I saw that Jennifer Nielsen, author of The Ascendance Trilogy, is giving a lecture this week at Salt Lake Comic Con about world building. She is someone I'd love to hear talk on that subject, so if anyone happens to read this blog who is able to attend, please do comment and share her wisdom with us!
Thinking along the lines of world building, it occurs to me how games are used in books and movies to create a more complete world. First and foremost, what would Harry Potter be without Quidditch? The war games in Ender's Game? That addicting game in Star Trek (yes, I am a nerd)? Brandon Sanderson's recent novel, THE RITHMATIST. And of course, THE HUNGER GAMES. Obviously.
So, the prompt for this week: Let the games begin!
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My response:
Emma climbed up onto the dias and sized up her opponent as he stepped up across from her. The national sized dias was large enough that even her keen eyesight couldn't make out his features, at first. Her feet passed the first of the concentric circles marking the lines of the playing field. This one, the outer circle and widest, was supposed to be the outer limit of where projectiles from the game might come. Presumably, spectators standing outside the circle were safe. Emma smiled. They were supposed to be safe, but the closest spectators were another thirty feet behind her.
Fifty feet further, Emma stopped at a thin, black line. On the outside of the line, lined up in neat rows, shields of varying sizes and shapes lay on the ground. Emma looked up. Her opponent was closer, too. He was taller than her, but only just, though he easily had forty pounds on her. If they got in a shoving match, her smaller mass could work against her. Emma reached out a tendril of invisible energy from the pulsing core in her body and plucked three rounded shields from the ground. Across the way, her opponent picked up two large, rectangular shields.
Emma blinked as a gust of wind drove sand against her cheek. Why they'd had to come to such a remote planet for the Intergalactic Finals was beyond her. She couldn't wait to carry her trophy back home. Emma set her jaw and stepped forward, over the last circle.
It was one hundred feet across. In the center, five balls, each just larger than her head, sat in a pyramid on the ground. Each contained thousands of tiny, metal balls. Emma's physical body lacked the strength to pick up even one of the large balls, but with her magic ... she could juggle all five in her sleep.
Emma stepped up to the balls. Her opponent stood across from her. She felt a jolt of surprise as she looked up into his eyes. She'd expected to see the same hatred and arrogance she'd been fighting all her life. Instead, she met a sea of sunshine and laughter. His smile beamed from his eyes as much as his mouth.
"Emma of Arain. I'm honored to play against you today. I've heard stories of you these past five years." He reached a hand out, and Emma placed her hand in his. It was nothing like the tight, cursory hand clasping she was used to. He cupped her one hand in both of his, as if cradling a small animal, and bowed slightly. "I am Aarek of Kris."
Emma shivered despite the heat of the desert sun. He was trying to mess with her mind, that was clear. Emma nodded quickly and pulled her hand back. The audience might seem far away, but the hovering camera drones (cheap and disposable, of course) would take in every detail of their meeting and the game. Emma wasn't about to let her discomfort show.
A great crack split the air, and both Emma and Aarek dropped into practiced crouching positions. Let the games begin.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Monday, January 19, 2015
The Forbidden
I recently came across a quote from Mark Twain, and as it sunk into my brain, melting into the crevices and dissolving with the slow, agonizing sweetness of caramel, I knew I needed to use it as a quote. There are SO many directions you can take with this, though of course my first thought, seeing as it comes from Mark Twain, is to apply it to a barefooted boy with shaggy hair and a pair of tattered overalls. I'm going to put Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn on my list of books I need to reread sometime soon. :-)
The prompt is: There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable. (Mark Twain's Notebook)
*******************************************************************************
My response:
Rain pelted down out of the sunny sky on the day I was born. My mama called it Devil's rain, and she said I carried the luck of it with me from my very first moments. The midwife had fallen asleep in the rocking chair in the corner while my Auntie, who was quite experienced, having been there for all ten of my Mama's previous babies, saw me into the world. At my first cries, the midwife started from the chair, but before she reached the bedside, she was seized with a heart attack and died, right there on the floor.
This was not even the worst of the stories I could tell you about my early years. At the beginning however the misfortune I pulled behind me took care to limit itself to the odd acquaintance or two. Not until my tenth birthday did it cut so close as to draw tears from my eyes.
