste Fruit Loops. </div>
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“Go on, Cam!
Get it over with!” I mumbled to myself, my mouth still muffled inside
the neck of my shirt. The hot, still air
in this place was getting to me. I wanted
to leave as fast as I could and get back to the air-conditioned safety of my
own room. A trickle of sweat rolled down
the side of my face, leaving a salty, itchy trail on my cheek. Finally, pulling my shirt away from my face,
I turned the knob and opened the door.</div>
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Then, I screamed and ran, blindly, stumbling my way down the
stairs, through the front room and out onto the front porch. </div>
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That was no empty room.</div>
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Well, that was fun. :-) As I was writing, I realized that I still tended to focus quite a bit on the visual properties of something, and then on the smell. Old houses do have a particular odor, and true to my nature, I included descriptions of smell.<br />
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My new goal is to remember to include other sensory characteristics, including, in particular, touch and sound, when I write. But I'll never forget to include how something smells, because for me, smell is where it's at. <br />
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Happy writing!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-71159885429593400942014-12-09T09:27:00.000-08:002014-12-09T09:27:35.123-08:00The Joys of Rejection (Note Sarcasm)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Rejection hurts. We all know that! We are rejected in many ways throughout our lives. Ever develop a huge crush on someone, only to find out that the object of your affection was about as attracted to you as they might be to a jellyfish, a random pebble on the street, or a blob of mustard on your shirt? <br />
<br />
Ever work extra hard on a school assignment, forgoing favorite TV shows or hanging out with friends because you were so determined to excel, then find you'd earned a nice, bland B grade? Or a C?<br />
<br />
Have you ever spent months working on the rough draft of a novel, then many more months revising, revising, revising? And then, after that, have you ever spent perhaps more than a year attending writing conferences and workshops, and had writing group friends read and give feedback and suggestions, then continue to make even more changes to your manuscript?<br />
<br />
THEN, have you ever spent about eighteen months sending query letter after query letter to literary agents, hoping and praying that one of them would see something worthwhile in your novel, and maybe, just MAYBE want to represent you? Only to receive rejection after rejection after rejection....<br />
<br />
I have, and it's painful! Why? Because when a writer sends out queries, she is sending out the results of countless hours of effort, but not only that. When I send out my work, I am sharing a piece of my soul. I'm not exaggerating, here! Your novel, no matter how short or long, comes from somewhere deep inside, and when you put it on display for others to read, you are in a way baring your soul to the world. It's like you've taken a metaphorical knife, sliced off a bit of the very essence of your being, and stuck it on a platter with a sprig of parsley. You are vulnerable, because you are asking for something that you created, something that is entwined about your heart, to be weighed and judged. And therefore, you are opening yourself up to rejection. <br />
<br />
Why do I keep doing this? Today, I'm not so sure. The last polite "no thanks" from an agent hurt. It hurt because she loved my initial query letter and the concept of my novel. She went so far as to say "I really liked what I've read so far" when she asked to read my entire manuscript. This was the first request for a full manuscript I'd ever received and I was finally starting to feel hopeful. <br />
<br />
But, of course, you know the result. After a while, I got the "thanks but no thanks" email. And, the dreaded "not connecting enough with the writing" phrase that I have started to see often whilst spending my time querying agents, to my great chagrin. I realize that at some point I may have to let the dream of publishing this particular novel go. And that hurts worse than a root canal, because I love my characters and my novel. I feel like I have something important to say, and that others might feel that way, too.<br />
<br />
Oh, well. Dealing with rejection is character-building, right? And, in case anyone was wondering, I haven't only written one novel. I've written several, and have spent countless more hours revising these as well. So, if I don't find an agent who wants to help poor Rosemary see the light of day, maybe they'll want to help one of my other characters join the world of published fiction. <br />
<br />
I'll get over my disappointment, and as usual, I'll forge ahead. I'll continue to write and try to make my work better and better. <br />
<br />
But I'll do it tomorrow. Today, only for today, I'm going to indulge in a mini pity party. Don't worry if you hear me screaming "Mulder!!!" or: "Scullyyyyy!!" if you pass by my house. I'm just drowning my sorrows in a bucket of hot fudge while watching a few classic episodes of the X-Files. The cure for all ills.<br />
<br />
Write on!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-72065051547941963032014-11-04T11:30:00.001-08:002014-11-04T11:33:09.636-08:00Kenna Seeks Her Revenge: AKA Here We Go Again, it's Nanowrimo Time!<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">Here I go again, thinking I can write historical novels. I love research, and have no problem spending time perusing library shelves, doing Google searches or watching YouTube videos about 17th century women's fashions, Cromwell and the Puritans, or King Charles II and his many, many mistresses. (Loser). I've learned fascinating historical tidbits: in the 1600's, men began to wear those long, curly, heinously unattractive wigs, thanks to King Louis XIV, who wanted to hide his shiny bald head. The word "etiquette," meaning rules for proper behavior, comes from tiny signs ('etiquettes' in French) placed about the gardens of Versailles, reminding people to mind their manners, which included keeping off the grass, not trampling the flowers and picking up one's garbage. Midwives wore read cloaks and had to swear an oath that they weren't practicing witchcraft. Doctors used to wear these long, birdish-looking leather masks with beak-like protrusions that were filled with aromatic herbs. They did this to avoid catching the Bubonic Plague when treating victims of the horrible disease. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fun stuff! My biggest problem? The lingo of the time. How did people communicate with one another who lived, say, in the poorest slums of Edinburgh, Scotland in the mid 1600's? Is there a textbook somewhere? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Google searches yield interesting and fun slang terms and sayings, but it's hard to know whether or not such words were in use more than 300 years ago. I considered contacting some linguistics professor some where, who, perhaps, specializes in this kind of thing. I can imagine the phone conversation now: "I'm an unpublished, unknown wannabe writer who needs to find out how people used to speak and what slang terms they used in Scotland in the mid 1600's. Can you help me?" Hmm.... I haven't taken that particular route, yet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, I decided to take the plunge, anyway, thanks to the fact that November is "National Novel Writing Month," or "nanowrimo" for short. This time of year just seems to lend itself well to parking yourself in front of your laptop and typing away, while the wind howls outside and you can sip all the hot chocolate or peppermint tea you'd like, while writing fake, historically inaccurate dialogue that makes you cringe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So, here's my first chapter. Kenna comes from a well-off family, but after the death of her sister, she finds herself trapped in what she calls "The Close," a warren of narrow passages and alleys between tall tenement buildings in the heart of Edinburgh, Scotland. As you can tell from the opening paragraph, she's ticked and plans her revenge. :-)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">And, if anyone has any suggestions or comments about that whole 17th century "genuine Scottish lingo" issue, feel free to comment!</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">KENNA'S CLOSE</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">by Rebecca Bischoff</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER ONE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If I find Oliver, I
will plunge my knife into his heart. I
won’t trifle with powders or potions, the method he surely used to murder his
wife. I will not allow myself the luxury
of watching him die by inches, as pain fills his wretched soul. What I have learned in this filthy place echoing
with the squeal of rats and moans of the starving is that I will only have one
chance. One blow, no more. I must not falter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I only want to see Oliver’s
life breath leave his body. Then my
sister is avenged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Annie murmurs and
fidgets in her sleep. I place a hand on
her forehead, and my light touch is enough.
She quiets and her breathing slows.
This child, with eyes that are pools of clear water and a tangle of hair
that hangs over her round face like a matted curtain, clung to me the moment
she saw me. I could not bear to push her
away. Not in a place like this. Here, Annie cannot survive without me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yet, it’s not likely I myself
will survive this place much longer. The
Close is my prison, and has been these past few days. If I am to live, and if I am to have my
revenge, I must find a way out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dawn approaches. I can tell by the feel in the air. Light doesn’t truly penetrate here in the Close,
except for a few brief moments at midday when the sun is directly overhead, but
early morning there is a gradual lessening of the darkness, as though someone
has pushed aside a curtain that covers a filthy window and allowed a few weak
rays to filter inside a room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Careful not to disturb
Annie, I rise from my bed, and nearly laugh aloud that I could think of it as
such. My bed is no more than a worn spot
on the cobbles, a tiny space of sorts between two buildings and behind a rotten
barrel left there long ago. It is where
this child and I huddle at night. It is
a refuge, away from prying eyes, out of reach of the slops thrown at all hours
from the upper windows. Hidden we must
remain, especially at night, when The Watchman wanders up and down, up and down, his
footsteps interminable, echoing. He must
not find us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Stretching aching
bones, I feel my shoulders sag at memories which never cease torment me when I
arise. I remember no dreams. Yet I must sleep in snatches during my
exhausted stupor each long night as I huddle with the child and clutch the
knife inside my pocket, not willing to let it go for a moment. I suppose this is when I see visions of the
past, for these thoughts hurt me so each time I awaken. Feather beds.
Clean linens that smell of lavender.
Plentiful food. A hot fire. .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
take a deep breath and wrinkle my nose at the smells that invade my being. I’m not yet used to the stench here. Our latrine at home never smelled this
bad. Mrs. Harris kept it clean by
pouring lime into it each week. Drains
carried away slops and kitchen scraps from the main house to the river. Our home smelled of herbs and rushes
scattered on the floors, which were swept away each night and replaced each
morning.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Close smells of human waste and the shells of those who were left where they
died. The Body Men have not been sent
in. Cries for help are ignored.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Kenna?”
