Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts

Monday, December 17, 2018

Next Short Story: All-Seeing Eye

It's never a bad idea to use the momentum of an idea to propel you where your writing wants to be. After the last post's musings about the short stories built to enhance my published series, my muse played along and I started the next draft of a story that goes into my nameless mercenary's recovery after he'd nearly died as a teenager.

I've always felt that I might have omitted too many of the events that shaped his character yet it's also possible that I'm doing the thing I don't want to do: begging people to like a character. Even if that were the case, I shifted from his adult traits of dry humor and flatline deliveries to the rebooted amnesiac teenager who doesn't really know what to draw from. He's still a little shit and an inappropriate smart-ass but I'm hoping to display more of how his personality coincides with that ridiculous mix of resourcefulness and dumb luck.

I'd purposely made him a character a little hard for most people to relate to, but I found something charming about even his worst moments, reflexes that made him human, drawn from personal tragedy that even fewer people would want to survive. I didn't beg the reader to like him then, but in my doubting writer's mind, I may have avoided some important subtleties that I've later felt could be expanded on, bits that might have made him too unlikable at times. Yet setting out to make him neutral would be an impossible task.

It's not the sort of thing I believe even a content editor would catch. I always make sure plots tie up and I've said before that the story never finishes just because the book ends. Although I like to leave that option up to the reader, sometimes I feel like the ultimate textbook, the canon, since they're ultimately mine, are fine game to dabble with some short scenes that expand.

Perhaps that was another page I took from Stephen King. My first foray into the Dark Tower series actually began with The Sisters of Eluria and I still remember the thrill of knowing that a story was never just confined to novels or anthologies, never more the truth with the internet giving writers every opportunity to share formats they're passionate about.

This is also why I'm not beating myself up about UnNamed. It's a solid story, still using my unique voice and with so much potential to grow, but I'm going to boost their adventures when the whim strikes.

By way of confession, I'll admit now that the Rain Maidens are the most challenging for me. It's not easy to maneuver them when they all occupy same space in a way that doesn't make them improvisational puppets, so I'd like to do more personal windows for them. Brute has a little hook between the first three books. Dolly isn't just that dumb, pretty, naive arm-candy/yokel she lets on to be. I never intended them to be placeholders for a plot device. Even as a woman, I have to admit I have difficulty writing them. Centuries of male-centered literature make it easier to get into the mind of a man but when I must write women, my personal experiences don't cover the more feminine spectrum so I do have to really mull over the creation of a believable woman that isn't me.

That's something I discussed with another writer friend of mine, Matt Roberts. He admitted that he felt lost when it came to writing women, a sentiment that I admitted I shared. One of the reasons why it's tough isn't because women are needlessly complex but because most women are really flexible by nature. We play the what-if game just like men, yet you still often get meek woman in reality that lift cars off of their children and strong women who crumble with the most confusing of triggers. Complex isn't true so much as we're often reactionary to the point that nothing is ever really out-of-character, part of the reason we're sometimes marked as hysterical or irrational when the true word is more along the lines of unpredictable-- the same you'd explain it in reactionary men, for that matter. Yet from an outside perspective, what is seen as 'uncharacteristic' for a man's reckless behavior is often labeled as 'hormonal' in women.

This isn't something just men erroneously do either. I've had plenty of female bosses that have sabotaged my reputation over one missed day of work. In fact, at my last job, I only missed one day, which I called into the general manager herself one hour before the shift. There was a freak snowstorm and my dad's car was buried. There was a foot of snow and it took me an hour and a half to walk there on a good day. It was also dark and still snowing so the roads, which included crossing a highway, were dangerous for pedestrians. Even though I never missed another day, covered people's shifts whenever asked and did all of my work, I was not only constantly reminded of the day I missed but she also intentionally shortened my hours so that I couldn't qualify for paid time off the following year.

Women can hold each other back. A lot. This certainly wasn't my only retail experience where I was belittled by a woman and the times women did it far outweigh the couple of times that men were the culprit. And yes, retail often just sucks by proxy anyway, but it was often prolonged and subtle harassment from women that also led to leaving a job. It's hardly just in retail. Even as a writer, I've experienced other women who are willing to trash a woman who writes about consensual sex or sexuality in any vein. They are the ones quickest to claim that men write more books that they like and that there's something 'off' about women's voices in literature. Women are more likely to defame new women writers or tell a woman what she needs to write to be taken seriously.

I'm not out to bash women, but this is often why it is tough for men who want to write believable women. There aren't many bold examples of honest women in literature. If men use female stereotypes (despite the fact that stereotypes exist because of an overwhelming majority of said group displaying them), then they are accused of molding a woman to some hive mind selection and not delving deep enough. However, women also tend to prioritize the feminine need to know what a character is thinking, which might not be a male writer's interest in how she fits into the story. This isn't to say he's trying to make her a token and perhaps he carefully considered what the minority of women portray in trying to fit in with males: keeping her feminine side and thoughts secretive and displaying more masculine traits.

