When They Don’t Want to Write

This past Tuesday marked another step in my growth as a writer. Every summer, one of the English professors here at my university teaches a writing workshop for teachers, and this year she asked if I would speak to her class about my experience as a writer.

Honestly, I was terrified. I’ve never been comfortable speaking up front, and I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to say, but I agreed to speak all the same. Because after all, there’s nothing I love more than talking about writing.

The talk went over much better than I thought it would. I became more comfortable as I spoke, and I enjoyed answering the questions that the teachers asked me. However, it was those questions that inspired me to write this blog.

As usual, I got a lot of questions about self-publishing and I spoke rather extensively on how I get inspiration for my work. But there was one question that I wasn’t quite sure how to answer, and even now I’m still mulling over it: how do you get students interested in writing?

It’s a good question, really, and I suppose if there was one sure-fire answer then there would be no need for me to write this post. After all, if there were an answer, then someone far more educated and experienced than me would have said something by now. But since there isn’t any one “correct” answer, I figured I would write my thoughts on the matter here.

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#1: Make it Interesting

Sure, it sounds like a no-brainer, but you’d be surprised how hard this one is to achieve. One of the biggest complaints I hear in regards to writing is that it is “boring”, to which I ask, “How?”

Writing is like so many other things a person does in life. It all depends on how you look at it. For students, when someone says “write” they think “essay”, which automatically shifts to the “uninteresting/waste-of-time/busywork” category in their minds, and when that happens you have a student who might manage to produce a paragraph, if reluctantly. Granted, not every person is meant to be a writer, but even those who don’t aspire to be novelists can still learn to enjoy writing. The key, though, is to remove the thought of writing from the “waste-of-time” category.

One way to do it is to show them your own passion for writing, provided you are actually passionate about it. The best example I can think of in this regard is the case of my friends who inspired the characters of Rayne and Gavin in my trilogy. When I first began writing my books, neither one did any sort of writing. As I shared my own work with them, however, they began to formulate their own ideas and start their own stories. Did they go anywhere with those stories? No, but they wrote. And, furthermore, they enjoyed it. Why did they do it? Because I cared about my writing, and they cared about me, it gave us a connection and gave them a reason to start writing, too.

But of course I’m realistic enough to know that not all teachers can love writing as much as I do nor will all students respond that well to a writer’s enthusiasm, and in that case there is another option. My brother is a good example of this. He is creative, but there is almost nothing he hates more than writing. One night, my brother was struggling with a particular piece of homework and, exasperated, my mother asked me to help him. I don’t remember what the exact assignment was, but it was a sort of free-write deal where you pick the topic but you follow a set of rules. My brother couldn’t come up with anything, and so I told him to tell me about something he liked. He started talking (I think it might have been something about the Civil War) and I listened while he talked. Then I told him to put that on paper. All he had to do was follow the guidelines, and within a short amount of time he had completed his assignment.

In a classroom setting, I’m sure this would probably be harder to do, but evoking a student’s passion about something else and directing it toward writing has always struck me as a good way to get them to write without feeling like you’re participating in the Spanish Inquisition. Say you want them to write a descriptive essay and you find out a struggling student likes to play basketball. Have them write about playing basketball. If they have difficulty being descriptive, have them write out a list with the categories hearing, taste, sight, smell, and touch, and tell them to write whatever they experience in those categories. It really depends on where the student is in their writing as to what methods can be used, but the most important thing is to help them get away from thinking of writing as nothing more than homework.

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#2: They Can Do It

I cannot tell you how many people I have met who tell me the same story: in school they tried to write, someone told them they were terrible writers and shouldn’t even try, and they stopped writing or, worse still, grew to hate it. You have no idea how much this pains me.

I have always been of the belief that anyone can write. Furthermore, everyone has the right to do so. But the sad thing is that often times the people who hate writing the most are the people who believe that they can’t do it, and convincing these people any differently is a job in and of itself. Yes, there will always be someone who can write better than you. Even famous authors like J.R.R. Tolkien and Mark Twain still get flack about what they did wrong, and they’ve been dead for a year or two.

In dealing with a situation where a person refuses to write because they “can’t”, there are a couple ways I approach it. First and foremost, I encourage them by telling them they can. It sounds simple, but it means a lot. Secondly, no one starts out perfect. I’ve never considered myself to be a writing expert, but I still have had many friends and family members tell me, “Well, I could never write as good as you.”

Says who?

Over the course of six years, I have written six complete books: one children’s book and five novels. The word count for these six books alone adds up to somewhere between 200,000 and 300,000 words. And that doesn’t include all I’ve written on my computer and in the notebooks on the shelf that is now breaking because of the weight of those said notebooks. You get “good” at writing by writing.

For someone who is really struggling with this insecurity, my story isn’t the best one to tell. After all, most students are not going to be aspiring authors. They just want to pass the class. But regardless, they must know that they can and that the more they try the more likely they are to succeed. It isn’t a matter of can they do it but, rather, will they do it? And encouragement is the best way to get them to that point.

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#3: Make it Simple

Writing tends not only to be a chore but an intimidation also. There is practically no end to what you can do with writing and, therefore, practically no end to the number of rules a person might come across as well. Because of this fact, many people find writing frightening. In the writing world we call it “writer’s anxiety”. And guess what? Committed writers get it, too.

It is typical for teachers to try to bestow as much knowledge as possible on their students before the end of the year, which is a great ideal but can end up being a daunting proposition for the student. Particularly in English classes, students often find that they are expected to learn the rules of grammar and punctuation, read difficult literary works, analyze and understand those works, and write a large selection of papers all in the same time period. Granted, it doesn’t matter which subject you are dealing with. There will always be someone who struggles with something. But writing papers? Not only is the thought of writing unpleasant to many people, but with so many other things on their minds, trying to keep in mind every rule and still think creatively enough to get a decent grade is like planning for a solo trip to the top of Mount Everest. And then “writer’s anxiety” hits, and all of a sudden the student individual feels as though their brain was abducted by an alien and they stare blankly at the computer screen for hours on end. And yes, I’m speaking from experience.