Annie says. She sounds startled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hush,” I whisper,
turning back to kneel beside her. “I’m
here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hungry,” she
says. Her voice is not plaintive. She knows as well as I that hunger is our
faithful companion. Its claws never let
go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Let’s go, then,” I
say, helping her to her feet. She
clutches her doll and smiles at me, and I force my face into what I hope is a
cheerful expression. I adjust my dress,
tightening the laces of the bodice and scratching at my sweaty, dirty
skin. My hair must look much as Annie’s
does, though I’ve tried to keep it braided and off my face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We
ease past the barrel and pick our way into the street. All is quiet, except for the squalling of the
babe from somewhere a few stories above our heads. The little one cries most of the time. I’ve grown used to the sound. Annie cradles her doll, a few scraps of
fabric fallen from a clothesline high above that I’d wrapped around a bit of
wood, and shushes it. My heart turns
over for a moment. Where is her
family? No one I have asked claims her,
nor do they know from whence she came. It
is as though this child, like me, does not belong in the Close. Yet, I cannot care for her. I can hardly care for myself. I must find her family, or someone to take
her in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hearing
footsteps approach, I pull Annie to my side and sweep into a doorway. Unfortunately, someone else was there before
us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Shove
off,” a rough voice grunts, and a hard fist punches me in the side. Gasping for air, I back away, trying to
apologize but unable to form words.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Annie
whimpers as we move off, stumbling along uneven cobbles. I turn back, straining to see who approaches
in the pale darkness of early morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
doorway opens and flickering light allows me a glimpse of the pitted face of
Mr. Shaw, the baker. He is not one I’d
wish to encounter alone. He saw me, the second day after my arrival here. Faint after nearly a day with no food, I'd snatched a loaf from the window when his back was turned. I am certain he knows what I did.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">His shop is at
the opposite end of the Close, nearly a mile away. He’s carrying what appears to be a heavy
parcel in his arms, and his eyes dart about as though he fears something. I know the look; I see it in the faces of
everyone here. I suppose I wear that
expression most of the time as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The door closes and
Shaw passes us by as we back away and press ourselves to the side of the
building. He pays us no mind and I’m
about to move on but at that moment, a hand seizes my foot and I cry out. Looking down, I see that someone has reached
out from between the bars of a low window.
I stumble and barely keep my footing, as two hands now have a tight grip
on my ankle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t be alarmed,
pretty lass. Fancy coming down here to
give me a bit of company? I’ll share my
ale with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Let me be,” I blurt,
tugging and straining in vain against the ever-tightening grip. Annie begins to cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Use your blade, girl,”
a familiar rough voice grunts. The
person from the doorway who hit me! Why should
he wish to assist us? Yet, with a gasp
of relief, I remember my knife. I’ve not
yet had occasion to use it, but circumstances appear to warrant its use, and
quick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The hands release me the
moment I begin to slash at the clutching fingers. Howls emit from the low window as I hurry
Annie away from the spot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Best to stay on
t’other side from now on when you pass by here,” the voice says. “And keep your knife at the ready.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Thanks,” I manage to
breathe. Annie clings to my side and I
try to comfort her best as I can while still clutching my knife, wary of my
so-called protector, the one who punched me only moments before. I pray he can’t see how I tremble head to
foot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You’ve naught to eat I
warrant? That child is like to blow away
in a gust of wind,” the man says.
“Come.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He returns to his doorway
and I hear the scrape and click of a key turning in a lock. I remain where I am, unsure, but Annie tugs
at my skirts, and my stomach is as empty as the old, long abandoned chapel at
the end of the street, so reluctantly, I follow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Inside, the man lights
a taper and sets it on a low wooden table.
He shuffles to another room and I look about me, keeping one hand on the
knife and another on Annie’s shoulder, ready to flee at any moment. No telling what my protector really
wants. It’s what I’ve learned in the
Close these past few days. Trust no one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The room is bare and
worn. The stone walls weep with moisture
and cold seeps through to my bones. I’ve
yet to see a fire here, though I know everyone must feel the chill as I
do. Winter will be upon us soon. We must not remain here when the snows come. How will we survive then, out in the street?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Sit,” the man grunts,
as he shuffles back into the room carrying a trencher of bread and cheese. My mouth waters at the sight. With a cry, Annie darts over and seizes a bit
of bread, stuffing it into her mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Easy, little mouse,”
the man chuckles. “Go slow or it will
like as not come back out. I know that
kind of hunger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Do you,” I venture to
ask, reaching with a shaky hand for a bit of cheese. I wolf it down in a manner that I know would
have shocked my genteel sister, so proper and dignified. Pushing away the memory of her face, I reach
for another piece.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Aye,” the man
says. Then he takes his own bit of
bread and sits, ignoring us as he munches.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I study the man by the
light of the candle. Close-cropped white
hair caps his skull like a pile of fine, ashy snow. Lined and rough, his face is much like that
of everyone around here, and yet there is something in his bearing that
seems…proud? Happy? No, that cannot be! Not here!
Yet, the man’s thin shoulders are not bowed, though it is apparent he
has lived long years. He is not worn down
by the poverty and despair that cows so many who live here. His face, though crinkled as a shriveled
potato and red with cold, is calm. No darkness
clouds his countenance. Instead, his
eyes, peering out as they do from between folds of ancient skin, glow a
startling, <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">sapphire blue</span>.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I do not understand this. People here are…angry. Angry and poorer than the dirt beneath their feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I used to come here;
well, I correct myself as I seize another bit of bread, I used to come to the
head of the street at the entrance to the Close. It was up the hill near Shaw’s bakery, where
I would go with my sister Cinaed to hand out food from the baskets Mrs. Harris
would prepare on Sundays. We were proud
to say that we fed the poor. I used to shrink
from the grabbing, dirt-encrusted fingers that reached for the pitiful
offerings we so officiously gave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, my own filthy
hands are grateful for any bit of food they can find.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A wheezy chuckle
interrupts my musings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You dinnae belong here,”
the man says, dipping his head at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How do you know?” I
say, keeping my fingers curled about the knife that rests in my lap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I know who you are, Poisoner. We all do.
You’re that lass what murdered her sister up in New Town.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-47991631137137123262014-09-22T11:14:00.004-07:002014-09-22T11:15:17.721-07:00Index Cards, Glue Sticks, and Google Earth: My Eclectic Creative Process<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CDaA9YY5mNU/VCBmbjak77I/AAAAAAAAAhg/V4DBK2vzVAI/s1600/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">’ve loved books all my life, and about seven years ago, I
decided that I wanted to move from being solely a reader to trying my hand at
writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I signed up for an online
class and began to write short stories and articles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, not long after I began the class, I
decided that I wanted to write a novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a crazy, kind of half-embarrassed, secret desire that I’d kept
hidden for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to be a
“Writer,” and a real Writer, with a capital W, was in my mind someone who wrote
novels.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, I started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, in a month or so, I
started again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so it went, for about a year.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At that point, I began to worry that I’d convinced myself to
do something that was simply beyond my capacities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who was I to think that I could write a
book?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I kept trying. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ended up taking a one-day workshop at a
local community college where the instructor, a published author, shared some
of her techniques that helped her plan her novels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had this silly-sounding suggestion about
novel writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You start with an idea,
and start to brainstorm from there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Using<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a pile of index cards, you write
down an idea for a single scene on each card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then, once you’ve come up with all you can think of at the moment, you
organize your cards <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Voila!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instant novel outline!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yeah, right, I though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I gave it a try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, presto,
change-o, a la peanut butter sandwiches, it worked for me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ideas that had been percolating and simmering
in my brain for a while gelled and I was able to write down a whole bunch of
genuine scenes and/or action sequences that somehow worked with my original
story idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I added cards for possible characters
and character names, and used cards to list setting ideas for various scenes as
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I taped them onto the wall next to
the computer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband thought I was
weird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I got my first novel
written.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An entire draft of a
novel!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thirty-three chapters!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>59,000 words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was thrilled.</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I won’t go into great detail as to how I revised this
novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would take far too
long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suffice it to say that my
novel-writing habit was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few other tricks have worked well and stuck
with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a very visual person, who
likes to imagine what her characters look like, brainstorm random things like
what they might carry in their pockets or what their favorite food is, and I
also love to scrapbook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I now create
“binders” for each novel I write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
search free photo sites and find pics of people whom I think most match what my
characters look like in my head, and create my own fake book covers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enter the glue sticks!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Acid free, of course).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I use copious quantities of index cards and sticky notes to
keep track of where my story is heading or new ideas that pop into my brain,
and use the binder to keep all of my notes and research.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, when my draft is done, I print the book
out in tiny font and put that into the binder as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That printed draft is a revision tool I use
to help me fix what needs a’fixin’, y’all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I read my work out loud and take notes for changes I want to make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my binders!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve also developed a new, odd research habit when I
write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to choose a setting and
use Google Earth to view satellite images of the actual place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weird, I know, and I feel a bit like a
virtual peeping Tom, but it works well for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even if I’m writing a historical novel, I still Google the place where
my story occurs and take “screen shots,” capturing images of the layout of the
landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That way, I know that my main
character will soon hit foothills and then tall mountains if he heads south
when trying to escape, how far the ocean might be from another main character’s
front door, or whether or not the view from the house will likely be of a thick
forest, red-tiled rooftops, or a whole lot of desert.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These techniques may or may not work for you, but they have
for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve now written and extensively
revised three novels, have somewhat non-extensively revised a fourth, and am in
the middle of writing a fifth book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I don’t
count an incomplete draft that was meant to be a parody of Wuthering
Heights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, I realized that I
needed to jump from that sinking ship).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remain, as of yet, a “pre-published” author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Insert smiley face here).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I continue to send out queries to agents,
and so far have two agents who have requested to read the full manuscript of
one of my books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe my binders, my scrapbooking and my
fanatical use of glue sticks will one day result in seeing one of my books on a
bookstore shelf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or not. But I’ll still keep writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The index card and glue stick industries