This is often why women will be weirdly proud of being like 'one of the guys' or why male voices speak to them more. To dismiss traits considered weaker in favor of whatever elitist ideas they are groomed into, where their hobbies and careers are concerned, keeps them from ever being dismissed for having a weaker or, in reality, unique but unpopular opinion. They are more likely to support the sort of gatekeeper opinions that keep women from succeeding, with the excuse that strong women will find a way. Yet articles concerning the practices of male agents, producers, gatekeepers, often show that women who do not perform sometimes degrading acts are not giving a voice, even blacklisted against seeking representation or work elsewhere.

Not just for women, but this is yet another reason I'm for self-publishing. Taking the maneuvering of corrupt gatekeepers out of the equation so creators can get their work through could be the thing to revive integrity in art. I watched an interview with Frank Zappa where he was asked why the music industry was starting to die and, surprisingly, he argued that it had nothing to do with the old guys and their cigars that were putting up all the red tape. He said that those guys, even though they knew little about the industry, were more likely to throw out wads of cash on a whim to give something a try, whereas the hip, young sorts that were coming in were actually damaging the industry. Why? Because they were more likely to decide which audiences to target and what the in-crowd wanted. They were the ones creating elitist ideas that damaged more work from even being given a chance, creating a gateway where they could even shelter perversion and sexual favors from hopeful artists, not just threatening their current work but any future work as well if they thought to refuse.

I've admitted before that low-quality work will also trickle in. So be it. People are also able to post honest reviews concerning scams and cash grabs and vendors also reserve the rights to remove these from their marketplace, often because too many of these hurt their reputation as well.

lol Well, I've clearly rattled off the rails of that post header up there, but I do feel it's important for writers to have honest discussions about practices in the industry. There's also a reason that, even though I've made general statements, I haven't linked articles. I may be exercising a bias, but I've gathered my impressions not just from articles but from actual experiences in popular writing groups and life in general. Before I bring things up, I often think over whether there is a pattern, a frequent recurrence or whether I'm inserting a bias. Even if bringing it up initially was an impulse, the thought I've put into it over time is certainly not just an emotional reaction.

Back to the header topic though, I'm actually writing a great deal of these stories in the first person narrative, which isn't common for me. However, I do think short stories are better for this-- an entire book in first person, no, not for my stories, but I do find that the third person isn't what these stories need. For Drawn to Perfection, I even did a hers/his story so you can see where their experiences intersect yet the very different impressions they've gathered from them.

For All-Seeing Eye, I drop an f-bomb as the first word again. I decided that I like this way of warning people my guy is coming. Whereas I used third person for UnNamed, the first line is from his thoughts. Since the side story is entirely from his perspective, it only seemed like the perfect opportunity to jump right in.

I love being a writer. It's not more or less than anything else I do, but I really enjoy how these ideas form into what they become. I can't say I'm becoming more disciplined where time is concerned but my average typing speed is soaring and my prose comes much easier these days. I find that I'm more able to insert my voice without being too cheesy. I've never been a huge fan of dated pop-culture references to begin with, but that's also something I love my otherworldly fantasies for. When the same cliches and references don't exist, I have to try harder to create those styles and expand on them. No shortcuts, but I can draw some contextual parallels that are more fun anyway.

Now I'm off! Plenty to do still!

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Sharing is Caring!

As promised, I'm sharing what mischief I was up to in making a gift for my friend's birthday.

You may or may not recognize the hat from Dramatical Murder, specifically belonging to a character known as Noiz. I always feel odd when I admit I'm not a modern anime fan. I haven't watched anything that's come out in the past ten years, my entire influence in the style dating from between my freshman year of high school up to my mid-twenties. I simply stopped being an avid consumer and switched to being a creator. Likewise, I have never seen this anime, but anime costumes are still among the most inventive so they're great fodder for my creative pursuits still.

The crochet version, since I don't knit. I realize it is a ridiculously busy picture, but such is the nature of my sanctuary.

There is also another issue I face and a confession to be made: I absolutely suck at wrapping gifts. My friend Emily must have inherited the superhuman ability from her mom because she is amazing at it. In fact, most people I know are at least decent at it but my attempts look more like a hostage situation. Instead...

 My motto is 'If you can't wrap, rap.' In this case, I whip up some whimsical poetry to slap on the boxes.

Boxes, giftbags, shoving ribbons and stickers on things is my go-to for avoiding the failed origami I produce.

Now, baking, I can do baking! Baking and cooking are something of a superpower. My dad used to flip out because, even on boxed meals, I didn't follow the directions. After surprising the hell out of people that it was just my version of Hamburger Helper, even my dad adopted my way of bumping up the quick meals with some winging it.

