I feel silly for missing the most obvious prompt for this month ... but it's not over yet, so I didn't entirely miss out! Whether you celebrated Valentine's Day or Single's Awareness Day this month, I think you can appreciate how hard it is to write a kissing scene.
(It's almost as awkward as the time I got back from studying at Stanford Hopkins Marine Station, and my grandpa asked me what I'd studied, then turned all shades of red when I told him about mixing sperm and eggs and watching embryo development ... Hint: Don't say "sperm" or "egg" to your grandfather!)
And yet ... I think we all know the thrills of reading a well-written first kiss. Think of PRINCESS ACADEMY: PALACE OF STONE by Shannon Hale. She does it masterfully. Think of when Harry Potter and Ginny first kiss. And no, I'm not going Harlequin romance - I'm thinking MG/YA here!
So, without any further ado, the prompt for this week: First Kiss!!!
Enjoy!
********************************************************************************
My response:
President Kennon stood, his secretary and guard following him out the door. Lyndi gave Emmaleen a smile and left after them. Soon only Aarek was left in the conference room. His chair leaned back against the wall, and his legs stretched out in front of him. His hands dangled from the armrests.
Emmaleen shifted in her chair. Everyone else was so pleased with the information she'd brought back. Only Aarek sat with his head down, frowning. Emmaleen opened her mouth, then closed it again. The silence between them was thick, like the atmosphere of a gas giant, and just as smothering.
Suddenly, Aarek leaned forward, flinging his body out of his chair. He turned and strode towards the door without even meeting Emmaleen's gaze.
"Wait! Aarek ..." Much to her surprise, he stopped. Emmaleen slipped out of her chair and rounded the table to stand in front of him. "You don't seem very happy. I mean ... this could mean the end of the war ... that peace is just a few weeks away, if that. But you ..."
Aarek lifted his gaze to hers, his gray eyes flashing, "You could have been killed."
Emmaleen blinked. "What?"
"Don't give me that!" Aarek shook his head. "You know very well the risks you took, the situation you were in. You're lucky to have made it out alive!"
Silence settled again, marred only by the sound of Aarek's labored breathing, as if he'd just finished a race.
Emmaleen pushed her shoulders back, lifted her chin. "And you wouldn't care if I had. What do you care if a traitor dies ..."
Aarek moved like lightning. His hands reaching out, cupping Emmaleen's face. He pressed his lips to hers and held them there, trembling. Then he let go.
Emmaleen hadn't moved - hadn't twitched a single muscle. She stared at Aarek with wide eyes and realized she was holding her breath.
Aarek's eyes never left hers. "I would care, Emmaleen. Believe me, I would care."
He turned, and the doors swept open in front of him. Just like that, he was gone, and Emmaleen learned to breathe again.
**** I haven't written much about my work in progress on this blog, but I couldn't resist this time. I'm only on chapter four of this book, and this scene may or may not make an appearance later on in my manuscript, but I'm getting so excited about where it is going that I just couldn't resist!****
Monday, February 24, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
Dinnertime!
I attended a writing conference last year and got to participate in a session put on by Miriam Forster, author of CITY OF A THOUSAND DOLLS and coming this fall, EMPIRE OF SHADOWS. She writes fantasy, and her workshop was on world building.
I'm going to steal something she talked about in her workshop, and that is: World building is important no matter what kind of novel you're writing. Sure, everyone looks at fantasy writers when you mention world building because they are creating their whole world in their novel, but world building is just as important for non-fantasy. If you're writing historical fiction, for instance, you need to keep your details true to the time period. Your character can't go jump on a bike if bikes hadn't been invented, yet. Even contemporary novels will feel more real with good world building. A character in London, England is going to have a very different setting than one in Guatemala.
Miriam talked about two different kinds of world building. There is World Building - where you decide on/create the setting - and world building - the little details that cement your character in the world you've created. What are they walking on? Dirt paths? Pavement? A yellow brick road? What kind of house do they live in? An apartment? A mansion? A hobbit hole? What are they wearing? Eating? All of these little details build the world around your character and help your reader to visualize it.