depend on me.</span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-81509921106419325672014-09-10T09:10:00.003-07:002014-09-10T09:10:49.937-07:00Photo Book<a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0AcM2TJs5atmb5Y&cid=SFLYOCWIDGET" target="_blank">http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0AcM2TJs5atmb5Y&cid=SFLYOCWIDGET</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-36827244096977354392014-07-25T20:13:00.002-07:002014-07-25T20:17:05.652-07:00She's My Daughter, Not My BFF<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwCg9u6NTTrMkhLZwXKskbLYRT5gzkhwM_EO6WZ4lr6DdNvWImdg1O4qu7ThRPRz1Dvt9Xid0e4BMDT8qzq3wMwIacYw3K8-9FURjLx-S1w5EgJnK6HvBV_UmB114WLYuNAYwZenwG4E/s1600/KidOutline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwCg9u6NTTrMkhLZwXKskbLYRT5gzkhwM_EO6WZ4lr6DdNvWImdg1O4qu7ThRPRz1Dvt9Xid0e4BMDT8qzq3wMwIacYw3K8-9FURjLx-S1w5EgJnK6HvBV_UmB114WLYuNAYwZenwG4E/s1600/KidOutline.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love books and so does my eleven year old daughter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the past few years I’ve introduced her to
many of my favorites and am always thrilled when she loves a story that’s dear
to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she was younger, I loved to
read Winnie the Pooh out loud and see her smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she grew older, she graduated to the Harry
Potter series and the Chronicles of Narnia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She loves these books and I’m so glad she does.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But all is not well for us in Literature Land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love historical novels, she hates
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Immensely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They’re
boring.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much for getting her to read
“The Island of the Blue Dolphins,” or “The Witch of Blackbird Pond,” books that
shaped my childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sniff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
worse, my daughter loves a series of books called “Warriors,” about clans of
cats living in the forest who are constantly at war with each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, this series truly exists, and it’s
popular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I like those books?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well….not so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This used to bother me, until I realized something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a fine line between sharing what you
love with your child and trying to make your child into a little “Mini Me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how hard we might try to make them
exactly like us, our children have their own minds and unique personalities,
and won’t like everything their parents do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Odd, I know.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, lately I’ve noticed that other parents seem to be trying
to do exactly what I was trying to do with my daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Examples?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure, but keep in mind these are generalizations, gleaned
from many online posts I’ve seen lately, not based on any specific person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“My 2 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>year-old just loves
to watch "The Lord of the Rings."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s his
favorite movie, and he can’t even say the title yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so cute.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cute, maybe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even
if he really DOES love that movie, is it something he SHOULD be watching at his
age?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Here’s little Ewan with his Dad, heading out for another
Civil War reenactment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doesn’t he look
precious in his costume?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Precious, yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Happy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My 8 year old daughter
and I loved all the Twilight books and now we can’t wait to see "Breaking Dawn"
together.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Um…ew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, is that
a movie your 8 year old really should be seeing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if she WANTS to see it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m old enough that the term “BFF” (best friends forever)
was not an entry in the Dictionary of Modern Slang <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>when I was a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was introduced to that term by my daughter who
has her own BFF’s, all girls her age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
times, my daughter and her BFF’s laugh at things that are completely incomprehensible to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they often
laugh at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is exactly as it
should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because I’m the Mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My daughter is not a perfect copy of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s her own person<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>AND she
needs time to grow up and mature at a pace that is right for her, not in a fast
forward mode forced upon her by parents who want to be “buddies” with their
kids.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, sometimes my daughter and I do fun things together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We cuddle and giggle while we watch another
of Studio C’s hilarious takes on Harry Potter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then, there are times when she slams the door and pouts when I remind
her that she hasn’t practiced piano yet or finished all of her homework.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love her, but she’s not my BFF.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s okay with me. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-2207904974463209082014-07-19T15:54:00.001-07:002014-07-19T15:54:52.431-07:00Write What You Know...Yeah, Right!
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hear “write what you know” all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear it quite often from people who don’t
write at all but who want to share their opinions with me and this is typically
Advice Snippet Number One they share when imparting their wisdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve heard this phrase on TV and I know I’ve
likely read it many times on writing blogs, articles, and in the many books on
writing that are out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Know what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s always bugged me, but I couldn’t figure
out why until recently, thanks to Pinterest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, Pinterest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I’m on
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But anyway…</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A writer friend recently pinned this quote:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I want to be very clear about this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if you wrote from experience, you’d get maybe
one book, maybe three poems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writers write from empathy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nikki Giovanni</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s
it!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt pretty silly that I didn’t
figure this one out before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I
never “got it” because I spend too much time on Pinterest looking up the Next
Greatest Recipe for cheesy chicken enchiladas that will make my life complete,
but I’d never been able to move past the guilt-ridden, slightly embarrassed
feeling that I was a terrible fraud for not “Writing What I Know.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I set
novels in cities I’ve never been to and in time periods I’ve not personally
experienced, and I write characters who are nothing like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Thank goodness.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, all I can say is after reading the
above quote, the way I write and the things I write began to make much more
sense to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Writers write from empathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course they do!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does Nicholas
Sparks know what it’s like to be a woman in love?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does Stephen King know what it’s like to be a
vicious killer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does Stephanie Meyer
know what it’s like to be a sparkly vampire? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does Alan Bradley know what it’s like to be a
snarky, precocious eleven-year old girl genius?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Does Suzanne Collins know what it’s like to shoot another human being
with a bow and arrow?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I truly hope not,
on all counts.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What these and all writers understand is the human
condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know love in its many
forms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know fear, jealousy, anger,
hatred, the threat of violence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
understand what it’s like to have dreams that are unfulfilled and still sought
after, the desire for acceptance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
understand hope.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can now breathe a sigh of relief and go right on creating
characters who don’t live where I live, look like me or have the same opinions.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even better, I can make up a new world
if I want to, or write about a place I’ve always wanted to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I’m a human being and I can create an
entire universe using my imagination and my ability to empathize with others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So…it’s okay for me to Google 17<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> century Japanese
samurai, the city of Nice, France, advances in nanotechnology, or late 19<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
century body-snatching practices for something I’m writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay for me, a soft-spoken woman, to
create characters who are loud-mouthed and obnoxious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay for me to create male, female,
white or black (or whatever race I want them to be) characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay for me to write about people who
lived millennia ago or eons in the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s okay because I’ve give myself permission to create them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay because I’m a writer, and writers don’t
have to “write what they know.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I feel validated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yay
for Pinterest!</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-2555595983792280832014-06-05T08:52:00.002-07:002014-06-05T08:52:36.464-07:00Quirky Southern Characters...Y'all.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't mind MG or YA books set in the American South. Truly. But, well, I lately I began to grow a little tired of them. The catfish is deep fried, the weather is hot and muggy, and Billy Bob is goin' fishin', while his Mamma Mizz MaryLou Boudreaux is headin' on down to the Piggly Wiggly with her curlers still in her hair. A slow, lazy river is sure to be nearby, with a picturesque steamboat chugging along, or everyone will be heading to the track for the races (horse races, Nascar, weiner dog races, etc.) Sooner or later, a hurricane will blow in.<br />
<br />
Now, the South is a great place for a novel's setting. It almost becomes another character itself in the book. Take: "To Kill a Mockingbird," for example, or "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café." But at this point in my life, after having read many, many books, (and hoping to read many more), all the "quirky Southern stereotypes" began to get to me. Book after book, they all seemed to be the same. <br />
<br />
The characters would have: <br />
1. an unusual name <br />
2. an unusual job or life situation<br />
3. unusual problems <br />
4. some kind of bizarre neurological tic, resulting in the excessive use of the word: "y'all" and clever, quaint, yet wise sayings<br />
5. hot, muggy weather-related difficulties <br />
<br />
Enter a writer named Sheila Turnage. I'd not heard of her books, but my eleven year old handed me the MG novel: "Three Times Lucky," and said, "You'll love this one, Mom." I took a quick glance at it. It's set in the American South, in a tiny, dare I say "quirky" town in North Carolina. The town is Tupelo Landing. Population: 128 (minus 1 for murder).<br />
<br />
A warning light flashed in my brain. <br />
<br />
The main character is a girl named Moses LoBeau, or "Mo," for short. <br />
<br />
The warning bells began to sound, along with the flashing lights.<br />
<br />
Mo has a best friend, Dale (Earnhardt Johnson III), is in love with Dale's big brother, ahem, Lavender, and lives with her unusual family, consisting of "The Colonel," and Miss Lana, who have unofficially adopted her ever since she washed up onshore as an infant after a hurricane. Hence the name Moses. Hence, my desire the throw the book as far from me as I could, as the Red Alert signal now screamed inside my head.<br />
<br />
But I trust my daughter. She loved the book, so I thought I'd give it a try.<br />
<br />
Well, shut my mouth and slather me in molasses!<br />
<br />
The book was fantastic. And yes, it had all of those annoying "Southerific characteristics" that I tend to grow bored with, but Mo's voice is fun, silly, sassy and sweet, clever and authentic. She becomes entangled in a murder since her friend Dale is the main suspect and decides to solve the mystery herself. Thus the "Desperado Detective Agency" is formed by Dale and Mo, an eleven-year old girl or "rising sixth grader" as she calls herself. <br />
<br />
I guess I learned something. I may decide that I'm "done" with a particular genre, and I kind of consider the "strong sassy Southern girl" type to be a genre in and of itself. However, the wonderful thing about books is that sooner or later, something comes along that will make you change your mind. Ms. Turnage is a great writer who makes every word count, and I loved her story. <br />
<br />
I will eat my words. Y'all.<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-92032919709989038112014-04-22T15:47:00.000-07:002014-04-22T15:47:57.415-07:00How a Writer who Doesn't Officially Exist Turned Me into a Crazed, Pinterest Party Mom
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Erin Hunter does not exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m glad, because if she did, I’d probably hate her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hate is a strong word, I know, but as a
wannabe author who has yet to have her first novel published, I cringe at the
sight of entire library shelves full of books by a single author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I’m not talking about any author, big-name
or otherwise, who has been writing for fifteen or twenty years or more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I expect that within that length of time, any
writer worth his or her weight in printer ink and cheap copy paper will have
had the chance to churn out a volume or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>John Grisham?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No bad feelings,
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m talking about Erin
Hunter, who, starting in 2003, has written a semi-sized truck-load of books
within a relatively short period of a few years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing
what I do about how slow-going things can be in the publishing world, I couldn’t