And yes, cooking from scratch is not excluded. I'm definitely not one of those crock-pot chefs that congratulates themselves on their ability to swipe a recipe from social media.

So that's my gift-giving share! Feel free to swipe the idea whether wrapping is something you dread or not!

I love sharing so writing novels is always going to make me squirm with impatience. I'm very guarded about how I share my unpublished work. In any case, I want to offer up something a little different. Even though I started a short story on here that hangs in limbo for now, I am thinking of working on some short pieces branching off of UnNamed. Because I had once entertained trad-publishing it, I kept the word count low, but I really felt like I would have liked to stretch some things out a bit like I have been for UnSung. It's very difficult to sell agents and publishers on big manuscripts, which is one of the main reasons the first Harry Potter book was so small in comparison. Since I've decided this series needs creative control more than the industry standard offered, it was a real breath of fresh air being able to expand the idea without staring a word count. It grows or shrinks depending on the story's need, not the market.

So keep an eye out for a short story scene branching off of UnNamed. Might be a bit of a spoiler if you haven't read UnNamed, but I'm actually going to build these scenes around his life prior to events in the book so while you'll recognize the mention if you have read it, it doesn't actually overlap the book itself or spoil the main plots.

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Short Story Excerpt: Girl Plus WTF, 2

If you're following, I'm writing. Huge organization project so I need this light little break to free-write.

In the last chapter, Ryleigh wakes up in a strange world with extra appendages to boot. Her earthly humor falls flat on the ears of a young maid, Lyta, as she tries to come to grips with suddenly being a VIP in the middle of some pretty serious conflict.

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

Ryleigh expelled a heartfelt sigh of relief, slumping her shoulders and dropping her head to her chest as the tension deflated.

And once more came eye-to-eye with god-awful dressing gown. The more she caught sight of it, the more she decided it was the equivalent of Level 1 armor you started a game with. Never mind that it was clearly expensive; why did so many expensive clothes look like camouflage you'd use to blend into your grandmother's couch?

Drawing more breath into her lungs, she tugged at the sleeves, letting it pool to the floor. It was only slightly problematic that she was naked as a jaybird with no alternatives in sight. It was only her and Lyta in the room after all.

Enter two head-to-toe armored soldiers, clanking around like a empty stack of tuna cans, moving mechanically into place flanking Lyta then coming to a halt with the stillness of display armor like she would see in museums.

Only in museums. No one wore metal deathtraps anymore, at least in the land where things made sense.

Yet another inelegant squawk emitted from her mouth and her hands slapped over her eyes. What am I, a toddler? I can't see them, so they can't see me? Shifting her hands over her intimate parts, she wished she had one of those ridiculous helmet visors to hide her embarrassment.

As if to further her stupidity, her wings snapped shut in front of her, a much better barrier than her hands. So much so that she was completely concealed behind a wall of feathers.

Ryleigh didn't quite trust her command of the wings to open just enough to see her unwanted audience, so she released her hands and pushed her wings apart with them, just enough to poke her head out between them.

She glared with reproach at the faceless men that towered over the perpetually bored petite maid between them.

"I... don't suppose you have any normal clothes. I'd rather go n--"

Nnnnnnnnope. She stopped that thought in its tracks. Was she really going to say 'I'd rather go naked than put that hideous nightgown on again'? Yup, and also big nope.

"The Council must be growing impatient. And I came to do just that, Ryleigh. Dress you, that is. A feat that should have been done five minutes ago had you not insisted you're not Queen Ryleigh, but some wingless girl with no sense of duty or urgency."

Lyta stepped forward and spun on the guards.

"Out with you! I can only assume the Council threatened to have your heads on the block if you didn't retrieve her with haste, but I'll not have you dragging our Queen naked before the jackals!"

Lyta swatted at them and the brutes stumbled out like Dorothy's beloved Tin Man as if she were some tyrannical Cyclops rather than a slip of a woman.

Even once, Lyta slammed the door behind them and slapped her hands together as if to brush away the filth. She shuffled over to an ornate wall and flicked her hand, a sparkle of light emitting from it, making swinging doors of the walls, revealing a whole host of ridiculously jeweled dresses.

Ryleigh couldn't help but gravitate towards them, still keeping her wings up in case of more surprise guests, but otherwise slack from awe.

"Oh, I've seen this movie before. If I don't find the plainest one, I'm going to burst into a cloud of dust..."

Lyta clicked her tongue at the latest absurdity.

"If you show up in anything less than one too heavy to fly in, you'll be the laughingstock of the kingdom. Not that anyone would laugh in the face of a Queen..."

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

Let's leave the story at that for now. I have to say, I enjoy the hell out of injecting my nerd life into fantasy fiction. A nice break from the epic trials... I'll give the girl a break for now. She's got a lot more hurt coming to her, after all.