It was raining again, that day. Mama liked to keep to her room when the monsoons came through. The thunder and lightning brought on a headache and tremors. She'd had a present the day before, though, from my father. It was perfume in a small, crystal vial. The sunlight, when it was present, reflected through the bottle and drew a collage of rainbows on the far wall. I'd picked it up to investigate the magic in it, but Mama's hand come down quickly, gripping my wrist and forbidding me from touching the tiny miracle.
Of course, that only made me more determined to get my hands on it.
I sat through the morning, sitting on a small, embroidered stool by her bed and reading to her aloud from a book - I don't recall the name of it, for my mind was over on the dressing table, with the crystal vial, only my eyes and my lips preformed their duties whilst my mind was wandering. I waited, the picture of patience on the outside, while roiling in heavy seas on the inside, until Mama's eyes slipped closed.
Of course, finding myself unattended in her room, I could not contain my curiosity one minute more. My slippered feet crossed the carpets and my fingertips closed around the vial. I held it up to what little light there was, turning it this way and that in the air above my head. For a full three minutes I reveled in joy. Then the vial slipped from my fingers.
The carpets were plush, and had it landed there, all would have been saved. Instead, it smacked into the brass knob of the dressing table as it plummeted towards the ground, shattering in midair and spraying the contents all over the carpet and my dress. Now the plushness of the carpet worked against me, for I could not simply mop it up. And the stench. What was nice in small amounts reeked to high heaven as a full dose.
Mama stirred, woke up, and soon called for her maid. The headache from the storm grew worse with the overpowering reek of perfume, and Mama's maid soon ushered her out onto the covered terrace to wait out the worst of it while the kitchen maid went after the stained carpet with a bucket and washrag.
I knelt on the floor, feeling foolish and quite the child. Mama wasn't one to scold, but with my tender nature, a scolding was hardly needed. I'd broken the vial, and I tortured myself over it. To this day, I hate to think of those horrible moments. With the sickening scent of perfume in the air, and Mama on the terrace, seated in the corner furthest from her room, misfortune struck again in the form of lightning.
Damage to the house was minimal. It struck the tall chimney and traveled to the new gutters fastened to the roof of the covered terrace. Mama's maid had come back in to help with the mess, and I, as I have said, had stayed inside of my own volition. The horrible crack shook the house and threw us all to the floor.
That was when I first realized the seriousness of my condition and vowed to find a cure.
The prompt is: There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable. (Mark Twain's Notebook)
*******************************************************************************
My response:
Rain pelted down out of the sunny sky on the day I was born. My mama called it Devil's rain, and she said I carried the luck of it with me from my very first moments. The midwife had fallen asleep in the rocking chair in the corner while my Auntie, who was quite experienced, having been there for all ten of my Mama's previous babies, saw me into the world. At my first cries, the midwife started from the chair, but before she reached the bedside, she was seized with a heart attack and died, right there on the floor.
This was not even the worst of the stories I could tell you about my early years. At the beginning however the misfortune I pulled behind me took care to limit itself to the odd acquaintance or two. Not until my tenth birthday did it cut so close as to draw tears from my eyes.
It was raining again, that day. Mama liked to keep to her room when the monsoons came through. The thunder and lightning brought on a headache and tremors. She'd had a present the day before, though, from my father. It was perfume in a small, crystal vial. The sunlight, when it was present, reflected through the bottle and drew a collage of rainbows on the far wall. I'd picked it up to investigate the magic in it, but Mama's hand come down quickly, gripping my wrist and forbidding me from touching the tiny miracle.
Of course, that only made me more determined to get my hands on it.
I sat through the morning, sitting on a small, embroidered stool by her bed and reading to her aloud from a book - I don't recall the name of it, for my mind was over on the dressing table, with the crystal vial, only my eyes and my lips preformed their duties whilst my mind was wandering. I waited, the picture of patience on the outside, while roiling in heavy seas on the inside, until Mama's eyes slipped closed.
Of course, finding myself unattended in her room, I could not contain my curiosity one minute more. My slippered feet crossed the carpets and my fingertips closed around the vial. I held it up to what little light there was, turning it this way and that in the air above my head. For a full three minutes I reveled in joy. Then the vial slipped from my fingers.
The carpets were plush, and had it landed there, all would have been saved. Instead, it smacked into the brass knob of the dressing table as it plummeted towards the ground, shattering in midair and spraying the contents all over the carpet and my dress. Now the plushness of the carpet worked against me, for I could not simply mop it up. And the stench. What was nice in small amounts reeked to high heaven as a full dose.