help feeling more than a little put out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I mean, how the heck does any writer manage to publish a total of 53
novels, 16 manga, 6 “Field Guides” and 8 eBooks within a measly eleven years???</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, in the case of Erin Hunter, I found I didn’t have to
feel quite so intimidated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erin Hunter is
the pen name of not one, but four writers who mainly live in England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These four women, along with an editor, churn
out the uber-popular “Warriors” series that initially caused me such angst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy, was I
relieved to learn that Erin was a fake!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First of all, because my
daughter loves Erin’s (aka “her” x 4) books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Second:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I secretly enjoy reading “Erin’s”
books myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okay, so these books are about cats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Warrior cats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laugh all you
want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I did the first time my
then 3<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">rd</span></sup>-grader brought her first Warriors book home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In “Into the Wild,” Rusty the house cat
leaves his comfortable home and joins with a “clan” of cats who live in the forest
and becomes a warrior like the rest of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He ends up earning his “warrior name,” (Fireheart) and eventually ends
up ruling his clan as leader, becoming Firestar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hoo boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, as cringe-worthy as this
may sound, it’s really not all that bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Throughout the series, you meet many well-developed characters in the
form of rather human-like “warrior kitties” as I like to call them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These kitties tell stories about courage, survival,
betrayal, trust, loyalty, good and evil, and learning to believe in
yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You even get a few not overly
gag-inducing love stories that ring true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And, there are more than enough fight scenes for any reader who craves
action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All I can say is that the books are well-written, and they’re
written by someone(ahem, plural) with an obvious affinity for nature, all
things feline, a love of mythology and an interest in the spiritual beliefs of
early cultures who prayed to their ancestors and sought direction from the
stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If your child wants to give the
books a try, the Warriors series just might be what gets him or her hooked on
reading.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here’s where my life turned all Pinterest-y.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My fifth-grader is still hooked on her beloved warrior kitty
cats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swore I’d never do it, but…I
did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned into the crazy, Pinterest
Party Mom who planned her child’s birthday bash with a theme, down to the last detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hence, the “fresh kill pile,” the “moon pool water,”
(which won’t make sense unless you’ve read the books), the strawberry mice, the
goldfish and the pile of “bones,” along with the cake decorated with warrior
cat clan symbols.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m so embarrassed.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But my daughter loved it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I love her, which is why I did all this in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I don’t hate Erin Hunter, as much as I’d
like to, since she’s four writers, (plus editor), not one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All this got me to thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why not a party for myself, or my husband, based on some of our favorite
books?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next year, I’m voting for Harry
Potter-themed party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bring on the butterbeer!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-84749913949398890472014-04-08T16:17:00.004-07:002014-04-08T16:17:56.456-07:00Emotion vs. Action Plots and Why Sandra Bullock Rocks!
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZzHFzzZk3OOEtlARSlCHCD6EZhjk13Z7KGDoV1SYBe_5Rw0wSbZ5cvA1nuFI9-bETC3zMULlKpxNJHH6kHIU5HkS71w71WJw1XOJL-5DnaLjAuTYr1TS2BD2NV5Hbj13dUiexfA1tWA/s1600/space.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZzHFzzZk3OOEtlARSlCHCD6EZhjk13Z7KGDoV1SYBe_5Rw0wSbZ5cvA1nuFI9-bETC3zMULlKpxNJHH6kHIU5HkS71w71WJw1XOJL-5DnaLjAuTYr1TS2BD2NV5Hbj13dUiexfA1tWA/s1600/space.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t go to sci fi movies armed with a wad of tissues,
ready for the waterworks the way I do when I watch the latest tear-jerker
screen adaptation of a Jane Austen novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I basically assume that my dignity will be intact when I leave the
theatre after watching a good intergalactic shootout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aliens?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Light sabers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pass the popcorn,
please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No Kleenex for me, thanks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, I heard that a sci-fi film had scored ten (!!) Oscar nominations, including nods for music, special effects, best actress and best picture. Those involved in making this film walked away with seven of those little golden statues. This was, according to the perky Hollywood
entertainment reporter, a Very Big Deal because usually, sci-fi films are
scorned by the Oscars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The film is
“Gravity,” starring Sandra Bullock and George Clooney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, I’d heard of it, but had never even considered watching
it, because, well, it stars George Clooney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I won’t go into my many and rather childish reasons; I’m simply stating
this fact in order to explain why I never intended to see that film.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But, my curiosity was peeked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
mean, special effects in movies are pretty spectacular all around, now, thanks
to how everything is computer generated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So these effects, I thought, had to be outstanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Presence of “The Clooney” or no, I decided to
watch the film.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The effects were, in fact, amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The action was relentless and nail-biting,
and lo and behold, (spoiler alert), Clooney’s character dies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, yeah!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But something even greater happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The writing was fantastic in this film!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not only were we, the viewers, taken on quite an adrenaline ride, but we
were given a solid, substantial emotional plot via Sandra Bullock’s
character, Dr. Ryan Stone, a woman struggling with the loss of her only child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the action intensified and the stakes
grew higher and higher, Sandra’s character struggled not only in a physical
sense, but in emotional and psychological ways as well as she was forced to
confront her grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as events came
to their climax, the emotional plot came to fruition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sniff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I scrambled for my tissue box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So well done!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
someone who has enjoyed many sci-fi movies in my day, and who has also been
forced to watch quite a few “B grade” action movies, I was impressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The filmmakers did something that I’ve been
trying to do in my own writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to
weave elements of the emotional growth of my characters into the action of the
story, so that I demonstrate how they grow and change, based on not only events
but their reactions to those events and their choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For gifted writers, that may be easy, but for
me, it’s not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, back to that “tear-jerker” comment I made previously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jane Austen’s novel “Pride and Prejudice” is
considered brilliant for so many reasons, including how well she demonstrates
the emotional growth of her characters, woven throughout the action and events
of her story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take Lizzie Bennett 's and Mr. Darcy’s
story and throw them into the future and the emotional elements of that story
still ring true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I have a
suggestion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone in Hollywood take
note:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to see yet another remake
of “Pride and Prejudice,” but this time, it takes place on a starship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Darcy in space?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just don’t cast George Clooney in this movie,
please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless his character dies.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-54472999414611991912014-03-14T13:59:00.001-07:002014-03-14T13:59:05.489-07:00How Much is Too Much Bling??
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love a mystery and YA writer named Alane Ferguson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s a talented author, a fantastic storyteller and an all-around great
human being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She spoke a couple of years
ago at a writing conference I attended in Boise, and I knew right then and
there not only did I want to be able to write like her, I wanted to BE
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obsessive?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moving on…</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I learned some great writing tips that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tips for avoiding repetitious words, great
ideas for successful revisions, and fun ways to brainstorm. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also remember being warned that there is
such a thing as “too much bling” in writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Bling?” You say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
does that have to do with writing?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Picture any middle school or high school English
class and what the students learn about the wonderful alchemy of language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similes and metaphors, and all kinds of
powerful comparisons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alliteration,
consonance, assonance and dissonance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think of contrasts, exaggerations or emphasis;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>anything that turns prose from dry, crumbly
textbook reading to a snappy, fun roller coaster ride of a read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Alane warned us that too much “bling” is essentially the overuse
of any of these magical devices that writers use to make their writing rich and beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too much of it actually takes away from the
reading experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A writer could come
across as pompous, or someone who is “trying too hard.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t think too much “writing bling” has ever been my
problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t usually attempt to
write with a lot of bling, because when I do, hoo boy, do I regret it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The so-called bling I write ends up looking
like cheap dollar-store plastic baubles, in comparison to so many authors
I read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their bling?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Compared to mine, theirs is more like the real-deal,
100-carat diamond “pretties” the Trumpmeister likes to use to decorate his
latest trophy wife.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, back to Alane Ferguson and my obsessive nature!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of Alane’s fun little tips and tricks was
this: take a handful of those little paint strips from your local “mega home DIY”
store and use the manufacturers’ creative names for various shades of paint to
help you come up with more vivid descriptions in your writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perfect!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I said, I can’t
do bling.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Off to Home Depot I ran.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I happily depleted their supplies of paint strips and toddled off to my home
office, where I spread the strips out and began searching for the perfect words
to describe a character’s boring, non-descript blue eyes, or brown eyes, or a
summer sky, or a wintry setting, etc.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I found the following: </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For shades of blue:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blueberry
Pie Blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blue Lagoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Azure Sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Aegean Blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spring Melt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waterfall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mount Ranier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For shades of yellow to brown:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Egg Yolk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Almond Butter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tahini.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lunch Bag.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Um….okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I
tried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“His eyes were blue as the Aegean
Sea.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, not that bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I were writing about a Greek character, or
about a setting near the Aegean Sea, I can see how that could work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But so many of the others?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“As he wept, his eyes were like Mount Ranier
during a Spring Melt, smoky blue and just as wet.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whoa, that was bad!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, how about:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“His eyes were the color of a brown lunch
bag, after it’s been crumpled and stained with blobs of mayo.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, that’s a good one!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I pretty much gave up on the “paint strip as writing aid”
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put my rather large stash of