In case you stumbled in out of order:
Girl Plus WTF 1 

Next Up:
Girl Plus WTF 3

Monday, January 1, 2018

Short Story Excerpt: Girl Plus WTF

I figured I'd start the new year with my first blogged story excerpt. Probably not going to be a long one, but let's see where it goes...

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

Struggling on the edges of sleep, she labored to open eyes sealed shut by the day old lash tint she forgot to remove.

'She' was a good start. Definitely a girl, but the rest of the details of her life eluded her. She had gone to sleep in her own bed, vaguely recalling that she'd caught a whiff of those sheets and added 'bed laundry' to her to-do list the next day.

This definitely wasn't her own bed. For one, the sheets smelled like honeysuckle and she didn't own any such dressing gown as the one encasing her outstretched arm. Or any such dress-like fashion at all for that matter.

Ryleigh (her name, doing good so far) pushed her arms forward, freezing in place as she felt some foreign appendages behind her stretching in the opposite direction.

She shouldn't have any such muscle memory for how to move whatever was back there at all, yet it folded like an arm at her willing it do so and she smacked herself in the cheek with a bevy of silky white feathers.

A very inhuman squawk escaped her lips. In a sudden frenzy of flapping wings, she simultaneously dislodged herself from the bed and managed to tangle herself in the previously unseen canopy above her. Ryleigh tumbled to the floor, screaming bloody murder from the colorful swirl of limb-trapping fabrics.

The sound of a door and the scuffling of feet cut through her humiliation, the gentle peals of laughter at her expense only adding to the assault on her pride.

"My lady, still yourself. You're only making it worse" came the patronizing voice of the intruding female.

Ryleigh complied but rebellion still exploded from her being and on a stream of colorful vocabulary.

Number one, let's do away with this 'my lady' nonsense.

"Vile woman, what have you done to me?" Ryleigh sputtered, disentangling herself from the offending pile of sinfully soft silks.

Vile woman? Really? Now she was doing it too.

"Not a thing, my lady. I just came to wake you but it seems you're an early bird."

Oh, ha ha. Early bird, get it? Yuk yuk and har de har. At least the woman wasn't self-satisfied with that little pun. It was probably more infuriating that the uniformed woman's face was so serene and serious instead. And oh yeah, the 'my lady' thing.

"Ryleigh. Not 'my lady'."

"Fair enough, and I'm Lyta, not 'vile woman.'"

Ryleigh didn't want to like this woman but couldn't help a smile at the quick wit.

"What kind of horror show are you running here, Lyta?" Ryleigh emphasized the name with a venomous punch. "You get your jollies sewing wings onto people's backs?"

Ryleigh might have suspected the stoic woman was simply a victim of too much Botox if not for the sudden lift of eyebrows at the accusation.

"I'm not sure how hard you hit your head on that tumble but those are the same ones you fell asleep with. Indeed, the same ones you were born with. I assure you there's no trick involved."

"Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids."

Humor was her best defense but she might have spoken another language for all of the recognition this Lyta gave for the comeback.

Ryleigh's eyes swept around the room again. No televisions or computers or any of the commonplace things she might find in her home. Still not uncommon in a prison though. In its place were many not-so-commonplace things that told her this was probably a place without cereal featuring cartoon rabbits.

Her eyes found Lyta once more, noting that despite Lyta's assurance that her wings were commonplace, Lyta had no wings of her own. She did, however, sport a wicked set of pointy ears. Ryleigh's hand drifted to her own ears, relieved to feel their familiar roundness was still intact.

Ryleigh narrowed her eyes as the woman's words rekindled in instant replay.

"And when exactly was I born?"

Lyta's expression became bored and a frustrated sigh escaped her lips.

"Apparently yesterday," Lyta mumbled before her eyes softened with sympathy. "I realize you've suffered quite the ordeal. Your parents died just days ago and you've barely moved since. You not only take the title of Lady of Aldivan but you've been summoned to the King's Council on the eve of war."

Ryleigh blinked incredulously. She was pretty sure last night she had talked to her parents on the phone, although she had been somewhat incapacitated, bloated from polishing off a bag of Cheetos. She had a Level 60 battlemage on Skyrim. Unless Cincinnati was about to start a war with Canada, she was also pretty sure that nothing Lyta was saying made one bit of sense.

Ryleigh got to her feet, not without taking out what could have been a lamp on the table behind her with one unaccounted-for wing. She cringed as the shattering sound of glass punctuated her nonexistent grace.

"Whatever drugs you're on, I need some."

Lyta's rueful smile told her that this incomprehensible babble was no joke.

"My name's still Ryleigh, right?"

Lyta nodded and Ryleigh expelled a pent-up breath.

It was a start.

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

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