Mama stirred, woke up, and soon called for her maid. The headache from the storm grew worse with the overpowering reek of perfume, and Mama's maid soon ushered her out onto the covered terrace to wait out the worst of it while the kitchen maid went after the stained carpet with a bucket and washrag.
I knelt on the floor, feeling foolish and quite the child. Mama wasn't one to scold, but with my tender nature, a scolding was hardly needed. I'd broken the vial, and I tortured myself over it. To this day, I hate to think of those horrible moments. With the sickening scent of perfume in the air, and Mama on the terrace, seated in the corner furthest from her room, misfortune struck again in the form of lightning.
Damage to the house was minimal. It struck the tall chimney and traveled to the new gutters fastened to the roof of the covered terrace. Mama's maid had come back in to help with the mess, and I, as I have said, had stayed inside of my own volition. The horrible crack shook the house and threw us all to the floor.
That was when I first realized the seriousness of my condition and vowed to find a cure.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Tension
Ok, so it's Wednesday morning and I just realized I forgot to post on Monday. I have been so wrapped up in my latest project, and every moment I get to write, I'm diving back into that world with those characters. Writing a blog post fell completely off my radar.
Here's the thing: In the first novel I finished, I got to one of the climactic moments, and writing became ... intense. The emotions, the action, the reactions of each of the characters, the roiling emotions of my main character, and the continuing action ... it was thick. I would sit down at the computer for an hour and barely squeeze out 200 or so words (coming from someone who can lay down 1,500 in a good hour, when things are moving well). I knew what I wanted to write and where I wanted it to go, but the progress was so agonizingly slow! I would read the last few paragraphs I'd written, to remind myself where I was, then spend time tweaking them to make them just right (I know they say you shouldn't do that with a first draft, but sorry, it's just the way I write) then write another 200-400 words and find myself drained. (Do you know what I mean? Creatively drained?)
Here's the good part: back then my critique group was working on a chapter by chapter basis, and when I turned that chapter over to them, they loved it! I was so worried the struggle I'd fought to write it would come out in the writing, that it would be awkward or confusing. Nope. They loved it. And reading through it again and again, while revising, I can honestly say I think some of my best writing is in that chapter.
I can only hope I will be able to look back and say the same for the chapter I've been working on this last week. It has kidnapping, betrayal, a (hopefully) thrilling chase, and even a pack of wild dogs. I get SO excited about it!
In honor of my manuscript, the prompt this week is: When you can't flee, you fight.
Enjoy!
*******************************************************************************
My response:
(First, a confession - I came very close to just posting part of this last chapter I've been working on and calling it good, but in the spirit of this blog, I won't do that. I'll write something else.)
My feet pounded the wet pavement of the alleyway, and I cursed the rain. Even if they couldn't see me in the shadows, they would hear the splashing and know I was there. I dared a glance over my shoulder, but it only confirmed what I already knew: I hadn't lost them yet. The only thing I'd managed to do was get myself lost. They knew just where they were, though. I heard Kirk's high laugh behind me before I turned the corner and saw the brick building. Who had even designed this place? Who let someone build right up to the edges of their lot, blocking off the way completely?
I cursed and spun around. Nothing but a few trash bags and flattened cardboard boxes sitting outside a steel door that had a padlock hanging from it, not even windows. I heard footsteps turn the corner behind me, and my stomach tightened into a rock. I turned, my fists coming up automatically as my knees bent. Seeing Kirk and his three cronies made me want to step back, but I knew that was a bad idea. The alley was tight enough without putting my back to the wall.
"You think you're some kind of hero, going off to college, do you?" Kirk drawled. "You too good for us, now?"
I shook my head. "You know that's not it, Kirk." I wondered for just a moment what my chances of talking my way out were, but I settled on zero. If Kirk had really wanted to talk, we could have done that outside the theater. At least I'd gotten Becca to safety before it came to this.
Kirk charged. He'd never had much finesse. He didn't even take a swing, trying instead to ram his shoulder into my stomach. He wanted me down. I sidestepped and took an easy shot to his kidney as he went past.
He stood up and spun around, eyes wide. That was the first time in our lives that move hadn't worked. "Punk!" This time, he came swinging, but sidestepping wasn't the only thing I'd learned while I was away. I blocked with my left arm and brought my right fist up into his jaw. I felt the impact of his bones slamming together, and my heart faltered. My arm, however, carried through, driven by muscle memory and hours of repetition.
Kirk's whole body rose up with the impact, and then he was flat out on the asphalt in front of me. His eyes were closed, and he didn't make a noise. I looked over him at the boys who'd been his shadows. They looked at Kirk's still body, then at each other, and turned, running off into the shadows.