paint sample strips to good use, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I find the worst ones and come up with the most awful comparisons I can
think of and create birthday cards for my writing friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, why waste a good paint strip when
it gives you such phrases as:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Chasing
Chocolate,” “Sliced Avocado,” and “Dried Oregano?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Visit Alane Ferguson’s website at <a href="http://www.alaneferguson.com/" target="_blank">www.alaneferguson.com</a> and check out her books. In my opinion, she's got just the right amount of bling. :-)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-59914301453260763572014-02-21T11:53:00.002-08:002014-02-21T11:53:20.368-08:00How Creepy is Too Creepy?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-id8cw5N3ZwziVrEA0GJ4hdsJBpHmLGZPZD30rCHYWnEC3oN5igupMWjGncpk6b4pMKTk8rGv1fbSGO0x_-U6huctyei4G5O5XprGifNDvyvnsF8RqQ13c-jxO7wDDwmhIorgjVHpoo0/s1600/headstone-flower.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-id8cw5N3ZwziVrEA0GJ4hdsJBpHmLGZPZD30rCHYWnEC3oN5igupMWjGncpk6b4pMKTk8rGv1fbSGO0x_-U6huctyei4G5O5XprGifNDvyvnsF8RqQ13c-jxO7wDDwmhIorgjVHpoo0/s1600/headstone-flower.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
I'll admit that I like "semi-scary" stuff on occasion when I read. I don't like blood and gore, nor do I like something that's going to cause me nightmares, but I do like to be, shall I say, "startled" on occasion by reading a good Gothic story or a well-written mystery novel. Hence, my first book was a YA paranormal novel. Now, I'm attempting to write a historical novel that's about a rather gruesome subject; that of stealing bodies from their graves to sell to medical schools. This was a common practice in the United States throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, especially in the East where medical schools abounded. Students were sometimes required to "provide" their own cadavers for dissection and study, and fresh bodies were in demand but difficult to come by. Only a very few bodies were legally allowed to be used by schools for study, including those of executed criminals and unclaimed corpses. Schools often paid high prices for fresh cadavers and asked few, if any, questions as to where the bodies were procured. <br />
<br />
I've worried and wondered as I work on this. Where is the line between "okay creepy" that maybe sends a few shivers down your spine and the "whoa, that was way too gross/disgusting/horrifying and now I'm going to have nightmares for the rest of my life" kind of scary? Especially when the intended audience consists of kids?<br />
<br />
I think that line is different for everyone. That's why I worry.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I've decided to post the first chapter of my current "work in progress," which I call: "The Digger." It takes place in Circleville, Ohio, in the late 1800's, and centers around a twelve year-old boy, Cap Cooper, who finds himself working along with his father, Noah, as a "resurrectionist," or one who steals bodies of the recently dead for profit. Here goes, and feel free to tell me if it grosses you out! I won't feel too bad, I promise!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">THE
DIGGER<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">By:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rebecca
Bischoff<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">CHAPTER
ONE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Resurrecting
the dead is hard work</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Cap
heard his father’s words in his head as he hesitated, silent, feeling a
throbbing inside his chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His heart
felt as if it barely had room to move within him, much as Cap himself felt,
squeezed inside a hole hardly bigger than he was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The head of the coffin was inches away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t see it since there was no room
for the shuttered lamp inside the tunnel they’d dug, but he could feel the
splintery wood with his fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
gulped a mouthful of damp air that smelled of dirt and decay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gripping his hammer more tightly, he began to
work to open the thin wood of the pauper’s coffin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hurry,
boy,” hissed a voice from the entrance to the tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ugly, guttural tones belonged to Lum, his
father’s friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He’ll make enough
noise to wake the dead from here to New York City,” the man muttered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Cap
felt his stomach clench itself into a tiny, cold ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It always did whenever he heard Lum speak of
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But a moment later he heard his
father’s voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">"Cap
can do it," Noah, answered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You'll see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s smarter than most his age and as brave as any boy I’ve ever known.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hearing
his father’s words brought a renewed sense of determination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap continued his work, tapping the square
head of the box to locate where the thin slabs of wood were nailed
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hearing the metallic ‘ping’ of metal on metal,
he felt with his hands until he found the head of the nail, then worked to pry
it loose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A drop of sweat rolled down
the side of his forehead as he continued, prying away the nails one by
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, it was done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap pulled away the small, square head of the
wooden coffin and shoved it behind him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He realized he was holding his breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Resurrecting the dead is also smelly work, and Cap dreaded that
particular hazard to his family business more than any other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What
did I tell you,” he heard his father murmur from the head of the tunnel, pride coloring
the notes of his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Cap
released air from his burning lungs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
had to breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tucking his neckerchief
around his mouth and nose, he breathed in through his mouth, trying not to
think of anything but finishing his task and getting out of the tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now was the real test.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reaching behind him, he groped for the thick
rope they’d brought along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bringing it
around in front of him, he slowly stretched trembling fingers through the
opening in the coffin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After an eternal
moment, where his body seemed to shake from head to toe, his fingertips touched
a head of thick, soft hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap
swallowed again, fighting against every impulse in him that wanted to wrench
away his hand, scrabble backwards out of his makeshift tunnel and flee out into
the open night air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He
remembered his father’s words when Noah first introduced his son to the “real”
family business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The dead don’t mind,
son, they’re dead,” his father told him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“We’re doing this world a favor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Doctors must know how we’re put together, now, don’t they?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Fighting
against the violent tremors that now shook him all over, Cap brought the rope
forward and worked it around the head and shoulders of the unresisting body,
moving the rope under the arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
flesh of the corpse was soft, its limbs easy to move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all he knew, this person could simply be asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Long braids tangled in his fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A
woman</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">! Cap realized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><u>God almighty, it’s a woman</u>!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He
couldn’t help picturing his mother, home in bed, sick with fever, swollen with
another child that would probably be born too soon, like all the others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His mother braided her hair when she went to
bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Stop
it, Cap!</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> he told himself harshly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u>Do your duty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This isn’t Mamma!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Father needs your help and we need the money!</u><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">With
renewed strength, Cap knotted the rope and gave the signal, a high-pitched
whistle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grunting softly, the men
outside the tunnel began to pull on their end of the rope, Cap helping as best
he could as he scooted out backwards, his own hands clasping the rough woven
fibers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly, inch by inch, the woman
slipped out of her eternal rest, through the tunnel and into the black autumn
night of the cemetery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Free
from his narrow confinement, Cap stood and stretched stiff legs, gulping crisp
air that smelled of rotting leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cloud-covered
midnight sky that blanketed the sleeping cemetery was not quite so dark, he
realized, as the thick blackness of the narrow trench beneath the soil from
which he’d emerged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap breathed out in
a long stream as he gazed up at a tiny gap in the clouds that revealed a
scattering of stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though he still
could not see much about him, those pinpoints of light, like a scattering of diamond
dust in the sky, were a welcome, comforting sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Help
us, boy!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lum hissed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t stand there lollygagging up at them
stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This job ain’t over, yet!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Blinking,
Cap stumbled over to assist his father and Lum as they lifted the slight form
of the woman into the back of the waiting wagon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lum’s shuttered lantern was open only a
fraction of an inch to allow the thinnest beam of light to show feebly
through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like a drop of golden
light meant to illuminate an ocean of black ink around them, for all the good
it did them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they needed the covering
night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What
did I tell you,” he heard his father say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Cap may be knee high to a milk stool, but he’s as full of grit as any
boy twice his size.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Good
thing they don’t pay us by the pound,” Lum muttered, chuckling, ignoring Noah’s
statement about his son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This thing
don’t hardly weigh no more than the trout I pulled out of the stream this morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I
did it</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, Cap thought, swiping at the sweat on his face,
smearing dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought he should feel
something good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sense of triumph or
achievement, like the day he’d pulled his first fish from the Scioto River, or
perhaps when his teacher, Mr. Rankin, had said that Cap’s essay about the
history of Circleville, Ohio, was the best in the whole school, even better
than the older students’ work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But
Cap felt as if a weight were holding him down; making him heavy and weak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t feel good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ho
there, boy, finish your work,” Lum said in his harsh whisper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap turned around with a start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finish what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then he realized that Noah was already shoveling dirt back into the tunnel
they’d created at Lum’s command.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap
still thought that tunnel was a fool idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He scratched at a trickle of sweat that ran down his neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why not simply dig in the already soft dirt
directly above the coffin?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one would
notice that the recently disturbed soil had been dug into again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that anyone cared in this town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people called this part of Forest
Cemetery the “pauper’s section”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
graveyard for the poor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dead nobody
cared about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Lum was about as hard
as iron when it came to his ideas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
he was the man in charge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, you dolt!” Lum hissed at the boy when Cap
moved toward his father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lum grabbed
Cap’s arm and steered him over to the wagon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Help me with this!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t take
the clothes, now do we?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s
stealing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t your Pa tell you
nothing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Noah
hurried over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll do that,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My boy will finish with the tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait for me to toss the clothing inside
before you close it off,” he said to Cap as he handed him the shovel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap took it gratefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The law said it was illegal to steal from the
dead:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>clothing, jewelry, anything that
might have been buried with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
the law said nothing about stealing the bodies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bodies weren’t anyone’s property.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Boy’s
gotta learn some time,” Cap heard Lum say with his wheezy chuckle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could picture the sarcastic, all-knowing
smirk on the older man’s face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s
the expression Lum always wore whenever he talked to Cap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy hated that sardonic, mocking look,
but more than anything, he hated Lum’s smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With his pointed, brown-and-yellow teeth, the man had the look of a
bloated wolf when he grinned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Who’s
