Chen Loves His Mummy

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.

"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:  

Chen Loves His Mummy

Present Day

XinJiang Region, China

“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. 

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.

Chen Hai smiled to himself as uncovered dusty glass cases.  This room, her 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.

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.

“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! 

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.

She spoke now.  Chen felt as though a tiny bird were beating its wings inside his chest. 

“I am glad of it,” he said, hearing the tremor in his voice.  He put his cloth away.  “Now for your hair.”

She liked it plaited, with brightly colored wool threads woven throughout the long braids.  Chen made certain that her hair was perfect each day. 

She was pleased.  The air crackled with electricity as she spoke to Chen, sharing her secrets.  Telling him of her gratitude.  Her love.

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.

“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.

“Chen!   What are you doing?” 

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.

“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!”

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.

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.

Twenty Years Later:

                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.

                The cave held many surprises.  But this one took her breath away.  She did not understand.

                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.

                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 National Geographic 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.

                Swallowing bile, Li Sheng backed away.  She’d call the police.  Someone must have used this cave to hide their murder victim.                 

                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.

                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.

  

The Courage to Revise

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

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 does 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.

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.  J

Original:

She was serene as before, eerily beautiful in the dim moonlight.  Why can’t you be sleeping? 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.

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. 

She opened her eyes.

Revised Version:

Why can’t you be sleeping? 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.

Nothing.

            Gaping, trembling, hardly daring to breathe, Cap reached down again and touched the girl’s soft cheek, then placed his palm on her forehead.  

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.

Finally, he let his hand fall away.

The girl was dead.  He was a fool.

            He sat back on his heels and reached down to cover her face.  And then he screamed.

She opened her eyes.

Stinky Writing: Using All Five Senses (Including Smell)

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.

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."

Hmmm...I suppose I am a bit obsessed with what my nose knows.

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:

*********************************************************************************

“Bet you’re too scared to go in there.”

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.

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.

This house was alive. 

 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.

“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.”

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.

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. 

I swallowed and could still taste Fruit Loops.  

“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.

Then, I screamed and ran, blindly, stumbling my way down the stairs, through the front room and out onto the front porch. 

That was no empty room.

*********************************************************************************

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.

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.

Happy writing!

The Joys of Rejection (Note Sarcasm)

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?

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?

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?

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Write on!

Kenna Seeks Her Revenge: AKA Here We Go Again, it's Nanowrimo Time!

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.  

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?  

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.  

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.

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.  :-)

And, if anyone has any suggestions or comments about that whole 17th century "genuine Scottish lingo" issue, feel free to comment!

KENNA'S CLOSE

by Rebecca Bischoff

CHAPTER ONE

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. 

I only want to see Oliver’s life breath leave his body.  Then my sister is avenged.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.  

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.  .

           

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.

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.

“Kenna?” Annie says.  She sounds startled.

“Hush,” I whisper, turning back to kneel beside her.  “I’m here.”

“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. 

“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.

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.

            
Hearing footsteps approach, I pull Annie to my side and sweep into a doorway.  Unfortunately, someone else was there before us.

“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.

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.

            
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.

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. 

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.

Don’t be alarmed, pretty lass.  Fancy coming down here to give me a bit of company?  I’ll share my ale with you.”

Let me be,” I blurt, tugging and straining in vain against the ever-tightening grip.  Annie begins to cry.

“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.

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. 

“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.”

“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.

“You’ve naught to eat I warrant?  That child is like to blow away in a gust of wind,” the man says.  “Come.”  

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.

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.

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?

“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.

“Easy, little mouse,” the man chuckles.  “Go slow or it will like as not come back out.  I know that kind of hunger.”

“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.

“Aye,” the man says.   Then he takes his own bit of bread and sits, ignoring us as he munches. 

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, sapphire blue. 

I do not understand this.  People here are…angry.  Angry and poorer than the dirt beneath their feet.

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. 

Now, my own filthy hands are grateful for any bit of food they can find.

A wheezy chuckle interrupts my musings.

“You dinnae belong here,” the man says, dipping his head at me.

“How do you know?” I say, keeping my fingers curled about the knife that rests in my lap.

“I know who you are, Poisoner.  We all do.  You’re that lass what murdered her sister up in New Town.”

Index Cards, Glue Sticks, and Google Earth: My Eclectic Creative Process

 

I’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.  So, I signed up for an online class and began to write short stories and articles.  Then, not long after I began the class, I decided that I wanted to write a novel.  It was a crazy, kind of half-embarrassed, secret desire that I’d kept hidden for a long time.  I wanted to be a “Writer,” and a real Writer, with a capital W, was in my mind someone who wrote novels.

So, I started.  And I stopped.  Then, in a month or so, I started again.  And I stopped.  And so it went, for about a year.

At that point, I began to worry that I’d convinced myself to do something that was simply beyond my capacities.  Who was I to think that I could write a book?  But I kept trying.  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.  She had this silly-sounding suggestion about novel writing.  You start with an idea, and start to brainstorm from there.  Using  a pile of index cards, you write down an idea for a single scene on each card.  Then, once you’ve come up with all you can think of at the moment, you organize your cards   Voila!  Instant novel outline!

Yeah, right, I though.  But I gave it a try.  And, presto, change-o, a la peanut butter sandwiches, it worked for me!  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.  I added cards for possible characters and character names, and used cards to list setting ideas for various scenes as well.  I taped them onto the wall next to the computer.  My husband thought I was weird.  But I got my first novel written.  An entire draft of a novel!  Thirty-three chapters!  59,000 words.  I was thrilled.

I won’t go into great detail as to how I revised this novel.  That would take far too long.  Suffice it to say that my novel-writing habit was born.   A few other tricks have worked well and stuck with me.  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.  So, I now create “binders” for each novel I write.  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.  Enter the glue sticks!  (Acid free, of course). 

 

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.  Then, when my draft is done, I print the book out in tiny font and put that into the binder as well.  That printed draft is a revision tool I use to help me fix what needs a’fixin’, y’all.  I read my work out loud and take notes for changes I want to make.  I love my binders!

I’ve also developed a new, odd research habit when I write.  I like to choose a setting and use Google Earth to view satellite images of the actual place.  Weird, I know, and I feel a bit like a virtual peeping Tom, but it works well for me.  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.  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.

These techniques may or may not work for you, but they have for me.  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.  (I don’t count an incomplete draft that was meant to be a parody of Wuthering Heights.  Luckily, I realized that I needed to jump from that sinking ship). 

I remain, as of yet, a “pre-published” author.  (Insert smiley face here).  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.  Who knows?  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. 

Or not. But I’ll still keep writing.  The index card and glue stick industries depend on me.

 

 

 

 

Photo Book

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