So, the prompt this week is: Dinnertime! What is your character eating?
***************************************************************************
My response:
My hammock swayed gently in the breeze, and now that the sun had dipped down below the mountains, the oppressive heat had lifted. I was finally starting to think I might actually enjoy camping. Then Mom called me back to reality. It was dinnertime.
I dropped my tablet back into the hammock, vaguely wondering how long the battery would last and hoping it would be long enough to finish my new book. A few trees away, my mom had set up the card table. A wrought iron grill straddled half of a fire in a pit surrounded by stones. I still didn't understand why people would choose to leave their homes and head up into the hills to sleep on the ground and cook our dinners over fire. Wasn't that disrespectful to the men who invented central air conditioning and glass top stoves?
"Here Jenna! Enjoy!" Mom handed me an aluminum plate with a lump of tin foil on it. "Take the hot pad, too, it's been in the fire."
I hated to admit I had almost tried to take the plate without it, but as I sat down, I could feel the heat radiating through the thick pad. Mom had all the cooking stuff set up on the table, so I sat in one of the chairs set up around the fire. Dad and Brax were already there. Brax had covered his mystery meal in ketchup, and Dad's was covered in barbecue sauce. I used my fork to peel back the tin foil. The first thing I spotted was cauliflower. That wasn't very promising. It looked like my mom had taken a bag of frozen, chopped vegetables, slapped a hamburger patty on top, and left it at that. I poked the meat, and a small rivulet of red juice slipped out, pooling at the bottom of the veggies. Great. Even if they had been edible before, they definitely weren't now.
I looked up. Brax was shoveling the food into his mouth. From the looks of his hiking boots, which had been brand new this morning, he'd really worked up an appetite. I sighed and set my plate across my knees. Lounging in a hammock didn't take a lot of effort, but I was still hungry. Not hungry enough, though, to settle for this mess. I picked at a few of the vegetables, then stood up. Quickly, so neither of my parents could see what was left on my plate, I swept it into the garbage sack Mom had tied to the table. I headed towards the car, and the stash of food in the trunk.
"Mom, didn't you say you brought stuff for S'mores?"
I'm going to steal something she talked about in her workshop, and that is: World building is important no matter what kind of novel you're writing. Sure, everyone looks at fantasy writers when you mention world building because they are creating their whole world in their novel, but world building is just as important for non-fantasy. If you're writing historical fiction, for instance, you need to keep your details true to the time period. Your character can't go jump on a bike if bikes hadn't been invented, yet. Even contemporary novels will feel more real with good world building. A character in London, England is going to have a very different setting than one in Guatemala.
Miriam talked about two different kinds of world building. There is World Building - where you decide on/create the setting - and world building - the little details that cement your character in the world you've created. What are they walking on? Dirt paths? Pavement? A yellow brick road? What kind of house do they live in? An apartment? A mansion? A hobbit hole? What are they wearing? Eating? All of these little details build the world around your character and help your reader to visualize it.
So, the prompt this week is: Dinnertime! What is your character eating?
***************************************************************************
My response:
My hammock swayed gently in the breeze, and now that the sun had dipped down below the mountains, the oppressive heat had lifted. I was finally starting to think I might actually enjoy camping. Then Mom called me back to reality. It was dinnertime.
I dropped my tablet back into the hammock, vaguely wondering how long the battery would last and hoping it would be long enough to finish my new book. A few trees away, my mom had set up the card table. A wrought iron grill straddled half of a fire in a pit surrounded by stones. I still didn't understand why people would choose to leave their homes and head up into the hills to sleep on the ground and cook our dinners over fire. Wasn't that disrespectful to the men who invented central air conditioning and glass top stoves?
"Here Jenna! Enjoy!" Mom handed me an aluminum plate with a lump of tin foil on it. "Take the hot pad, too, it's been in the fire."