there?” someone shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap dropped his
shovel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Into
the wagon, quick!” he heard his father hiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cap turned to run, banging his foot on the blade of the shovel he’d just
dropped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recovering quickly, he grabbed the
wooden handle and hurtled in the direction of the wagon, now completely blind,
since Lum had extinguished the tiny flame they’d been using to guide them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He nearly missed the wagon but caught his ribs
painfully on the corner of the box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You
there, stop!” the man’s voice shouted, much closer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Cap
felt a strong hand grab his arm and he was hoisted up into the back of the
wagon, right on top of the dead woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
nearly cried out but was able to clamp his lips closed against the shriek that
wanted to escape his lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could
imagine what Lum would say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scrabbling
quickly he moved away from the slight, cold form and hunched down next to his
father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up in the wagon box, Lum whipped
the old horse, Hilda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ageing mare
took off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Stop!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man shouted once more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But good old Hilda was fast, despite her
age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clouds parted to reveal a sliver of
moon, which illuminated this portion of the cemetery with its small leaning
markers, a few of stone but most of wood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Trees nearly bare of leaves flashed by as they fled, bouncing up and
down on the hard floor of the wagon box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The woman’s body shifted and slid toward Cap, who did shriek this time
as he shoved her away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Steady,
son,” Noah murmured in Cap’s ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s
all right, now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll get away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lum knows every back alley and dirt track in
this town.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Noah paused and shifted
until he was in a sitting position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Here, throw this over it,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cap felt a heavy piece of rough cloth as it was shoved into his
hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He quickly laid it over the
woman’s form and scooted back until he was closer to his father again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Noah
continued to speak, softly, into his son’s ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Never knew there was a guard at Forest Cemetery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could be family, who knows?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Willing
his heart to slow, Cap shifted himself until he was leaning back into his
father’s strong arms, his feet in front of him, ready to kick away the woman’s
body if it should slide in his direction again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the age of thirteen, he wanted to show his father that he was no
longer a small child who clung to his mother’s skirts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But right now, Noah’s arms felt good, wrapped
as they were around his Cap’s thin frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Shouts
died out quickly behind them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap found
he could breathe again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As clouds scudded
overhead, he caught brief glimpses of the town around him, revealed by the occasional
weak flashes of moonlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They passed
the Union Station, silent at this time of night, crossed onto the square in
front of the City Hall, and headed past the short row of stately brick dwellings
whose occupants slept soundly, safe in their warm beds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those who lived here were buried in style
when they died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No pauper’s graves for
them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">They
moved on at a good pace, Hilda’s hooves making heavy ‘clip clop’ sounds as they
drove over rough streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap was surprised to find that his eyes grew
heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His father’s arm was warm around
his shoulders, and he leaned his head back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Almost
there,” Lum called back softly over his shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’ll have to ditch the clothes before we
bring her in.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">At
this statement, Cap was suddenly wide awake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They’d not had time to remove the woman’s clothing and leave it in the
tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would they do, now?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Shove
over a bit, son,” Noah said, groaning as he changed position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ah, my old bones are stiff.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, Cap heard his father’s sharp intake
of breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What in the—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The
wagon shuddered to a halt as Lum grunted a soft “whoa,” and pulled sharply on the
reins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap lifted his head above the rim
of the wagon box. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The area surrounding
them was light enough for him to recognize where they were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were now parked in a narrow alleyway, one
he recognized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This alley was directly
behind the court house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap sometimes
used it as a shortcut to school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The
stink of rotting garbage was strong, despite the cold autumn air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up ahead, Cap could make out a doorway,
brightly lit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Noah had said that they’d
leave the body at the agreed-upon location, making their presence known by
using their secret knock: two short raps, a pause, and another two raps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One who waited for the signal would open the
doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, Father had explained, all
was to be done in complete darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
now, the gaslights glowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap’s eyes
grew wide as he recognized the building before his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Round House?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Built at the start of the Civil War, the
imposing eight-sided house squatted right behind the court house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was known to be long abandoned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And rumored to be haunted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone said so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“They’ve
got the place lit up like Independence Day,” Lum muttered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What does he want us to do, waltz in there
dragging the thing behind us for the entire world to see?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Who?”
Cap whispered to his father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Noah
didn’t respond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’ll
look about and see what’s happening,” Noah said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wait here,” he murmured to Cap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m
coming, too,” Lum growled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Stay here,
boy,” he tossed back over his shoulder to Cap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Unless you’re too afeared to stay with that thing,” he added, with the
ugly, wheezy chuckle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap didn’t have to
see Lum’s face to know the hated smile was in place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Then,
the two men were gone, scuttling like overgrown rats down the alley and around
the corner of the tall brick Court House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cap was left alone with the body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He
scowled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He
should have known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made sense that
they would leave him here to watch over the “thing,” as Lum always called the
bodies he and Noah procured, but he still didn’t like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than anything, he hated Lum’s mockery,
because the man was right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Cap
was scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t like sitting in
the wagon bed, all alone at midnight, with the body of a dead woman inches
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could feel the tiny hairs
standing at attention all along the back of his neck, and Cap had to fight the
almost overwhelming desire to hurtle from the wagon and run full speed back
home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">There
was enough light for him to see the heavy canvas tarp he’d thrown over
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It almost didn’t look as if there
could be anything underneath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lum had
been right about the woman hardly weighing more than a large fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap swallowed and willed himself to scoot
closer to the body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did so, inching
forward while he trembled from head to toe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Lum
isn’t right about everything</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, he told himself
grimly, taking in a deep, shaky breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lum was dead wrong about a lot of things, and Cap wasn’t about to let
Lum know he truly was “afeared.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d
prove it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d finish the job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d take the woman’s clothing from her body
so that they could dispose of it somewhere, and he’d show Lum, and his father,
that he wasn’t afraid of anything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Refusing
to hesitate, Cap grabbed the tarp and whipped it back from the woman’s
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, he shrieked again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time, he didn’t cry out in fear, but
shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew this face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This
was no woman, but a girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though coated
with mud and leaves, the girl’s thick, golden hair gleamed in the light that
came from the doorway up ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her oval
face was serene, as if she truly were sleeping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Cap knew her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jessamyn Baker had sat across the aisle from
him at school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the teacher wasn’t
looking, Cap stole many sideways glances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He loved how she chewed on the end of her pencil as she worked out
arithmetic problems, her brow lightly furrowed, and how she knew most of the
answers in geography and history even before Cap himself did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once, their paths had crossed in the cloak
room and she’d smiled at him, her wide hazel eyes friendly but somehow shy at
the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap had nearly stopped
breathing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The
weight he’d sensed earlier settled over the boy’s heart, solid and
unyielding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes filled with tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jessamyn, buried in a pauper’s grave?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What of her family?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap realized how little he really knew about her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hadn’t even known she was ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, Cap had missed the last week of school,
home to help Mama while she was doing poorly, but Jessamyn had been fine when
he’d last seen her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Swiping
away the moisture from his stinging eyes, Cap felt something tear apart inside
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here he was, ready to sell Jessamyn
to some self-important doctors so they could cut her to pieces in front of a
gaping crowd of pompous medical students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” Cap muttered, swallowing his tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even sure of what he planned do, Cap
gently placed the tarp back over Jessamyn’s pale face and hopped up into the
box of the wagon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nudging Hilda softly,
he slowly began to back out of the alleyway, forming his plan as he went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Cap
knew that a few blocks to the west of the Court House there was an old Catholic
church, St. Joseph’s, recently converted into an orphanage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d leave Jessamyn there at the back door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hated to think of what the poor sisters
would think when they found her, but he felt he had no choice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap hoped that by the time her body was
discovered and reburied, it would likely be too late for Lum and Noah to get
any money for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If a “thing” went
bad, which often happened during the hottest summer months, the medical colleges
didn’t want it for dissection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Fingers
of icy wind ruffled Cap’s dirt-filled hair as he drove, and his thoughts turned
dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His was a fool’s errand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was autumn, and a cold one at that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Odds were that the girl’s body wouldn’t turn
bad before she was found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was yet
mighty likely to end up on a table, sawn asunder and gawked at by a room full
of strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cap swallowed hard and drove on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d do this for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was all he <u>could</u> do, now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t take him long to find the alley
that ran behind the old church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling
to a stop in front of the back steps, he climbed out of the box and into the
back of the wagon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wanted one more
look at the girl’s face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She was serene as before, eerily beautiful in the dim
moonlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u>Why can’t you be sleeping</u>?
