The one where I talk about asparagus and writing
Despite what everyone may think, I’m horrible at socializing. I’m slightly awkward when I’m around people I know, but around complete strangers, I act as if I were raised by wolves and this is my first time interacting with creatures outside of my pack. I’m the kind of person who is completely content with sitting in the corner of a party or social gathering with a book and a glass of coke. Do I look out of place? Like a polka dotted bear at a vegetarian fundraiser. Do I secretly judge every person in the room who stares in my direction? Well, let’s just say my moral compass almost always points south.
But the alternative for me is even more frightening. I clam up in social settings. I giggle at words like “duty,” ”gesticulate,” and “responsibilities.” My face turns bright red, making any make-up or food on my face non-existent. I make inappropriate jokes and never remember anyone’s names. I once held a ten minute conversation with a lawyer about asparagus. It ended with him handing me a business card to get me to shut up. Needless to say, he avoided me for the rest of the evening. I suspect the card may have been a fake that lawyers and executives keep in the “other” back pocket reserved for people like me.
My husband, on the other hand, is just brilliant. He shines when he’s in a room full of strangers and usually ends up leaving only after he’s made friends with everyone in the room. (He may own a mind control device.) He knows how to judge a person within a few moments of discussion and then change his demeanor to fit their own; the end result makes him come across as incredibly charming. And then of course he ruins it by introducing me while I drool through the side of my mouth babbling about sock drawers, Final Fantasy, and how sometimes I write that them thar books. Har har har.
The kind of interaction, like most things in my life, made me think of writing. Everything I write comes from real life. Well, that and the creepy inner workings of my brain, but really, I can’t control that. (Nor do I try to.) Even if I can never be the world’s best public speaker or most charming party guest, I can use the same tactics employed by dear old Hubs in my writing. You see, no one enjoys a writer who shies away from the realities of characters. (And by no one I am of course generalizing, using my own preferences. It’s my blog. I make my own statistics.) Why watch the action from a distant corner when you could jump into it like a rodeo clown and get to know everyone in the crowd? (Or really, just the bull. Okay, it was a bad analogy. You know what I mean….right?) When it comes to my characters, I like to be in their faces, learning about who they are, what they do, what makes them tick.
What’s your approach to meeting characters? Do you watch them from a distance? Jump on top of them like a crazy person? Have any weird or embarrassing stories from social gatherings? I want to hear them all.
From the hollows of a dream
A short story I’ve considered developing into novel status for some time. Nothing too spectacular about it.
From the Hollows of a Dream
We were in the Great Hall, so it must have been a Saturday. Arm in arm I strolled with my Edgar around the market. I knew we were being watched, but I didn’t mind. This was my favorite time of the week, when we were allowed to be free to hold one another in public. I was lucky; I may not have been allowed to bear children, but I was given permission to choose my own husband. Or maybe it was because of his security clearances he was allowed to choose me. I still don’t understand how it works. I just know I’m lucky. The women I work with are married to such brutes. I couldn’t fathom not having my sweet Edgar, with his dark, deep set eyes and brilliantly blonde locks. Looking at him, I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, but I didn’t. We kept walking, carrying on our silent conversation.
Time passed quickly as we ate lunch with the other couples in our station. The pit of my stomach churned, so I passed on the sliced meat and pureed green vegetables. I just wasn’t feeling very well. Maybe I forgot to take my medicine. Instead, I stared at the outside world. “Outside” was a strange word choice. We didn’t really have an outside—just a patio, three sides made of glass. The sun always shone so bright we couldn’t see very far, but if I closed my eyes I could see trees, like the ones in the picture books. Or even the ones from memory. Maybe even a bird or two. Being on that patio is the closest I’ve been to being outdoors in over 15 years. If I try hard enough, I think I can still smell it.
Edgar and I resumed our gentle canter around the Great Hall, looking at hand made dresses by seamstresses and sweets from bakers. We were never allowed to buy anything, even if we had the extra money. But sometimes, I think, it was enough just to look.
As we readied to make our final turn around the Hall—passing a woman who sold paper flowers—I noticed a small boy walking alone. Did he escape from the Children’s Ward? Had he been overlooked? I knew the punishment for leaving your building was severe, even for a boy who couldn’t have been more than two. Can children walk at two? I can’t remember. It has been so long since I even saw a child. I don’t think I ever knew them that well anyway.
Curious, I led Edgar to the child standing the hallway—he always was so agreeable—peering out at adults I wasn’t sure he recognized. There were so many people that most days I couldn’t remember names or faces. Maybe it’s the medicine the doctors give me for my illness. They said it had side effects; I don’t remember them. The boy, with neatly trimmed hair and a vacant expression, stopped just before the entry to the Hall when we reached him. How had he gotten so far? Had no one else in the room noticed his presence? Cameras were everywhere. You couldn’t just go where you pleased. If not for the cameras, then surely the motion sensors would attract attention.