I hated to admit I had almost tried to take the plate without it, but as I sat down, I could feel the heat radiating through the thick pad. Mom had all the cooking stuff set up on the table, so I sat in one of the chairs set up around the fire. Dad and Brax were already there. Brax had covered his mystery meal in ketchup, and Dad's was covered in barbecue sauce. I used my fork to peel back the tin foil. The first thing I spotted was cauliflower. That wasn't very promising. It looked like my mom had taken a bag of frozen, chopped vegetables, slapped a hamburger patty on top, and left it at that. I poked the meat, and a small rivulet of red juice slipped out, pooling at the bottom of the veggies. Great. Even if they had been edible before, they definitely weren't now.
I looked up. Brax was shoveling the food into his mouth. From the looks of his hiking boots, which had been brand new this morning, he'd really worked up an appetite. I sighed and set my plate across my knees. Lounging in a hammock didn't take a lot of effort, but I was still hungry. Not hungry enough, though, to settle for this mess. I picked at a few of the vegetables, then stood up. Quickly, so neither of my parents could see what was left on my plate, I swept it into the garbage sack Mom had tied to the table. I headed towards the car, and the stash of food in the trunk.
"Mom, didn't you say you brought stuff for S'mores?"
Monday, February 10, 2014
Redemption
I just finished reading THE KITE RUNNER by Khaled Hosseini. I know, I'm way behind the curve on this one, but I don't read a lot of contemporary. I might have never picked it up if I hadn't found it it a pile of books my friend loaned me.
Let me say right off that, if you're considering reading it, it does contain some graphic scenes, due to sexual abuse, so be warned.
Being completely honest, I put the book down and asked myself, "Why did I read that depressing bit of fiction, anyway?! What was the point?!" Lucky for me, I was born with an analytical mind and it immediately started mulling over the book. You know what I found?
Redemption.
Redemption is the reason I LOVE Les Mis. I could write a whole series of essays about the theme of redemption in that book. I get so aggravated when someone calls Javer the "bad guy" of the story, because they obviously don't understand his character. But the underlying theme of redemption just lights up my life.
And that's what I found in THE KITE RUNNER. Here is the story of a child who makes a mistake (a perfectly understandable mistake, considering his age, temperament, and circumstances), but who is given, in the end, a shot at redemption. It's actually quite beautiful.
So, the prompt for this week is: Redemption
(Disclaimer - I realize that writing a good piece of fiction with the theme of redemption is probably worth of a whole lifetime of effort, and asking for a short piece written in fifteen minutes is a lot. Don't worry. Just let your imagination go and work out which direction you would take it in.)
*****************************************************************************
My response:
My sneaker tapped lightly against the white tiles of the floor, and the sound echoed through the hallway. The Health and Welfare building was simple and spare in decorations, other than the bulletin board in front of the door that was plastered in fliers.
I sat next to a woman who smelled sweet, like the addiction I had worked so hard for so long to kick. I hated the cravings the smell awoke in me, and I wondered how long I would have to sit here. She and I were the only people in the hallway, and we sat on opposite ends of the wooden bench. I snuck furtive glances at her, wondering if I looked like she did. Ratty, blond hair that hung to her shoulders and looked like it hadn't been combed in days. Sunken, dark eyes and sallow, papery skin. Her lips were pressed tightly in a line, and she coughed every few minutes so hard it made my own chest hurt. Her fingers trembled, and I knew she was itching for a smoke. We both wore jeans and sneakers with t-shirts, but I had a thin, fleece jacket on. I'd brushed my hair into a pony tail that morning and put on a bit of make-up. My hands didn't tremble on the strap of my purse in my lap, and my lungs were clear.
Her presence made me uncomfortable. No matter how much I told myself I'd changed, I was always one choice away from falling back down. I pulled a piece of gum from my purse - remembering my manners and offering one to the other woman, which she declined with a sharp shake of her head - and put it into my mouth, savoring the clean, fresh bite of peppermint.
A social worker stuck her head out the door and called the woman's name. She disappeared. My leg stopped tapping. I took a deep breath.
Another social worker opened the door. A young man with short, black hair and a baby face dressed in khakis and a polo. My heart sunk. I was hoping for a woman. They were always a bit more sympathetic.