The key to getting around “writer’s anxiety” is to look at the assignment and make it as simple as possible. Short, clear-cut rules seem to work best. Another problem, though, is the simple fact of what is expected from a student. Often times, a student writing a paper for class will be more worried about the page count than the writing itself. This was an area in which I really appreciated my AP English teacher my senior year of high school. She would always tell us, “I want quality, not quantity.” I recognize why some teachers choose to set a page count. They don’t want the student to skimp on their writing assignment, and judging quality is a lot harder to do than judging quantity. But believe it or not, there was hardly a single student in that class who didn’t enjoy it, and I think part of the reason was that everything was simple. There were no page numbers to worry about and directions were clear and understandable. Writing for that class was always easier to handle, and I experienced a lot less writer’s anxiety.

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I’ll be honest, I’m no expert in classroom management and assignment giving. I’m a writing tutor, so I know a few things, but in the end I think that getting people, particularly kids, interested in writing is a process of trial and error. The most important thing is to make it fun and to ensure that each individual knows they can succeed if they try. Making things simple is always a plus.

I write from the view point of an amateur writer, a writing tutor, and a student. I have watched friends and family members struggle in the area of writing. I myself have struggled with the academic writing process for as long as I’ve been a student. There will always be those who refuse to love writing, so as a message to teachers, I have to say: don’t let yourself get discouraged.

Make it fun, make it understandable, make it doable, and the rest is up to the student to choose whether to try or not.

And these are my opinions on the matter.

Black Widow

Ok, so I know it probably seems like I’ve fallen off the face of the earth for a while, but I’m back and, as always, I’ve got a writing project on hand.

If you’ve been following my blog, you know that at the beginning of this month I officially finished the first draft of Prism World, and I must say I’m quite proud of it. Originally, I thought that maybe I would try getting this one professionally published, but on second thought I decided I’d go ahead and stick with self-publishing. As such, most of my writing time will be spent cleaning up Prism World and continuing to work on the rewrite of the Star Trilogy. However, anyone who knows me knows that I can’t go a day without working on a new writing project on the side, so while I’m cleaning up my previous works, I thought I’d also introduce you my newest project.

Introducing Black Widow, the first part of a two-book story following the experiences of Prince Soren as he fights against the secret society that has its eyes set upon his life, his family, and his throne…a society known only as The Silencers.

To introduce you to the story and a few of the main characters, I thought I’d post the first chapter here on my blog. I’ll probably post the second chapter a little later once I get it typed up. And, as always, feedback is greatly appreciated.

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Chapter 1

The smoke of burning incense hung in a heavy haze in the hall of the royal mausoleum as a large group of people knelt before the body of a woman clad in white. The intoxicating fumes of the incense nearly made Prince Soren’s head spin and he stifled a cough as it burned his throat.

It hardly seemed possible, really. First his father in the war with Bardonia, now, mysteriously, his grandmother in the halls of the Pellagrian palace. Was there no end to the tears he would have to shed?

As the sound of the priest’s monotonous voice droned down the granite, tomb-lined halls of the royal mausoleum, Soren turned his attention to the environment around him. The platform on which his grandmother’s body lay was something of a semi-circular dais, decorated with pottery, flowers, and incense. Behind him lay the old tombs, the final resting place of some of his most ancient ancestors, and beyond them the doors to the outside world.

To his left and right there were ornate archways leading deeper into the mausoleum, and all around him the walls were covered with carved pictures, finely-woven tapestries, and flickering torches. For all its beauty, though, it was not a place Soren enjoyed being. No, on the contrary, it was a place he had frequented far too many times in the past few weeks.

“Amf sera.”

The prince lifted his head at the sound of the ancient words used to commit the deceased to their final resting place. The other people around him lifted their heads, then four burly guards lifted the stretcher on which the body lay and, bearing it on their shoulders, set off through one of the archways and into the depths of the mausoleum. Once this was done, Soren pushed himself to his feet, waiting only for his grandfather to stand before he did so.

Just then he felt a gentle touch at his elbow, and the prince turned to look into a pair of swollen teal eyes. The person who had touched him was a girl of about 14, her long, dark brown hair cascading in waves down her back, her pale face streaked with tears.

“Elise,” Soren whispered, gently touching the girl’s hand and glancing around, “keep control of your tears, little kitten. Grandfather may get angry if we interrupt the ceremony.”

“I know, brother,” the girl replied softly, her voice choked with tears. She leaned her head against the young man’s shoulder, and her grip on his arm tightened slightly. “I’m trying.”

A sigh escaped Soren’s lips, and he didn’t lift his hand from hers until they came to the tomb in which their grandmother had been placed.

Quietly the pair each took their turn dipping a brush into a bowl of scented oil and painting it across the door to the little compartment in which their grandmother’s body lay. Then Soren turned, leading his sister out of the mausoleum as quickly as he dared. He could not be happier than to leave the stench of death behind him.

As Soren and Elise stepped out through the mausoleum’s ornate entry, the bright rays of the afternoon sun fell into their eyes. It was a warm, cheering presence and a welcome relief from the gloom they had just left behind. Soren was only barely beginning to feel his heart lighten, however, when Elise turned, burying her face in his chest and beginning to sob bitterly.

“Why?” the girl questioned, her voice muffled by Soren’s shirt. “She was so bright and happy just yesterday. Why did this have to happen?”