But here he was. Unnoticed.
I knelt beside the blonde-haired boy and felt a tug in my chest, while Edgar kept an eye out for the guards. “What are you doing?” I asked. Did I sound angry? I’m not sure I ever have before.
He giggled. His laughter rang out loud enough for the closest ears to hear. My heart stopped. They couldn’t know he was here. He was just an infant. Infant? Was that the word for his age? Something was blurring my memories. Those hands, those tiny, baby hands reached toward my face and without thought or reason, I touched them. I don’t even know when I started crying. I held his fingers to my wet cheek and felt so blissfully wonderful. The rest of the world fell away.
The world came screaming back when the alarms sounded. His hands passed through the motions sensors in the doorway. That would set the guards at the end of the corridor on alert. Panicked, I looked to Edgar for help. I never violated the rules. I always took my medicine, didn’t I? Maybe they would be kind for my offense? Edgar’s look suggested otherwise. He nudged me forward.
Run? Run where?
The Great Hall burst into chaos. If we ran, maybe no one would know it was us. I found myself staring at the boy, wishing I could take him with me. I wanted to hold him, touch his hair, put his hands between my own. But if I took him with me they would know it was I who breached the barrier.
I left him there, now crying, screaming for someone to help him. Please don’t hurt the boy, I pleaded in my mind to anyone who could hear. No one responded.
No one ever responds.
The Directors taught us to run home when the alarms sounded. Going home meant everyone could be accounted for when they ran the Census. Edgar and I found ourselves running with the crowd, through the crowd, to our home that would be safe. Running at speed down the halls, I began to feel happy. Almost hopeful. If we could make it home, back to our rooms, then maybe we would be safe from the guards. Rule breakers were almost always caught within seconds and we were still running. It had been 7 minutes since the alarm. I let myself smile. We were at our door; our lovely blue door that matched everyone else’s in our row. I did love that they matched.
Inside we both let out a long sigh. Home. I hoped the boy was okay.
Our safety was short lived. The knock on the door was harsh and the shouting that followed sent a ripple of fear through my body. They knew. Of course they knew. They always know. I don’t know why I ever thought we could get away. Really, they didn’t even need to knock. They had access to everyone’s rooms. I think they knocked because they liked to hear us squirm, like rats clambering to get through the same hole in the wall. But in the end, the hole always leads to a trap, and the rats always lose. I didn’t much like being a rat.
I don’t remember what they said when they entered. They were loud and they had weapons. I was staring at their weapons, the weapons they used to kill, the weapons they pointed at Edgar.
Edgar? No! This was my doing. My Edgar was innocent. Like a fool I threw myself at the feet of the Officer, tears in my eyes. I loved my Edgar.
“Please,” I begged through choked tears. The Officer stared in amazement at my face. “This is not my husband’s fault. My husband is a good man. I went through the barrier, not him. Take me.”
The guards look at one another. There were five of them, I realized. Why so many?
“How is she able to talk, sir?” I heard one of the guards whisper to the Officer. Talk? I could always talk. Couldn’t I?
The guards didn’t need any convincing that I was to blame. After the stabbing sensation faded from my right arm, I was dragged from our home, despite Edgar’s protests. His clearances wouldn’t save me.
All I could see was darkness.
Crack.
I heard screams.
Someone was hurt. Badly.
It sounded as though someone was being whipped in the Great Hall for everyone in our Ward to see. My vision was returning. Where was I? Crack. There were so many people with such vacant expressions. Crack. My feeling returned. I must have been flitting between the conscious and unconscious. I wished I had stayed unconscious. The pain was unbearable. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. Never had I felt so awful in my life. I think I threw up. I could feel it in my stomach. I should have eaten something for lunch. Now I wouldn’t eat again until tomorrow.
Everyone stared as my half naked body was being ripped skin from muscle. Crack. None of them showed any emotion toward my pain, which was probably best. If I had seen tears it may have made feel like more of a martyr than a criminal. I knew I needed to be punished. I ruined my status for the sake of a little boy.
The boy! Where was he? Had they found them? Was he safe? Crack. The thud of the whip kept me from trying to struggle to see if I could find him in the crowd. Even if I could look, I knew he wouldn’t be here. I hoped he wasn’t facing the same fate in the Children’s Ward. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what he looked like, but all I could think was he was small and needed protection. I could protect him. I could be a good mother. I think.
I don’t know anything about children.