He led me to a small cubical, and I shuddered to think who might listen in to our conversation. He didn't give me time to worry about it, but launched right into his interview.
"Mrs. Mallory, I received your petition for custody yesterday, and I have to say I was surprised. I've been working with these children for the past five years, and I've never seen hide nor hair of their grandma. How do you explain that?" He sat back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest.
The blood pounded behind my eyes, and I swallowed hard. "I didn't know they existed, Sir, until a week ago."
His look was disbelieving, but he didn't stop me or move to throw me out, so I went on. "You see, I was only fifteen when I had Cambell, and I wasn't a very good mother. I ... I ... " I could hear the voice of my therapist in my mind telling me to tell it simply, accept the facts, state them clearly, and let them stand. It was my past, and there was no skirting the truth. "I left her. I left her with my uncle 'cause my parents didn't have money to take care of her, and I ... well ... I wasn't in a place where I could take care of her myself."
He gave me a slow, appraising nod. "I've read your own record - of course not your JV, that's closed, but it's significant that you have one - and you had a number of arrests for possession after you turned eighteen, but our records of you end about ten years ago. You must have left town when you were twenty-two or thereabouts. Where have you been?"
"I lived in LA for a few years. I thought someone would discover me, someday, like every other stupid girl in that city, but it never happened. Then one morning I woke up in the alleyway next to a church. I had no money, barely enough clothes to cover my body, no drugs, and no friends to help me." I offered a small smile, hoping he would understand. "That was my rock bottom. And I've spent the past seven years climbing out of that dark hole. I went into the church and found Father Matthais. He helped get me into a women's shelter. He got me a job in a warehouse. He encouraged me to take classes at the community college, and I worked real hard to graduate. I got a bachelor's in accounting, and then my masters. It took me longer, because I had to work at the same time, but I did it, and I've got a good job that I've had for the last six months. I provided my transcript, a copy of the acceptance letter, and Father Matthais's contact information with the petition yesterday ... did you get them?"
He pressed his lips together. "I did. I took the liberty of calling Father Matthais and also the college. Honestly, if you were one of my cases, I would consider you a success. But you weren't my case, Cambell was, and now her three kids are. You've been honest with me, so I'll be honest with you. I don't like it. I have those kids placed with a solid foster family who is considering taking all three of them. Do you really have any idea what it would be like to take on three small kids? Six, three, and eight months? Are you up for something like that? Last time you had a baby in your arms, you left her and took off. That was seventeen years ago. It took you seventeen years to wonder what happened to your baby and come back. How can I be sure you won't do the same to these three kids?"
I opened my mouth to object, but no words came out. Seventeen years. He was right about that. It had taken me seventeen years to come back, and I only came back now because my sister had tracked me down because she thought she owed it to me to tell me my daughter was dead.
I closed my mouth again to stop my jaw from trembling, stifled a sob, and lifted my eyes to his. "I am their grandmother. For their mother's sake, for the sake of everything I should have done for her, I have a duty to my grand kids. And I will fill it."
He wasn't the only one surprised at the determination in my voice. I hadn't thought I had it in me. Apparently I was wrong.
Slowly, he nodded. "Well, we'll file this petition with the court, and you'll have a hearing with the judge, and we'll go from there."
I heard the words, but the meaning took a minute to sink in. "You mean, I'm going to get them?"
He shook his head again, but his smile betrayed him, "If they have a grandmother who loves them, the judge will most likely grant custody. Yes. You're on your way to getting your grand kids. Would you like to go meet them?"
I couldn't answer through my tears, but I didn't need to.
Let me say right off that, if you're considering reading it, it does contain some graphic scenes, due to sexual abuse, so be warned.
Being completely honest, I put the book down and asked myself, "Why did I read that depressing bit of fiction, anyway?! What was the point?!" Lucky for me, I was born with an analytical mind and it immediately started mulling over the book. You know what I found?
Redemption.