Without a word, Soren wrapped his arms around his sister, bowing his head and allowing a few stray tears to slip down his cheeks. Elise was right. It had all been so sudden. And after the loss of their father, the loss of their grandmother was felt all the more.

“Soren? Elise?”

The prince lifted his head at the sound of a familiar, childish voice. There before him stood a young boy of about 9, whose bright blue eyes made it seem as though Soren were staring into a looking glass.

“Connor. Where’s Mother?” Soren inquired, glancing around at the steady flow of people coming out of the mausoleum.

The boy glanced this way and that, then shrugged as he looked up at his older brother.

“I don’t know. She was talking to someone, so I got bored and came to find you.”

By this point Elise’s sobs had died away and she turned to look at her little brother.

“You should go back and find her,” Soren said, wiping a stray tear from Elise’s cheek before looking back at his brother. “You know how Mother worries.”

“I don’t want to go back in there,” Connor pouted, crossing his arms and looking at his brother ruefully. “Everybody’s crying.”

“That’s what generally happens at funerals,” Soren sighed. “So if you won’t go find Mother, what are you planning to do? As you can tell, there is a fair amount of crying going on out here, too.”

“Hmm…” the boy replied, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyebrows as though deep in thought. He glanced around at the expansive cemetery where the graves of those who had served the royal family throughout the generations spread out for what seemed like miles in all directions.

“I know!” he said suddenly, his eyes brightening. “I’ll go goblin hunting!”

“Goblin hunting?” Soren replied, raising one eyebrow.

“Yeah!” Connor replied. “One of the stable boys told me about how he used to go goblin hunting in the cemetery. He says they’re vicious creatures with chisel-like teeth who wear grey and brown cloaks. He said they hide in holes and jump out at you when you least expect it!”

Soren and Elise exchanged disbelieving glances.

“That sounds more like a rabbit if you ask me,” Elise said.

“Oh, come on! What kind of rabbit wears a cloak and attacks people?” Connor protested, flinging his arms in the air for effect.

“Sounds more like the stable boy found a gullible audience,” Soren said under his breath. Then to Connor, he asked, “And what were you planning on hunting these goblins with?”

“My bare hands, of course,” the younger prince replied, putting his fists on his hips and assuming a heroic pose. “Weapons are for weaklings.”

There was a momentary pause as Elise and Soren stared down at their younger brother. Then a slight laugh escaped Soren’s lips.

“Right.”

“Oh! Connor!” Elise called as the boy turned and began trotting off toward the eastern half of the cemetery. “Don’t go without a guard.”

“I don’t need a guard,” Connor protested.

“Take one anyway.”

“Fine,” the young prince huffed. “But if he gets eaten, it’s not my fault.”

Soren and Elise watched as their brother grabbed a random guard by the sleeve and pulled him off on his goblin hunt, then Elise laughed slightly and stepped backwards.

“That child,” she said with a shake of her head.

“Let him enjoy his innocence,” Soren replied. “As a prince, he will lose it all too soon.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Elise sighed. “Well, so long as he becomes as good of a person as you are, everything will be fine. Right, big brother?”

Soren stared down into his sister’s eyes for just a moment, then he smiled, kissed her forehead, and set off down the mausoleum steps to the gravel path below.

“No,” the prince said, holding up his hand to help his sister down the steps. “I hope he becomes even better.”

***

A general hum echoed in the grand dining hall as clusters of lords and foreign dignitaries stood about, talking in hushed tones and casting glances over at a little group in the far corner from time to time.

“It’s unusual, that’s for sure,” said one man, a broad-shouldered lord with silvering copper hair.

“Suspicious is what you mean, Lord Emmret,” said another man, whose salt-and-pepper hair and moustache were both neatly trimmed. “I say we should have looked for evidence of murder.”

“You can hardly call it murder when by all appearances she died of natural causes, Lord Simon,” replied a third man, whose glossy black hair indicated he was a fair deal younger than the other two noblemen.

“Natural, indeed!” Lord Simon exclaimed. “Lord Richard, you can hardly call such a sudden death natural!”

“We seem to be particularly excitable today, Lord Simon,” came a voice from off to the side.

The three lords turned to see Prince Soren.

“Crown Prince,” the lords said simultaneously, bowing to the young man before them.

“You may rise,” Soren replied, motioning with one hand. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. It sounded quite fascinating.”

The three lords exchanged nervous glances.

“Well, Your Highness, it was really nothing,” Lord Simon said, clearing his throat and glancing back and forth between his peers.

“Nothing?” Soren laughed. “It sounded like a detailed conspiracy theory to me.”

“Not…entirely,” Lord Emmret interjected. “We were just discussing the nature of the queen’s sudden passing.”

“And you think there was foul play to be had?”

“I think there is that possibility, yes.”

“I see.”

The prince crossed his arms, leaning against the nearby wall and glancing up at the ceiling in thought.

“I will admit,” he said, glancing back over at the noblemen, “it did seem rather sudden. My grandfather the king is convinced that it was a heart defect, or so the physician told him, but my grandmother the queen never had such trouble before, so it is easy to doubt.”

“Do you also suspect foul play?” Lord Richard inquired, looking curiously at the prince.

“I suspect there is room for investigation,” Soren replied slowly. “There is nothing to be lost by looking and everything to be lost should it be true and we chose to ignore it.”

“I sometimes forget you are only 16, Your Highness,” Lord Richard said with a shake of his head. “You speak like a man.”

“I have had plenty of opportunities to practice,” Soren smiled, standing up straight and preparing to leave. “Keep a look-out for trouble, but don’t focus too much on conspiracy theories. In the end, most turn out to be nothing but rumors.”

***

“What did those lords have to say?” Elise inquired as Soren sat down beside her at the enormous dining table in the center of the room.