The whip stopped and my hands were wrenched free from the ropes. My punishment was over. I fell to the ground, unable to stand on my own. Two sets of strong hands grabbed my arms and dragged me across the floor. The light flickered as we made our way through the parting crowd. “I’m sorry,” I heard myself whisper to no one in particular.
I didn’t even know anyone there.
A door opened and they tossed me inside. My hand grazed the flesh of someone, or something. It took several minutes, maybe hours, for me to gather the strength to move my head and see who lay beside me. It was my Edgar, my lovely Edgar on the floor of our home. I couldn’t see well, but I think he had a wound on his head. He was breathing. He was alive.
I smiled, placed my hand in his, and fell asleep.Happy Anniversary! …Or why I haven’t killed him yet.
I just wanted to let the world (or my small amount of followers) know that Joe and I have been married for two years. Sure, two years doesn’t seem like a long time to all you veterans of marriage out there, especially those with little’uns, but to me it’s a big deal. This is probably because no where in my “plans for life” did I think I would get married at 21. I guessed 26, at the earliest, to whatever poor fool I decided to bash over the head and drag to the altar. But lo and behold this big goof came along and we hated each other. We fought and bickered and snapped and sneered. It was nasty. I talked trash; he ignored me.
So naturally, I married him.
Of course, not all marriages are bliss, and of course we have our fair share of issues, but not with each other. Maybe we got all our fighting out early in the relationship. Maybe we have a lot of fighting ahead of us. Or maybe I’ve just beaten him down so much he just doesn’t have the courage to argue anymore, who knows?
Even though he likes to flirt with older women, doesn’t really like seafood, curls hair and paints toe nails better than I do, and sucks at video games, I still love this guy with all my heart. Sometimes I think I don’t tell him enough and since I know he skulks around this blog like the creeper he is, this my way of saying, here’s to many more years together!
Supporting characters - Don’t forget the bread and butter!
I have noticed I am sort of an anomaly when it comes to reading. I hate main characters. It’s true. Very rarely do I find a story I enjoy AND like the main character. This must seem rather strange coming from the girl who swallows books like they’re candy, but I find most main characters rather annoying. Now I know, I know, without the main character, or characters, I wouldn’t have a story to follow. There isn’t a plot without the MC. You see, when I read, I make start a story because of the plight of the MC, but I <strong>continue </strong>reading because of the supporting characters.
Let me ramble off a few examples:
I think I have made it quite clear that I love Harry Potter. I use JK Rowling as a reference for…well, nearly everything writing related. I’m the epitome of a fan girl. But if I may be quite honest (and I am 99% of the time), if I had read Harry Potter and there was little interaction with Ron, Hermione, or even Neville, Professor McGonagall, and Nearly Headless Nick, I would have hated the stories. To me, Harry as a character is whiny, annoying, and pretty much a coward. Harry went through a lot in the seven books, but without those supporting characters, I wouldn’t have cared if he saved the world or not. What would he have even fought for? Fighting for the sake of being a good character is just not real. But hey, what do I know? I like evil.
Remember in Deathly Hallows when everyone complained that the trio spent too much time in the woods and it was dull and blah blah blah complaint complaint? Personally, I think it was because there weren’t any supporting characters to drive that part of the story along any faster. Readers became accustomed to the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts with different students, their different personalities filling each page, that they felt the trio on their own was quite a boring shift (at least subconsciously).
The supporting characters are why Harry Potter succeeded in the first place. If you asked a group of 20 different HP fans, “Who is your favorite character?”, I’m sure most would answer differently. (Mine is Professor McGonagall fyi.) By having a distinct group of minor characters, you allow more characters with whom your reader can relate. <img class=”alignright” title=”McGonagall is badass. Trelawny cracks my shit up too. But in a different kinda way. ” src=”http://mugglemeetswizard.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/mcgonagall_trelawny.jpg” alt=”” width=”300” height=”209” />
Supporting characters are my bread and butter in stories. Honestly, it’s one of the reasons I couldn’t get through Twilight (among other things). I know it was a love story about a girl and her marble statue, but I couldn’t relate to either of the main characters. There was zero connection for me. Which I usually try to push past because as I’ve stated, I didn’t much care for Harry either. (Yea, yea, poor boy living with his cruel family, lalala. Give me some Malfoy interaction!) Despite the horrible MCs in Twilight, I tried. I really tried, but there was nothing there for me. The minor characters, the other vampires and classmates, were just too generic. It was like they were last minute additions to the story because B-Swan couldn’t go to a school with ONLY I-think-you-smell-yummy-boy.