"Brilliant." I cursed my conscience. Kirk spent three days tailing me, and when I finally laid him out flat, I couldn't even just walk away. Maybe it would be different if we hadn't grown up together, but if I leave him and something happens, I would never be able to look his mom in the eye again.
I reached down, slipping my arm under his shoulders and pulling him up. I smacked his face with my free arm, and he moaned.
"Come on, Kirk, come on. Let's get you home."
Here's the thing: In the first novel I finished, I got to one of the climactic moments, and writing became ... intense. The emotions, the action, the reactions of each of the characters, the roiling emotions of my main character, and the continuing action ... it was thick. I would sit down at the computer for an hour and barely squeeze out 200 or so words (coming from someone who can lay down 1,500 in a good hour, when things are moving well). I knew what I wanted to write and where I wanted it to go, but the progress was so agonizingly slow! I would read the last few paragraphs I'd written, to remind myself where I was, then spend time tweaking them to make them just right (I know they say you shouldn't do that with a first draft, but sorry, it's just the way I write) then write another 200-400 words and find myself drained. (Do you know what I mean? Creatively drained?)
Here's the good part: back then my critique group was working on a chapter by chapter basis, and when I turned that chapter over to them, they loved it! I was so worried the struggle I'd fought to write it would come out in the writing, that it would be awkward or confusing. Nope. They loved it. And reading through it again and again, while revising, I can honestly say I think some of my best writing is in that chapter.
I can only hope I will be able to look back and say the same for the chapter I've been working on this last week. It has kidnapping, betrayal, a (hopefully) thrilling chase, and even a pack of wild dogs. I get SO excited about it!
In honor of my manuscript, the prompt this week is: When you can't flee, you fight.
Enjoy!
*******************************************************************************
My response:
(First, a confession - I came very close to just posting part of this last chapter I've been working on and calling it good, but in the spirit of this blog, I won't do that. I'll write something else.)
My feet pounded the wet pavement of the alleyway, and I cursed the rain. Even if they couldn't see me in the shadows, they would hear the splashing and know I was there. I dared a glance over my shoulder, but it only confirmed what I already knew: I hadn't lost them yet. The only thing I'd managed to do was get myself lost. They knew just where they were, though. I heard Kirk's high laugh behind me before I turned the corner and saw the brick building. Who had even designed this place? Who let someone build right up to the edges of their lot, blocking off the way completely?
I cursed and spun around. Nothing but a few trash bags and flattened cardboard boxes sitting outside a steel door that had a padlock hanging from it, not even windows. I heard footsteps turn the corner behind me, and my stomach tightened into a rock. I turned, my fists coming up automatically as my knees bent. Seeing Kirk and his three cronies made me want to step back, but I knew that was a bad idea. The alley was tight enough without putting my back to the wall.
"You think you're some kind of hero, going off to college, do you?" Kirk drawled. "You too good for us, now?"
I shook my head. "You know that's not it, Kirk." I wondered for just a moment what my chances of talking my way out were, but I settled on zero. If Kirk had really wanted to talk, we could have done that outside the theater. At least I'd gotten Becca to safety before it came to this.
Kirk charged. He'd never had much finesse. He didn't even take a swing, trying instead to ram his shoulder into my stomach. He wanted me down. I sidestepped and took an easy shot to his kidney as he went past.
He stood up and spun around, eyes wide. That was the first time in our lives that move hadn't worked. "Punk!" This time, he came swinging, but sidestepping wasn't the only thing I'd learned while I was away. I blocked with my left arm and brought my right fist up into his jaw. I felt the impact of his bones slamming together, and my heart faltered. My arm, however, carried through, driven by muscle memory and hours of repetition.
Kirk's whole body rose up with the impact, and then he was flat out on the asphalt in front of me. His eyes were closed, and he didn't make a noise. I looked over him at the boys who'd been his shadows. They looked at Kirk's still body, then at each other, and turned, running off into the shadows.
"Brilliant." I cursed my conscience. Kirk spent three days tailing me, and when I finally laid him out flat, I couldn't even just walk away. Maybe it would be different if we hadn't grown up together, but if I leave him and something happens, I would never be able to look his mom in the eye again.
I reached down, slipping my arm under his shoulders and pulling him up. I smacked his face with my free arm, and he moaned.
"Come on, Kirk, come on. Let's get you home."
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