A bell rang, signaling the meal was ready, and the crowds of dignitaries turned to take their seats.

“Nothing of importance,” Soren replied. “People talk. It can’t be helped.”

“You like to speak in riddles don’t you, Soren?” Elise frowned. “Is that your way of saying it’s too important for a girl to hear?”

“Not really,” the prince sighed, glancing around at all the strange faces gathered about the table. “It’s more like saying it’s nothing worth telling.”

“But I want to know.”

“And I don’t want to talk about it, so you’re in a bit of a predicament, don’t you think?”

“I take back what I said earlier,” the princess pouted. “You’re mean, Soren.”

“If you say so.”

“Ugh! You’re so frustrating!”

“Uh-huh,” Soren grunted, placing several slices of roast duck on his plate. He was more interested in eating than arguing with his sister.

“Fine. Be that way. I won’t talk to you anymore then,” Elise huffed, her tone more teasing than angry. She stuck her nose in the air for effect, then began placing food on her own plate.

Soren glanced at her, then began to eat. He wondered if he should start counting the seconds before Elise started speaking to him again. It usually didn’t take very long.

As he ate, Soren kept glancing around the table. The sound of people talking and laughing echoed in his ears as the scents of various delicacies wafted into his nose. For all the sorrow that the royal family had suffered in the past few weeks, one could now hardly tell there had been a funeral only a couple of hours before.

“Hey, Soren?” Elise said suddenly, turning to look at her brother.

The prince bit into a piece of roast duck.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

“I changed my mind,” Elise replied indignantly. “Anyway, would you quit picking on me and hear me out?”

“What is it?”

“Well…I was just wondering…what do you think will happen if people in our family keep dying? I mean, grandfather could be next or…or even you or me. What if our family is cursed? You know, I’ve heard the servants say something about a curse before.”

“And you were making fun of Connor because of his goblin rabbits?”

Soren paused to turn and look at his sister, one eyebrow raised.

“Goblins aren’t real,” Elise replied defensively. “But curses…”

“Are no more real than goblin rabbits,” Soren said, turning back to his food. “It’s just bad timing is all. Stop worrying about nonsense or you’ll get old before I do.”

“I guess you’re right,” Elise laughed sheepishly. “It is a silly fear, isn’t it?”

1 Down, 139 Still to Go

At 2:10 AM Wednesday morning, I officially finished writing the first draft of Prism World, and I was so excited that I celebrated by doing something I have never done before: I submitted a query to an agent.

Now before I go any further, I have to clarify something. A couple months ago, I decided to get really brave and I swore that once I finished Prism World I would send off query letters to exactly 5 agents. If they all turned me down, I would self-publish. It was that simple.

To be honest, I have never actually believed that I could get an agent within 5 tries. My decision was not based in pride. It was the fact that I really am unsure I want to let the story go.

You hear it all the time from authors of all sorts of writing types. Writing projects are our babies, and the last thing we want to do is let them go. That’s me.

However, I hear people all around me saying, “You should try to get professionally published.” And frankly, I think that would be great, too. But to be a writer in the real world, one needs to be thick-skinned. I thought my skin was tough enough, but today I discovered that it could definitely be thicker.

I kind of expected the email I received today. It was the typical “Thank you for your submission but we aren’t interested” sort of message that I’ve read about on hundreds of writers’ sites since I first became interested in the publishing world 6 years ago. But expecting it didn’t make it any easier to read.

In the age of technology, self-publishing means that writers no longer have to feel the pain of receiving that all-too-common rejection letter that our spiritual forebears had to endure. While I can’t speak for other writers, I’ll be honest on this score. Self-publishing has made me lazy. Why go through the trouble of looking up hundreds of agents (or publishers) and risk rejection when I could just publish it myself?

There is a lot of talk about self-publishing these days. Some are all for moving straight into self-publishing. Others defend the need for writing agents and professional publishing houses. The jury is still out as far as I’m concerned.

It was hard to read that rejection letter. Harder still because I wasn’t sure if it was because I honestly didn’t have a story they were interested in or if it was simply that I wrote a bad query letter. I’ve read blogs and websites where agents post examples of how not to write a query letter and I cringe at the thought that mine might show up on one of those sites some day in the near future. But as with all things, the only way to learn is to try. And try I did.

There are many lists full of books, bestsellers even, that were rejected multiple times before they were printed. My favorite example is Chicken Soup for the Soul. The site that I read stated that Chicken Soup for the Soul was rejected 140 times before it was published. So hey, what’s one rejection letter to me?

I’m still egotistical enough to believe that Prism World is worth reading, and everyone who has read any of it seems to agree with me, which gives me confidence. Whether the publishing world believes that or not in the end, though, only time can tell. I’ll just have to keep trying.

1 down, 139 still to go.

The Obsession Chapters

I’ve been writing full-length books for about 7 years now, and over the course of those 7 years I have discovered something about myself: I obsess over the last few chapters of each book I write.

Writing has been a passion of mine for a long time and it is not uncommon for me to sit down and write feverishly for hours on end. But when I get to the last few chapters of a book, I go into full obsession mode where all I want to do is write. I’m not sure if it’s just me or if other writers do this same thing, but when I get to the last few chapters of a book, I can think only of the story. I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to even move away from my writing medium, and I certainly don’t want to go to class or work on homework…which is the dilemma I now face.

During the summer or when in the middle of a semester, hitting what I call “the obsession chapters” is not a big deal to me. The average workload is manageable and I typically have enough time and energy to devote to my writing. But as I begin to tackle the last 5 chapters of Prism World, I find I do not have as much free time available as I have had for past books. And so I carry around my “Notebook of Randomness”, (more on that later), and write as if my life depended on it during every opportunity, no matter how small.