Cap thought, wishing it with all his heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then, without thinking, he reached down to touch her soft cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he did so, a brief sensation of warmth shot
up his finger and traveled up his arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His eyes widened in shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her
flesh was warm?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cap gasped and pulled
his hand away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jessamyn’s eyelids seemed
to flutter, a slight movement, no greater than the merest flicker, so slight
that Cap though he must have dreamed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then, nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gaping, trembling, hardly daring to breathe, Cap reached
down again and touched the girl’s soft cheek, then placed his palm on her
forehead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, something happened that he never
expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She opened her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-28181933047679736252014-02-10T12:24:00.002-08:002014-02-10T12:24:18.755-08:00So This Time I Try my Hand at "Dystopia"
I hated reading Orwell's "1984" in school. Guess what year I got to read it? That's right! It was actually 1984! Big deal. I never liked books or movies about flawed, totalitarian futuristic societies. That's essentially what I used to call them in my mind, because I don't remember hearing the term "dystopian" until much later. I probably did hear it, but it didn't stick. Well, imagine my embarrassment at a writing conference about five years ago when the term was being tossed around and I wasn't sure what everyone was talking about. I especially felt silly when I realized that the word is the opposite of "utopia." Seems simple enough to figure out, but I didn't. I decided my little mental block was simply due to my dislike of the whole genre. Then someone named Suzanne Collins wrote a book called "The Hunger Games." Not long after that, someone named Allie Condy wrote "Matched." I wasn't so turned off by dystopian literature after that. :-)<br />
<br />
All this aside, I decided to try my hand at it, based on a writing prompt a friend posted on her blog:<br />
<a href="http://www.writenowanyway.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">www.writenowanyway.blogspot.com</a><br />
<br />
What I wrote has no title, so I call it: "Chapter One of my Silly Attempt to Write a Dystopian Novel." I used local settings, including the "City of Rocks" near Gooding, Idaho, and the School for the Deaf and Blind that's also in Gooding. I've been to these places and like them, but I noticed that both have the potential to be super creepy. In writing this, I also thought of how easy it would be to control how others act and even think if you could completely control what they were allowed to read or watch. (This is definitely touched on in many dystopian works, including "Matched," where people aren't allowed to learn to write, and where all books are destroyed when found). So, I created a world where everyone has a tablet. Basically, what you read is downloaded for you. No actual, physical books are allowed. And, here we go.<br />
<br />
(Next time: Steam Punk!)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
caught me red-handed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Literally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My can of spray paint exploded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t ask me why; maybe it was the insane
heat of the place that did it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it
was God’s sense of humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, whatever
it was that made that stupid spray can explode effectively marked me as the
culprit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may as well have painted my
full name on the rocks around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Grandma would have had one of her “hissy fits” if she’d known where I
was going that day and what I was doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The stuff was dripping from my palms like drops of blood from the hands
of a murderer when the officer stepped out from behind a neighboring rock,
sweating and huffing in the July sun with a look of sheer delight on his face.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We got
‘im,” he said into his handset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
‘hick from Idaho’ accent was blatantly obvious.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<u>Her</u>,”
I corrected him, reaching up to knock my cap from my head, careful not to touch
it with my crimson-tinted fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My tangle
of dirty blond hair cascaded down, partially hiding my face from view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You got <u>her</u>, loser.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What took you so long?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
didn’t like my attitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t like
the plastic ties he used to cuff my wrists behind me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pulled them way too tight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forced myself not to wince and pretended it
didn’t hurt.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
walk through the strange landscape of the place known as the City of Rocks was
silent, except for the crunch of gravel underfoot, the hum of insects and the
occasional rustle of some creature, lizard or maybe even snake, in the scrubby
bushes that surrounded the path we headed down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, add to that list the wheezing sounds the officer made as he ambled
along behind me with his gun trained on my back.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My incriminating artwork was all
around me, the red lines startlingly clear and bright against the dark rock
formations that surrounded us like a group of giants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe they were Tolkien’s trolls caught by
the sunrise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kind of half-smiled at
that thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom loved that story, and
she had always told it when she talked about this place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe that’s why I chose it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once Officer Wheezy put me into his
vehicle, the unmarked jeep that had fooled me into thinking no cops were
around, I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, that was only after I wiped my
paint-covered hands onto the upholstery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I figured they’d take me to Twin Falls, where the “Juvenile Reeducation
Center” is located, thought they don’t call it that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They just call it “Canyon Ridge.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d have some time to think of a good
story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, to figure out how to get
back to the City of Rocks and rescue my antique Vespa, the awesome little
motorbike that Grandma kept for so long in her storage shed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Drops of sweat trickled down my
neck, making me itch, but I didn’t scratch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wasn’t about to let Officer Doofus know that I was uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, what <u>was</u> my story going to be? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sighed in frustration and shook my head
against the dull ache that threatened to emerge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t even understand my <u>real</u>
story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know why I kept coming here to cover
those gigantic lumps of lava with weird, red symbols, but one day, a couple of
months ago, a sudden urge to get artistic hit me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it was after that night when Grandma
had told me a story, and then given me something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“My Grandma Evie, your great-great
grandmother, well, she was a reader!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Grandma had said, while picking bits of spinach out of her yellow
teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, Evie would go to one
of those places called a library, where there were rooms and rooms full of tall
shelves filled with nothing but books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thousands, or even tens of thousands of books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Evie would check out at least twenty of
them, no lie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d read them all in a
couple of weeks, and then be back for more.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“My mother loved to tell me about
that,” Grandma had murmured, her slanted eyes getting that misty look they always
got when she went back in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She
told me how Evie would laugh at the librarians who told her she wouldn’t have
time to read so many books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d look
right in their faces and say:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘You don’t
know me very well, do you?’”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, Grandma’s eyes had spilled
over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I wish I could remember Grandma
Evie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She died when I was so
little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I remember my mother, and
how she would read to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every day she
read wonderful stories, from real books made of paper, with colorful pictures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was before they took all the books away,
you know,” Grandma had whispered, leaning closer to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, she’d sat back and held her hands to
her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“One I always loved was about
a little girl who ate so many pink cupcakes she turned herself pink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could have one book from my childhood,
only one to keep, that would be it.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Grandma had excused herself
and gone to her room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d cleared the
dishes away and done my homework on my Tablet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most of it was the boring stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>History, geography.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
essay, titled: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How My Choices Led Me
Here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meaning: “Why I was punished by
being sent away from home and forced to attend a ‘reeducation’ school, where my
every move is watched.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve done at
least ten of these essays in the last six months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently they’re not satisfied with my
answers, yet.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then, Grandma had
returned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They didn’t get them all,”
she’d whispered, putting something into my hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so startled I dropped it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart had thumped in my chest as I’d
stared down at the tattered rectangle in my lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a book!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I held my breath when I picked it
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There in my hands was an actual book
made from paper; made from trees!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
felt so strange to my fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had
pages, unevenly cut rectangles of pressed paper with tiny words typed on both
sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The paper was so old and worn it
had a soft, satiny feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lifted the
book to my nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It smelled of dust, and
yet the scent was slightly sweet, like vanilla.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I breathed in, deep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’d never, ever seen one of these
before.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everything we read is provided for
us on our Tablets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They download what
they want us to learn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we’re done,
content is erased and replaced for us. Long ago, when Grandma was little, they
came and took away all the actual ‘made from trees’ books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you happen to find one, which is rare,
you’re supposed to turn it in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you
don’t, and someone sees you with one, they’re supposed to report you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don’t let anyone know,” Grandma
had whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is a treasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want you to have it.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The jeep bumped on the uneven dirt
road, and I snapped out of my reverie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After all the big talk about paving Every Road in America, they seem to
have forgotten about certain parts of Idaho.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Figures.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back to my story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was I going to tell the cops?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t even know what the symbols I painted
meant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That probably meant no one else did,
either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat up taller and opened my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were almost in Gooding, the tiny town
where I always stopped to buy trail mix and bottled water before I headed out to
the City of Rocks to paint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I knew
what I’d say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They’re works of art, officer,”
I’d say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They only teach art to those
who show “competency” for it, and I missed the cut-off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By one percentile point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was perfect!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was nothing more than a frustrated artist
who needed to express her talent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was so pleased with my sudden
inspiration that I smiled widely, before remembering to go back into full scowl
mode for the ugly cop’s benefit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be
honest, I kind of thought that my made-up story was partly true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Going to the City of Rocks to paint those
symbols, the ones I’d found in the tattered notebook way back in Grandma’s
closet, was my way of crying out when I had no voice. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, what were they going to do
to me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relocate me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Already did that, didn’t they?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The jeep slowed for the first and
only traffic light in the tiny town of Gooding, and then the cop hit the
left-turn signal and we swerved around the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Aren’t we going back to Twin?” I
asked him, silently cursing myself for dropping the second part of the town’s
name in the casual way that the locals do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thanks to Grandma, I was starting to sound like them!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nope,” the cop responded with a
sneer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re going to The School.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At his words, a
finger of ice trailed a path down my spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
I'd never heard much about that place, but what I did hear was bad. Real bad. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But,”
I spluttered, “what about a hearing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Aren’t you supposed to put me in Juvie first, and then take me to see a
judge?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The cop
chuckled to himself as we pulled into the parking lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As usual, no one seemed to be about, but in
the scattering of once-white buildings that surrounded us, I saw faces pressed
against the spotted windows.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Turning
around to smirk at me, the cop whispered:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“You already had a hearing, girlie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They read me your file.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You had
your chance and you blew it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No more
hearings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m your judge and jury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get out.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
didn’t even take the plastic cuffs from my wrists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just drove off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
turned to face my new home, feeling my heart pound so hard it hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the first time that day, I was afraid.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-6788577535235236932014-01-24T15:30:00.003-08:002014-01-24T15:30:36.826-08:00Picture Book Rant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVBIpbOR2I-lVG-xX5841GK8NuzROFeNW1kUkM1swaTt88Uxn-Jk1fB5M-mjYHa3rGJpAIZrkuAp3RbrpOVLTfQVdsOJCX12aFEAfgCsFmK0BXP21jWFdeCSFVKnH5Lbm8Er8W2jNBUeg/s1600/IMG_0679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVBIpbOR2I-lVG-xX5841GK8NuzROFeNW1kUkM1swaTt88Uxn-Jk1fB5M-mjYHa3rGJpAIZrkuAp3RbrpOVLTfQVdsOJCX12aFEAfgCsFmK0BXP21jWFdeCSFVKnH5Lbm8Er8W2jNBUeg/s1600/IMG_0679.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Let’s read Strawberry Shortcake!” my five-year old
shouts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I groan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I comply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I inwardly cringe every time I have to exchange the word: “berry” for
“very.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(This occurs berry often when
you read the Strawberry Shortcake books.)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I beg her to let me read “Harry the Dirty Dog,” or “If You
Give a Pig a Pancake.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doctor Seuss
books are always fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recently the
“Pinkalicious” books have tickled my fancy, and “The Polar Express” is so
gorgeous I want to reread it immediately after I finish it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And whatever happened to “Goodnight Moon?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think cartoons happened to great picture books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cartoons and popular toys caught our children’s attention;
publishers caught on to that fact, and began to spew out a ton of what I think
of as “commercial” or trademark fiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So, stores are full of books like:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Barbie:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I Can Be a Baby Doctor,”
where Barbie decks herself out in scrubs and high heels (!) and shadows a
pediatrician, a woman who also wears heels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We get the dreaded Strawberry Shortcake books, books that retell kids’
movies, like “Alvin and the Chipmunks,” and books based on popular kids’ shows,
like “Hannah Montana,” and “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” Luckily, my five