Redemption is the reason I LOVE Les Mis. I could write a whole series of essays about the theme of redemption in that book. I get so aggravated when someone calls Javer the "bad guy" of the story, because they obviously don't understand his character. But the underlying theme of redemption just lights up my life.
And that's what I found in THE KITE RUNNER. Here is the story of a child who makes a mistake (a perfectly understandable mistake, considering his age, temperament, and circumstances), but who is given, in the end, a shot at redemption. It's actually quite beautiful.
So, the prompt for this week is: Redemption
(Disclaimer - I realize that writing a good piece of fiction with the theme of redemption is probably worth of a whole lifetime of effort, and asking for a short piece written in fifteen minutes is a lot. Don't worry. Just let your imagination go and work out which direction you would take it in.)
*****************************************************************************
My response:
My sneaker tapped lightly against the white tiles of the floor, and the sound echoed through the hallway. The Health and Welfare building was simple and spare in decorations, other than the bulletin board in front of the door that was plastered in fliers.
I sat next to a woman who smelled sweet, like the addiction I had worked so hard for so long to kick. I hated the cravings the smell awoke in me, and I wondered how long I would have to sit here. She and I were the only people in the hallway, and we sat on opposite ends of the wooden bench. I snuck furtive glances at her, wondering if I looked like she did. Ratty, blond hair that hung to her shoulders and looked like it hadn't been combed in days. Sunken, dark eyes and sallow, papery skin. Her lips were pressed tightly in a line, and she coughed every few minutes so hard it made my own chest hurt. Her fingers trembled, and I knew she was itching for a smoke. We both wore jeans and sneakers with t-shirts, but I had a thin, fleece jacket on. I'd brushed my hair into a pony tail that morning and put on a bit of make-up. My hands didn't tremble on the strap of my purse in my lap, and my lungs were clear.
Her presence made me uncomfortable. No matter how much I told myself I'd changed, I was always one choice away from falling back down. I pulled a piece of gum from my purse - remembering my manners and offering one to the other woman, which she declined with a sharp shake of her head - and put it into my mouth, savoring the clean, fresh bite of peppermint.
A social worker stuck her head out the door and called the woman's name. She disappeared. My leg stopped tapping. I took a deep breath.
Another social worker opened the door. A young man with short, black hair and a baby face dressed in khakis and a polo. My heart sunk. I was hoping for a woman. They were always a bit more sympathetic.
He led me to a small cubical, and I shuddered to think who might listen in to our conversation. He didn't give me time to worry about it, but launched right into his interview.
"Mrs. Mallory, I received your petition for custody yesterday, and I have to say I was surprised. I've been working with these children for the past five years, and I've never seen hide nor hair of their grandma. How do you explain that?" He sat back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest.
The blood pounded behind my eyes, and I swallowed hard. "I didn't know they existed, Sir, until a week ago."
His look was disbelieving, but he didn't stop me or move to throw me out, so I went on. "You see, I was only fifteen when I had Cambell, and I wasn't a very good mother. I ... I ... " I could hear the voice of my therapist in my mind telling me to tell it simply, accept the facts, state them clearly, and let them stand. It was my past, and there was no skirting the truth. "I left her. I left her with my uncle 'cause my parents didn't have money to take care of her, and I ... well ... I wasn't in a place where I could take care of her myself."
He gave me a slow, appraising nod. "I've read your own record - of course not your JV, that's closed, but it's significant that you have one - and you had a number of arrests for possession after you turned eighteen, but our records of you end about ten years ago. You must have left town when you were twenty-two or thereabouts. Where have you been?"
"I lived in LA for a few years. I thought someone would discover me, someday, like every other stupid girl in that city, but it never happened. Then one morning I woke up in the alleyway next to a church. I had no money, barely enough clothes to cover my body, no drugs, and no friends to help me." I offered a small smile, hoping he would understand. "That was my rock bottom. And I've spent the past seven years climbing out of that dark hole. I went into the church and found Father Matthais. He helped get me into a women's shelter. He got me a job in a warehouse. He encouraged me to take classes at the community college, and I worked real hard to graduate. I got a bachelor's in accounting, and then my masters. It took me longer, because I had to work at the same time, but I did it, and I've got a good job that I've had for the last six months. I provided my transcript, a copy of the acceptance letter, and Father Matthais's contact information with the petition yesterday ... did you get them?"