My desire to complete the obsession chapters in this project, however, is made worse by the fact that I absolutely love this story. I have put more research and effort into this book than I have put into anything else I’ve written. I’ll be sad to see the story end, and I confess I’ve already started making plans for some after-the-fact short stories, but I can’t wait to see how it turns out. Because, after all, no matter how much an author plans the story, there’s still no telling where it will end up.

So far, I’m at about 71,000 words and counting, and with finals coming up and events I’ve been asked to go to, finishing the book will be no small task.

They say that true writers don’t write simply because they want to; they write because they can’t stop doing it.

So here’s to all the true writers out there, and in the mean time we’ll see whether real life or the obsession chapters win out in the end.

The Beauty of Language

Today marked my third year to enter the annual creative writing contest here at my college, and I am pleased to announce that my poem, “Le Cheval de Troie”, won 2nd out of 18 poems entered in that category.

The funny thing about this poem is I don’t speak a bit of French. Well…not really. “Le Cheval de Troie” was an experiment of sorts, one that I still think turned out rather well. (And apparently the judge thought so, too).

The beauty of language is that it is always changing. As an English major/History minor in college, I’ve had the unique opportunity to spend hours upon hours studying the progression of language (namely English) as it has evolved over the centuries.

Though all languages have similarities and share similar words (particularly modern ones), English, especially American English, has one of the highest rates of language exchange of any language in use today. We say we speak English, but that’s because it’s easier than saying, “I speak a little bit of Anglo-Saxon, French, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, Gaelic, Arabic, Latin, Greek, etc. etc.” The words we use, even in everyday speech, are rarely what we would call “English” in the truest sense, meaning that a large portion of those words did not originate in England.

For instance, in 1066, William the Conqueror left Normandy (a region in France) and sailed to England, effectively usurping the English throne and bringing with him a tradition of French high culture and, more importantly, over 10,000 French words, of which 75% are still in common use today.

It was this fact that inspired me to begin researching familiar words of French origin and, in turn, inspired me to write “Le Cheval de Troie”. Of the 16 lines in the poem, there are 18 words or phrases that are of French or Anglo-Norman origin. I have added the poem to the end of this blog post with all the French and Anglo-Norman words bolded for your convenience.

Language. It’s a beautiful thing!

——————–

Le Cheval de Troie

A souvenir they thought it was
The vestige of the Greek barrage
There poised beyond the rampart
Like a grandiose, hooved mirage

The vermilion sun cast a hateful hue
Consuming as a hero’s pyre
The shadow of the effigy
And kindled like a fire

And against all good persuasion
The trammel they drew inside
Naïve they were of the menace
That here they stood beside

And left to wait in the sun’s decline
The pivot of fated law
The occupants of the city
Never knew le Cheval de Troie.

When it Rains, It Pours

As the end of the semester gets closer and closer, it seems the list of things I need to do continues to grow and overshadow the things that I want to write. Papers, presentations, hundreds of pages to read for my classes…you get the picture. And of course, I would just happen to be overwhelmed by a creative streak at the same time.

Over Spring Break, I discovered an anime called Pandora Hearts, a weird and intriguing tale inspired by Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz. Unlike the timid Alice from Wonderland, the Alice of Pandora Hearts is a naive, opinionated girl who has no memories of her past, who knows absolutely nothing about what it means to be human, and whose only skill at the beginning is the ability to fight. She reminded me of Lightning, my main character from Prism World.

For a while now, Prism World has been sitting on the back burner waiting for me to reconnect with Lightning again. After all, Prism World is her story. I can’t tell it without hearing her voice. But watching Pandora Hearts was all it took. Over the course of last weekend, I wrote 14,000 words, and having to work on homework when I desperately want to write Prism World this week has been painful at best.

And so, as I gear up for another weekend, hoping against hope that I can find the time to continue writing, here is an excerpt from my most recent work. I know in past posts I said I probably wouldn’t be posting full chapters anymore, but…yeah. This chapter can’t really be broken up, so here goes. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the characters in Prism World, here is a little summary of the ones found in this excerpt:

Lightning: The ex-assassin bred and raised by an oppressive government, Lightning joined forces with the rebels, eventually falling in love with Leif Covent, leader of the revolution

Leif: The young leader of the underground rebel forces, Leif is the one who convinced Lightning to leave the Phantom Legion

Alice: A young rebel fighter and a long-time friend of Leif’s, Alice is opinionated, short tempered, and bossy, yet fiercely loyal

Dr. Kepler: Though technically a rebel, Dr. Kepler spends most of his time as a general practitioner; he took Lightning in after her escape from the Phantom Legion and is very much a father figure to her

Patski: At once an aristocrat and a businessman, Patski is a loyal member of the rebel party, though his egotistical nature puts him at odds with most of the other rebels

Case: A mechanic by trade, Case got stuck with Lightning and the others when a dangerous mission sent them on the run

Scythe: A Phantom like Lightning and, more specifically, Lightning’s older half-brother, Scythe left the Phantom Legion long before Lightning did but is still a contract killer. He doesn’t really care about the rebel cause, but he is oddly loyal to Lightning and, thus, provides the rebels with information regarding the government’s activities

——————————————-

Chapter 21

“Welcome to your new home!”

We all glanced first at Patski, then at the house, then back to Patski.

“You’re joking, right?” Alice questioned, crossing her arms. “It looks like something Lightning’s tribal ancestors put together.”

“Well, it’s not quite that bad,” Case mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “It’s not a hut.”

“You said it was a fixer-upper, Patski, not a faller-downer,” Alice groaned.

“What can I say? We’re fugitives from the law. It’s not like I could buy us a mansion.”

“We already had a mansion.”