year-old isn’t into mutated turtles, but she does love “Totally Spies” books
based on a cartoon she hasn’t even seen.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These books aren’t all that bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Scholastic company publishes many of
them, and they are geared toward helping kids learn to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure they motivate many reluctant
readers, but for me, the joy is sucked right out of reading to my child every
time I have to force myself to say: “What a berry good idea!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That sounds just berry-licious!”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, we made a new rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For every “trade” book I have to read, I get to choose the next
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This way, my daughter is still
exposed to the likes of Dr. Seuss, Margaret Wise Brown of “Goodnight Moon”
fame, and the fun artwork of the “Fancy Nancy” books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition, we can still peruse the aisles
at the library and meet new book friends like: “No, David!” or “The Night I
Followed My Dog.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, tell me your favorite picture book!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just might want to read it to my daughter,
as long as the word “berry” isn’t used in the place of “very,” and as long as
there are no stiletto-wearing Barbie doll doctors.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-54829329267901174222014-01-14T08:45:00.000-08:002014-01-14T08:45:02.799-08:00Self-Censorship: Why I Might Throw Away But Never "Ban or Burn"
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The Nazis are about to start burning books!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know if I can go on!”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This was from my amazing ten-year old nephew, a book-loving brainiac, all around great guy
and first-time reader of “The Book Thief.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I recently saw an online photo of a monument in Germany
aimed at reminding us of the time when many, many books were burned because
they contained what the Nazi’s deemed “inappropriate.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I think that mostly meant anti-Nazi
sentiment).</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The thought of burning books is horrifying to me, to my
soft-hearted nephew, and to so many others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Books represent so
much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The collective learning and
knowledge of millennia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alternate
universes that can be visited briefly or over and over again throughout a
lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Places that only exist in our minds
but become part of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perspectives vastly different from your own.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thoughts, statements or stories that you may find offensive
and in complete opposition to your world view, political opinions, or sense of
morality or taste.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That to me is why so often, various individuals or groups
have wanted to remove certain books from libraries, bookstores, and homes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully, I haven’t heard of many
widespread book-burning parties since World War II, though I could be wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have, however, heard of many times when individuals
or groups complained to libraries and schools, demanding that certain books be
removed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Many, many books out there are offensive to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some offend me in a minor way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This includes books that are poorly written
but that are still on the shelves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes,
that’s offensive to me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something else has bothered me for a few
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Twilight novels seemed to set
a new trend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I call this the “obligatory
love triangle.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m disgusted by the
sheer number of Young Adult books where the author sets up bizarre and frankly
improbable situations in order to create such a scenario.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
actually met an author who was frustrated because her agent couldn’t sell her
YA fantasy novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Publishers thought it was great but didn’t
want it because there was no love triangle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come on!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are also books that truly offend me on a deeper
level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This includes books that contain extreme
violence and a lot of profanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also
includes extensive, detailed sexual content that doesn’t even need to be in the
story, but is there for obvious reasons (think of the high volume of Harlequin “Romance”
novels and other such drivel).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Violence
against women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Depictions of child
molestation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a whole lot of this
garbage out there, in books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, as
hard as it is to say it, I still defend the right of these authors to write
this trash, and of libraries and stores to display and sell it.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I won’t read it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
I come into contact with such a book, I’ll return it to the library unread, and
if I happen to have bought the book, I’ll likely toss it out instead of passing
it on to my kids, but I won’t demand that my library remove the book from its
shelves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t complain to the school
about the kinds of books they make available to my kids, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why? Because I believe in the freedom of
speech.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe in the freedom of the
individual to speak or write anything he or she chooses.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I met an author a few years ago whose books are full of
profanity and deal with, well, “sensitive” issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Schools have been pressured to remove his
books from their libraries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I personally
can’t stand the way this guy writes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think he uses profanity as a crutch, and for shock value.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if I believe in freedom of speech, I’ll
defend his right to create such books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ll defend the right of libraries and bookstores to display and sell
his work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I believe in “self censorship.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me, that means that I choose which books I
will read, and which books I will not read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t want anyone else to make that choice for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want to make that choice for another
person, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I come across
something that offends, I will make the choice to close the book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope to teach my children the same
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, if you are an author I don’t like, don’t worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t start piling up your books and looking
for the matches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I might badmouth you in my blog, however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-88322212827570844282014-01-06T08:32:00.002-08:002014-01-06T08:32:31.459-08:00Real Women in Books, Please!
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not too long ago I had a revelation at a Medical Spa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t a happy one.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wanted to know what to do about some mild acne scars on my
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat across from the doctor who
owns the place for a consultation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without
even looking at my scars, he first asked:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“So when did you break your nose?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think my answer was something along the lines of:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Uh, what??”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hadn’t been aware that my nose had been broken up until
that point, but he handed me a mirror, and sure enough, my nose is
crooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It definitely leans to one
side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, while I was still digesting that bit of information, he
asked me this little zinger:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So, did
you have ‘Bell’s Palsy’ as a child?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What???</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He then proceeded to show me how the right side of my face
displays mild muscle weakness in comparison to the left side, making one
eyebrow higher than the other, one eyelid slightly more droopy, and my lips puffier
on one side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In effect, my face is asymmetrical,
or crooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Holy cow!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget the
stupid acne scars!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a freak of
nature!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I declined the recommended scar treatment:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a $500 laser session to burn off a few layers
of skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went home afraid to look in the
mirror.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was reminded of this experience as I got to thinking about
how women’s looks are described by writers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This isn’t a discussion of how much detail writers should include in
their character descriptions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I’m
reflecting on something that’s always bugged me just a tad:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>so many female literary heroines are gorgeous,
beautiful, stunning, ethereal, amazing, attractive, or as we hear so often
today, “hot.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their bodies are perfect according
to current fashion, which lately seems to mean “tiny, skinny stick arms and big
boobs.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Thanks to a friend for that
quote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It pretty much sums up today’s
standard of beauty for me).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what are real
women like?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We have scars. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re
overweight or underweight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have grey
hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too many laugh lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stretch marks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flat chests and flabby arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too tall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Too short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too young. Tool
old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Puffy eyes from lack of sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blotchy skin and frizzy hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re imperfect and…asymmetrical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, each woman is of great value to
someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a daughter, a mother, a
sister, a friend, a neighbor, a coworker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s your child’s beloved teacher, the pharmacist who remembers
everyone’s name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your Mom. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When did a child ever care if Mom looked like
a supermodel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do female characters
in books have to look that way?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know that not every writer does this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m also not suggesting that all writers
should go out of their way to describe female protagonists in as unappealing a
manner as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just asking for
a little reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I found a touch of that reality in a book I read a few years
ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadly, I can’t remember the title,
but I remember this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The main character,
a woman, took a moment for self reflection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In essence, she thought this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So,
I’m ten or more pounds overweight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
shorter than average.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyebrows are
way too thick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So what indeed!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11231084362458618164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892681307162986107.post-66055487850232897082013-12-30T09:56:00.000-08:002013-12-30T09:56:01.207-08:00He Said, She Said!
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here are a few of my biggest dialogue gripes as a
reader/writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This isn’t expert advice,
it’s just me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Three Gripes:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah, right,” he said sarcastically.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure,” he smiled.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She took a big mouthful of food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What?” she splattered.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why do I list the above phrases?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because such dialogue markers drive me crazy
when I read them, and not in a good way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s why!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gripe # 1:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many
writers’ conferences ago I heard from an editor who said she hated
adverbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They aren’t necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, when used excessively (adverb </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">) they weaken your
writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her examples included several phrases
similar to the first listed above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me
explain:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if a scene is set up the right
way and I’m following the dialogue, do I really need to be told that the
speaker is sarcastic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about when a character
speaks:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“heartily?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or: “seductively?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> How</span> about: “boldly?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the time, the vast majority of the
time, I don’t need that stupid “-ly” word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Leave it out!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Readers aren’t’
stupid!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course there are exceptions,
and a writer may use an adverb because he/she wants to emphasize something
important about their character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adverbs
aren’t evil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just don’t use them every
other word, and PLEASE don’t use them non-stop with your dialogue markers!</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gripe #2:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is physically impossible to
smile a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You speak a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You might speak while smiling, but you don’t
smile out a word, dang it!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m actually
okay with something like:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah,” he
laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hypocritical of me, but I think it IS
physically possible to laugh out a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe it’s just the speech therapist in me, but I hate when characters
in books “smile” their lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d prefer
something like:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Sure,” he
said with a smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You get the picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gripe #3:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, this
one drives me insane!!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve found online
lists galore that provide writers with ways to avoid using the word “said” when
writing dialogue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why???<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t find the source to quote here, but I’ve
read more than once that we readers skip over the word: “said” because it’s not
that important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our brains ignore it,
because we already KNOW we’re reading dialogue and that the characters are
having a conversation with each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Duh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, there are exceptions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I use:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“he asked,” or “she replied,” or “she whispered,” or “he murmured,” on
occasion, but NOT ALL THE TIME!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>99.9% of
the time, I prefer “he/she said.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t need writers to go all out and try to
find creative ways to mark their dialogue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact, when they do, they really bug me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few examples, from books I’ve read:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah, about that,” he sniffed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(See Gripe #2).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Please,” he burbled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Burbled?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It was strong,” he stated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Uh, yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that’s a
statement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks for clarifying.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Example #3 at the beginning of my post is actually kind of
funny, I’ll admit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, it was in a
book filled with many, many other creative words used in place of the word: “said.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It got to the point where it was annoying,
not clever or funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In conclusion:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Enough
with the adverbs,” Rebecca said angrily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“They don’t help you at all,” she sniffed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“In fact,” she burbled, beginning to cry, “they
make me want to weep.”</span></div>
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