I recently read a book that had almost everything I want out of a story - The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. If you haven’t read it, I recommend you do. This is the kind of book that isn’t a shining stand out of everything great about literature. Will it be a classic? Probably not. But for me, it does everything right. When it ended, I didn’t *want* it to end. I wanted to curl up with all of the characters and be their best friends too. As both a reader and a writer, when you can feel that connected to the characters, both and big and small, I think you’ve achieved something.
Why I hate giraffes - a writing prompt gone horribly wrong
Caution: This post contains large amounts of caffeine (and a bit of swearing).
Not too long ago, Kristy Colley and I were chatting about writing. (We’re cool.) She was trying to add something to her story Sinnersand asked for a writing prompt. This is how the story of the giraffes first began…
Kristy: i need to refocus on sinners
Kristy: tell me something i should include
Kristy: QUICK
Kristy: NO TIME TO THINK!!!!
Kristy: NOW
Kristy: NOW
Jen: llamas
Kristy: NOW!
Jen: ahhhh
Kristy: oh HELL yeah
Kristy: llamas
Jen: can’t think fact
Jen: or fast
Jen: whichever
Kristy: haha
Kristy: ok llamas…
Kristy: how very challenging
Jen: spitting llamas
Kristy: can they be super-sized?
Jen: and they make a game of spitting
Kristy: like the size of semi trucks?
Jen: like llama darts
Jen: but with spit
Kristy: i like that
Jen: i thought you might
Kristy: how can i fit that into sinners
Jen: and they’re purple
Kristy: hmmm
Kristy: purple?
Jen: purple spitting giant sized llamas
Kristy: so they have spunk
Jen: yes purple
Kristy: well this is certainly NEW
Jen: some like to show their personality so they dye their tails different colors
Jen: but they can’t dye it themselves because they don’t have thumbs
Jen: so they pay the chimps to do it
Jen: and the chimps are skeezy
Jen: yes thats a word
Jen: and sometimes the chimps overcharge
Jen: but the llamas love their personality
Jen: so they pay it
Jen: and the chimps collect their bounty and splurge on peanuts
Kristy: so they’re Capital llamas
Jen: why peanuts adn not bananas you ask?
Jen: because the chimps like to tease the elephants
Jen: “haha i have peanuts and you don’t you large blue fuckers”
Kristy: omg you are SO caffeinated!
Kristy: so the elephants are blue?
Jen: i was wondering when you would stop me
Kristy: i’m spurring you on! blue ELEPHANTS?? OMG MUST KNOW MORE!
Kristy: lolz
Jen: Well the elephants are blue but that’s only because they’re sad they don’t have peanuts
Jen: so they take out their frustrations on the giraffes
Jen: which let’s face it giraffes are assholes anyway
Jen: so they probably deserve it
Jen: you know who else are assholes on the safari?
Jen: because i’ve obviously jumped continents and we’re no longer just chillin in the peruvian mountains anymore
Jen: hippos
Jen: they’re assholes
Jen: And not just because they eat rafts with tourists and shit on crocodiles
Jen: its because they’re fucking gluttonous jerks
Jen: ever see a hippo mom share her food?
Jen: a sweet tender moment like you see with mama birds regurgitating food for their little’uns?
Jen: awwwww
Jen: birds
Jen: cute
Jen: hippo moms are like F U ur fat enuff hur hur my fucking grassss
Kristy: lol
Jen: go chase a cheetah fatty
Kristy: where are you getting this?
Jen: my brain?
Jen: lol
Kristy: so you’re saying that hippos and elephants are pissed but for different reasons?
Kristy: and they respond differently a
Kristy: and we should blame it on the giraffes?
Jen: well, the giraffes are just nosey little fuckers
Jen: i mean, HOW do you think I know this?
Jen: giraffes, they hang out in dark alleys and sell secrets to people
Kristy: LOL
Kristy: omg!
Kristy: i really loled that one LOUD
Jen: you see dumbo over there? yea, well i heard papa dumbo isn’t his daddy
Kristy: echoed through the ENTIRE office
Jen: lol
Kristy: oh man, that was good
Kristy: sell secrets
Kristy: can you actual visualize a giraffe in a dark alley?
Kristy: that really got me
Jen: you CAN’T?!?!
Jen: they’ll do anything for a buck
Jen: sometimes they wear trenchcoats and sell watches
Jen: but they can’t hide very well
Jen: not only because they’re necks are unnecessarily HUGE (used for that noseyness)
Jen: but because they’re bright flippin yellow
Jen: i mean, MY EYES GIRAFFE
Jen: THINK OF MY EYES
Jen: THINK OF MY CHILDREN’S EYES
Jen: don’t you stalk around in the dark alley like you think you’re hiding
Jen: we see you giraffe
Kristy: we see you
I want to apologize for the above madness, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. It’s just too darn funny.