“Yes, and we would have been skinned alive if we stayed there. I may be a loveable person, but I’m not that loveable and I prefer to remain in one piece if possible.”

“Loveable is not the term I would use to describe you,” Leif grunted. “But Patski’s right on this point. We’re not in the position to complain.”

“Exactly how many bedrooms did you say this place had?” Dr. Kepler inquired.

“Three.”

“What? One bedroom and two closets?” Alice replied sarcastically.

“I don’t know what you’re all fussing about,” I muttered, setting off up the dirt driveway. “It’s bigger than what I grew up in.”

They all fell silent. What was the word that Leif always liked to use? Touché?

It had all started out when Scythe had come to visit a few weeks back. He hadn’t stayed long, but he had been there long enough to warn me that the government had been training its eye on us, namely myself and Leif. That was followed by Patski’s announcement that it was time to “find a change of scenery”, meaning that even he was in too much trouble to protect us from the government’s growing power.

Our new residence was even further out in the countryside than the mansion had been, or so it seemed, at least. It was an old house, (there was no telling how old), with peeling paint, missing roof shingles, and a sagging floor. The windows were covered in a hazy film that made them nearly impossible to see through and I wondered if perhaps the whole house frame was leaning just a little bit. It was a small house, too; far smaller than any of the rebel houses that I had seen. There was no washroom; just a small, bug-infested outhouse out back. Lighting was limited to flashlights, lanterns, and candles and there was no running water or electricity to speak of. There wasn’t even a hand-crank telephone. “Primitive” was the word that the rebels used.

As we stepped into the living room, we glanced around at our surroundings. We all seemed to have the same look on our faces. We all seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Oh. My. God. Are we really going to be living here?

There were water stains all over the ceiling and what looked like mold in one corner. The wooden planks that made up the house’s flooring were warped and I had to wonder if we would be no worse off sleeping outside should it decide to rain. And I had thought the slums looked bad. This place made my cell at Alpha 6 look pretty good, I had to admit.

“And you’re certain this place is safe to live in?” Case questioned, patting one wall and watching as it shuddered each time his hand came in contact with it.

“Case! Case!” Alice exclaimed, rushing over and grabbing our driver by the wrist. Then in a softer voice she added, “Don’t do that. You might knock it down.”

“I’ll admit, it’s in a bit worse shape than it was in the picture the original owner showed me.”

“That’s probably because the picture was taken 20 years ago,” Leif replied.

“Or 50,” Alice grunted. “Are you sure we can’t afford something at least safer? I can deal with primitive, but I’d rather not have my house do the government’s job for them.”

“I’ll see what else I can find,” Patski sighed, turning to leave. “But there aren’t a lot of places that are out of the way like this one.”

“Wait! Are you going into town by any chance?” Alice said suddenly.

The rich man turned to look at her.

“Yes. Why?”

The young woman grabbed me by the wrist and half-dragged me toward the door.

“Alright. We’re going with you.”

“Um…your reason being?”

Alice paused in front of him.

“Lightning needs a haircut,” she motioned to the bangs that hung in my eyes and the unruly strands that fell about my shoulders. “She looks like a shaggy pony right now. Also, she needs a new outfit. This one needs to be washed eventually, you know.”

I stiffened slightly.

“It’s alright, Alice,” I protested, trying to pull away. “I still have my assassin’s attire. I don’t need another outfit.”

The decrepit house suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

“Shush,” she interrupted. Her grip was like iron. “You’re going if I have to tie you up and drag you there myself.”

“I’d like to see that,” Patski mused.

Alice gave him a menacing glare.

“Actually, going in to town sounds like a good idea,” Leif said suddenly. “I need to get in contact with some of our people back in Randburg. And anyway, I think I might feel a bit safer in town than out here.”

He looked up at the ceiling uneasily.

I opened my mouth to protest, but before I knew it we were all piled back in the car, crammed together and headed to town. I sat stiffly with my hands in my lap, glaring at Leif out of the corner of my eye. Traitor.

****

“All done. What do you think?”

I blinked back at the image of myself in the mirror. My jet black hair fell in waves to one side of my face and behind my ear on the other side, and it glowed with a silky sheen. I had never seen my hair so long and it certainly had never been styled before. I glanced first at the hairdresser, then at Alice.

“Oh! It looks great!” the other girl exclaimed.

She had gotten her hair styled, too, so that like mine it was short and sweeping.

“I’m glad you like it,” the hairdresser smiled back. “And what about you, miss?”

She looked down at me. I wasn’t going to tell her what I thought. I shrugged my shoulders and stood to my feet. I’d have to deal with it.

I waited as Alice thanked and paid the hairdresser, then followed her out the door.

“Next, dress shopping!”

I nonchalantly began turning in the opposite direction, hoping Alice wouldn’t notice, but a moment later I felt her iron grasp on my wrist and turned to stare into a pair of threatening blue eyes. So much for that.

We had just set off down the sidewalk when Leif turned one corner. He stopped abruptly when he saw us.

“Leif!” Alice beamed, shoving me in front of her. “What do you think of Lightning’s new haircut?”

He stared at me for several moments and I glanced away, my cheeks feeling unnaturally warm.

“You look beautiful, Lightning,” he said at length.

My cheeks grew even warmer.

“Thanks.”

For a moment Alice glanced between the two of us in confusion, but then I heard her draw in an excited breath as her eyes widened.

“Excuse me,” she said, leaning over my shoulder, “is there something the two of you aren’t telling me?”

“No,” I replied quickly.

Now even my ears were feeling warm, and I could see that Leif’s cheeks were just a bit redder than usual, too.

“Lightning.”

Her voice was threatening.

Immediately I set off at a brisk pace.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Alice demanded as I took off.