He pressed his lips together. "I did. I took the liberty of calling Father Matthais and also the college. Honestly, if you were one of my cases, I would consider you a success. But you weren't my case, Cambell was, and now her three kids are. You've been honest with me, so I'll be honest with you. I don't like it. I have those kids placed with a solid foster family who is considering taking all three of them. Do you really have any idea what it would be like to take on three small kids? Six, three, and eight months? Are you up for something like that? Last time you had a baby in your arms, you left her and took off. That was seventeen years ago. It took you seventeen years to wonder what happened to your baby and come back. How can I be sure you won't do the same to these three kids?"
I opened my mouth to object, but no words came out. Seventeen years. He was right about that. It had taken me seventeen years to come back, and I only came back now because my sister had tracked me down because she thought she owed it to me to tell me my daughter was dead.
I closed my mouth again to stop my jaw from trembling, stifled a sob, and lifted my eyes to his. "I am their grandmother. For their mother's sake, for the sake of everything I should have done for her, I have a duty to my grand kids. And I will fill it."
He wasn't the only one surprised at the determination in my voice. I hadn't thought I had it in me. Apparently I was wrong.
Slowly, he nodded. "Well, we'll file this petition with the court, and you'll have a hearing with the judge, and we'll go from there."
I heard the words, but the meaning took a minute to sink in. "You mean, I'm going to get them?"
He shook his head again, but his smile betrayed him, "If they have a grandmother who loves them, the judge will most likely grant custody. Yes. You're on your way to getting your grand kids. Would you like to go meet them?"
I couldn't answer through my tears, but I didn't need to.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Austen
I recently became aware of a Regency Romance Ball being held in Salt Lake City this year. I immediately fantasizing about going (fantasizing because there's no way I'd be able to make a dress between now and then, and also because my husband would never go with me).
I will admit, I came upon Jane Austen late in my life. I was nineteen before one of my college roommates found out I'd never read Jane Austen, but she quickly piled Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, and Persuasion in my arms and told me I wasn't truly educated until I'd read them. She waited (semi-patiently) until I'd finished, then sat me down to watch all five hours of the BBC Price and Prejudice (best watched late at night with all your swooning girlfriends, btw).
I was in love.
And I know I'm not the only one. Just say the name "Colin Firth" in a group of women, and watch the sly smiles break out.
As I spread the word about the ball to my friends, one of them turned to me and asked if I'd ever read AUSTENLAND by Shannon Hale. I finished it in one evening. I like Shannon Hale already, and this one was clever and fun. My friend also suggested reading any of Georgette Heyer's books. I hopped on my local library website and reserved FREDERICA. True, I'm only just over 100 pages in, but I keep stopping to read passages aloud to my husband (who actually listens and chuckles, which goes to show how clever the writing is.
It's only natural in the midst of all this Regency literature that I make that my prompt for this week.
Prompt: Empire waist dresses, English gentlemen, and spunky, clever women.
***********************************************************************
My response:
(Disclaimer: I am sick as a dog today. I've been lying in bed listening to my husband clean up after my children and wishing my head would stop pounding. I make no claims as to how good my writing will be in this condition.)
Miss Annaliese Park sat near the front window watching the rain stream down. Two weeks of this dreary weather, and she'd had enough of trimming bonnets, reading books, and practicing the pianoforte. Her legs refused to rest silently beneath her skirts, and she found herself constantly sighing.
Lady Park sat in a nearby lounge, snoring.
In truth, Annaliese knew she didn't have it so terribly bad. She'd watched Lady Park hound her older sisters, making them practice drawing, painting, singing, pianoforte, French, and German, like a regular tutor. There were a few advantages to being the twelveth child, and eighth daughter. Not many, but to have Lady Park sit and snore instead of snapping the ruler down across the desk was certainly preferable.