“The dress shop,” I replied. Suddenly dress shopping sounded like a good thing.

For a moment there was silence behind me. Maybe my plan had worked after all. It seemed like a good way to distract her.

“Well that’s a surprise,” I heard Alice say. “Alright. You come, too, Leif! You still haven’t answered my question.”

I groaned inwardly. I should have learned a long time ago. When Alice wanted to know something, she never gave up.

****

It was a couple hours later before the three of us finally managed to get out of the dress shop. Though Alice professed to be looking for just the right dress to buy for me, it was obvious that she was more interested in prying relationship details out of me and Leif. She didn’t get much, however, as both Leif and I suddenly became masters of distraction in the dress shop, to the point that even Alice finally got bored and picked out a dress with blue floral print.

“You two are so boring,” the redhead sighed as we left the dress shop.

Already the sun was sinking lower in the sky, and the streets of the small town were primarily deserted. It would be dark soon. I wondered where Patski was and if we really were going to have to spend the night in that decrepit old house we had been to earlier in the day.

“What do you want us to say?” Leif replied.

Wrong question. Alice grabbed us by the shoulders and pushed the two of us together.

“That the two of you are madly in love, of course!” she exclaimed. “Don’t think I can’t tell. You’re terrible at hiding it.”

Both Leif and I visibly blushed.

“It’s a little more complicated than that, Alice,” Leif replied, glancing over at me.

“It’s not a big deal,” I added, pushing past Alice and plopping down in a chair at a table set outside of a tiny café. “It’s not like I understand this love business anyway.”

“But that’s just it!” the young woman beamed. “It’s twice as romantic because Leif gets to teach you what love means!”

“Alice, give us a break,” Leif sighed, plopping in a chair next to me.

“What, am I embarrassing you?” the redhead grinned, taking a seat on the opposite side of me.

“Maybe just a little,” Leif replied.

“Maybe just a lot,” Alice grinned back. “You guys look so funny when you blush.”

For a moment Leif and I glanced nervously in other directions, then my eyes brightened when I noticed Case step out of a shop across the road from us. Perfect timing! Time for another distraction.

“Case!” I called out, raising my hand to catch his attention.

Our driver paused, glanced around, then set off toward us when he spotted us sitting at the café.

“Any word from Patski yet?” Leif inquired.

“Not yet,” Case replied, removing his glasses and proceeding to clean them.

“I wonder where Dr. Kepler went off to,” Alice mused, glancing around in search of the doctor.

“Dr. Kepler has returned to Randburg on some business,” Leif replied. “He told me that before calling a cab after we all split up.”

I glanced down at my hands which were resting on the glass surface of the table we sat at. I felt a bit disappointed that Dr. Kepler had left. It felt odd to be separated from him and Mary for so long.

I had just turned to ask Leif a question when the sound of movement caught my ear, and I looked up toward the roof of the nearby building in time to see a blur of black come into view. Alice nearly flew out of her seat and in a moment her gun was in her hand.

“Scythe!”

I grabbed Alice by the wrist as my brother landed on the ground a couple feet away, polearm in hand.

“Hold on, Alice!” I exclaimed. “Don’t shoot!”

“Lightning, that’s Scythe!” Alice exclaimed back, struggling against my grip. A look of sheer rage had lit up her eyes. “He killed Amos! I’ll shoot him if it’s the last thing I do!”

“Shoot him in the foot then,” I replied. “Just don’t kill him. I need him alive.”

I glared at Scythe.

“Honestly, are you incapable of visiting like a normal person?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the other Phantom shrugged. “I just came to tell you happy birthday, sister.”

A dead silence fell over the group as we all stared at Scythe. I released Alice’s hand and sat back down in my seat.

“Never mind. Shoot him.”

Now Alice didn’t seem sure she wanted to.

“Lightning?” she inquired. “What’s going on?”

“Scythe has been feeding us information for several weeks now,” Leif answered for me. “Apparently, he’s Lightning’s half-brother.”

“He’s your what?!” Alice exclaimed.

“My half-brother,” I answered. “Apparently he left the Phantom Legion before I did, but he works as a contract killer.”

“It turns out that the person who hired me to assassinate your friend, Amos, was secretly a member of the government,” Scythe added, pulling up a seat between me and Alice. “I had no idea how many of my contracts were government-related until after Lightning tried to kill me because of my involvement in your friend’s death.”

“Your involvement, your involvement,” Alice fumed. “You weren’t just involved, you killed him! And you knocked me out in the process!”

Scythe stared at her for a moment, then his eyes brightened.

“Right!” he grinned. “You were the pretty girl who tried to shoot me when I came into the room. I remember you!”

“You creep! What kind of pick-up line is that? I’ll shoot that twisted smile right off your face!”

Alice pressed the barrel of her gun to Scythe’s forehead, but he only glanced up at it before his smile broadened.

“Alice, please,” Leif sighed. “Much as I hate to admit it, Scythe has been a useful source of information. Don’t kill him yet.”

“Please tell me you came for a real purpose,” I said, turning to look at my brother.

He grinned and sat back in his seat.

“Well, aside from coming to wish you happy birthday-”

“I will shoot you myself if you say that again,” I interrupted.

He ignored me and continued, “I came to give you a warning. Most of the government forces seem to be heading this way, but I have some sources that say perhaps there are some who have travelled to Randburg to look for one specific person. I can’t say for sure, but I think it might be your doctor friend.”

“Not likely,” I shrugged. “Dr. Kepler has stayed out of all the major fighting and he’s done pretty well at staying under the govs’ radar. And anyway, since he isn’t an active member of the rebel forces they should have no reason to go after him.”

“You can say that,” Scythe shrugged. “But the fact of the matter is that anyone associated with you is at risk for being attacked. You’ve become a big name, Lightning. The government hounds hate you, and I wouldn’t put it past them to do something to hurt you rather than your cause.”

“Who told you they have come to that conclusion?”

“No one,” my brother replied, standing to his feet and stretching. “It’s just a thought I had.”

“The last thing we want is to know what goes through your mind,” Alice grunted, arms crossed.

Scythe turned to look at her, then he grinned and, leaning close to the young woman’s face, said, “Are you sure? I promise you, it would be all kinds of fun, love.”

Smack!

The other Phantom backed up as Alice socked him in the mouth. His lip was bleeding but he was also laughing. Leif, Alice, Case and I all exchanged wondering looks.

“Ah,” Scythe chuckled, “you’ve got a strong arm, love.”

I grabbed Alice by the wrist before she could shoot him.

“I’ll keep in touch,” he said, giving us a slight wave before swinging up onto the roof from which he had come.

I nodded.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Scythe added, glancing back down at me. “They say Blade’s bands have been removed. Be careful.”

Then with that he disappeared over the rooftop.

“He makes me so mad,” Alice fumed, settling back down in her seat.

“He is bothersome,” I admitted. “But he’s been useful enough.”

“So was he being serious?” Leif asked, looking over at me. “About it being your birthday, I mean.”

“Yes,” I replied, standing to my feet and crossing my arms.

“Why did it make you so angry?”

“Birthdays are bad things for Phantoms,” I replied, staring out at the setting sun. “The masters were always harder on us on our birthdays. Scythe wasn’t being kind when he said those words. He was mocking them.”

“That’s too bad,” Leif frowned. “Birthdays should be reasons to celebrate.”

I glanced back at him. He looked concerned, so I smiled.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” I shrugged. “Coming from you, those words would mean something different anyway. I just don’t want to hear them from Scythe.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet,” Alice beamed. “ ‘Coming from you, those words would mean something different’. How romantic.”

Leif and I exchanged glances as Case looked between us and Alice in confusion. Then I smiled and shook my head. Alice was Alice. What more could I say?

But even as I smiled, something about Scythe’s words seemed to gnaw at the back of my mind. How much danger were we really in? And was it possible that the danger we faced was not because of the revolution…but because of me? I didn’t want to admit it then, but there may have been more truth to my brother’s words than I could have ever realized.

Where They Come From

I’ve had a lot of people ask me, “Where do your stories come from?”

My answer would have to be, “Everywhere.”

One thing I’ve noticed about authors, including myself, is that a large portion of inspiration comes from the people, places, and experiences we’ve encountered over the years, and what we are unable to experience in real life we supplement with reading and research. But whatever the case, rarely does a person have inspiration that is entirely foreign to what they know. To some degree, at least, what we write is merely mimicking a huge variety of things we have already seen, heard, experienced, read, etc. Sometimes we do this intentionally. Sometimes, however, the memories have been so deeply ingrained in our minds that we don’t even realize that was where the inspiration came from.

Research plays a large role in my life as an author. My house is littered with encyclopedias and dictionaries of everything from traditional baby names to weaponry to astronomy. I have an encyclopedia of knights, one for lost civilizations, one for horse breeds, one for mythology, and heaven knows how many others. I’ve got collections of fairy and folk tales and a dictionary of Irish Gaelic. Anything to gain new ideas.

As a writer of fantasy, particularly medieval fantasy, one of the things I like to do to gain inspiration is visit renaissance fairs such as the one I had the privilege of going to this past weekend. I must admit, renaissance fairs tend to have a stigma on them and for good reason. They attract a lot of…special…characters. But in my own personal opinion, the good still outweighs the bad. There is something to be said about a good renaissance fair. In this era of high-tech gadgets, mass-production, and 24/7 on-the-go frenzy, the art of handmade goods, traditional music, and real human interaction has kind of fallen by the wayside. At the fair, however, people with an avid interest in the past come together to spend their hours interacting with potential customers, pretending to be medieval people just for the fun of it, and hand-making a large portion of their own goods. And most importantly, from an author’s perspective, they bring the imagined to life.

There are other places I go to gather inspiration, too. When it comes to world-building, a good thing to do is to scour the “globe” for inspiration. In other words, I learn about the real world to build my fantasy one. Sometimes I go to National Geographic for inspiration, as the articles they produce often come with a fair amount of pictures. And of course, pictures are what I use for almost all of my inspiration. A picture taken at Angkor Wat, such as the one above, might serve as great inspiration for a scene in a fantasy novel.

Thankfully, though, the world isn’t limited to what I see in the National Geographic Magazine, and where that source falls short for my inspiration, I turn to other creative venues such as DeviantArt and Worth1000.com. Both sites are geared toward creative people, containing everything from extraordinary, hand-painted scenes to surreal, digitally-altered images. When I feel like I need to “see” something, these sites are often where I go.

But then, of course, there is also another thing that has had a major impact on my writing: anime. I was first introduced to Japanese animation when I was in 5th or 6th grade, and I’ve been watching it ever since. My fascination with anime has resulted in several things, not the least of which the fact that I imagine everything in anime form. I imagine The Star Trilogy as an anime. I imagine Prism World as an anime. When I close my eyes, I literally cannot envision my stories in any other form. Thus, I write in an anime-geared fashion. The intense detail I put into my stories, the dialogue between characters, the terms and phrases I prefer using, even the types of swords my medieval-based characters use are influenced by the Japanese elements in anime.

Sometimes it’s childhood memories. Sometimes it’s experiences I have sought out for my own improvement. Sometimes it’s research, or inspiration from other people, or even pop-culture. Whatever the case, though, one thing is certain: Good writers rely as much on the world around them as they do on their own minds for inspiration. The more you embrace the real world, the more real your own world can become.