It would also be preferable to have any of her siblings at home to keep her company this dreary winter. Alice and Mary both married at the end of last season, and Peter, the closest to Annaliese in age, had been sent to school this year. The rest of them were all long gone, though Clarice and Maybell often asked for Annaliese to spend a week or two with them, and Annaliese missed them dearly.
Lord Park's carriage came through the front gate and made its way up the long drive, bordered on both sides with large oak and walnut trees. It turned in the circle, coming to the front of the house. Annaliese sighed. If Lord Park was home, she'd be expected to appear for dinner, rather than having her abigail bring it up to her in her room, where she could eat in the company of a good book.
Lord Park, covered with a long, black overcoat and hat which were both spattered horrible with dark, red mud, stepped from the carriage, then turned. A second gentleman stepped out. His overcoat was grey, making the muck all the more evident, his mud-crusted boots were of the latest fashion, and even from her window seat, Annaliese could tell his valet was skilled in tying a cravat just so. His features were classic, with the jutting brow and high cheekbones of a Roman soldier, but his wide smile cast an air of joy to the angles.
Annaliese's book fell with a thump to the ground, and she hurried to pick it up before her father came sweeping into the drawing room. She ought to have moved to warn her mother, but the thought didn't occur to her until it was too late. Luckily the stamp of wet boots in the front hall set Lady Park stirring, so she looked tolerably alert when the two gentlemen entered.
"Look here, my dear," Lord Park's voice echoed as he strode in, "Just see what I have found on the side of the road! This poor fellow's carriage got caught in a small mudslide just a mile down the main road, broke both his axels and three of his wheels, though he managed to calm his team well enough. Branson will be bringing them along presently, and I told Lord Alsby that I have a man who can set it all to rights. He won't be more than a week delayed, and in the meantime, we will have some life in this old house again!"
Lord Alsby smiled as he scanned the room. When his gaze fell on Annaliese, a knowing look fell over his features. Lord Park had a daughter of marriageable age, and Lord Alsby was a gentleman of the first circles. His lips pressed together in a frown.
Annaliese read the change in his countenance as easily as she read her books. Only one season out, but one was enough. She allowed her father to make introductions, but returned to her book even before they could make excuses about their dirtied clothing and excuse themselves to change.
I will admit, I came upon Jane Austen late in my life. I was nineteen before one of my college roommates found out I'd never read Jane Austen, but she quickly piled Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, and Persuasion in my arms and told me I wasn't truly educated until I'd read them. She waited (semi-patiently) until I'd finished, then sat me down to watch all five hours of the BBC Price and Prejudice (best watched late at night with all your swooning girlfriends, btw).
I was in love.
And I know I'm not the only one. Just say the name "Colin Firth" in a group of women, and watch the sly smiles break out.
As I spread the word about the ball to my friends, one of them turned to me and asked if I'd ever read AUSTENLAND by Shannon Hale. I finished it in one evening. I like Shannon Hale already, and this one was clever and fun. My friend also suggested reading any of Georgette Heyer's books. I hopped on my local library website and reserved FREDERICA. True, I'm only just over 100 pages in, but I keep stopping to read passages aloud to my husband (who actually listens and chuckles, which goes to show how clever the writing is.
It's only natural in the midst of all this Regency literature that I make that my prompt for this week.
Prompt: Empire waist dresses, English gentlemen, and spunky, clever women.
***********************************************************************
My response:
(Disclaimer: I am sick as a dog today. I've been lying in bed listening to my husband clean up after my children and wishing my head would stop pounding. I make no claims as to how good my writing will be in this condition.)
Miss Annaliese Park sat near the front window watching the rain stream down. Two weeks of this dreary weather, and she'd had enough of trimming bonnets, reading books, and practicing the pianoforte. Her legs refused to rest silently beneath her skirts, and she found herself constantly sighing.
Lady Park sat in a nearby lounge, snoring.
In truth, Annaliese knew she didn't have it so terribly bad. She'd watched Lady Park hound her older sisters, making them practice drawing, painting, singing, pianoforte, French, and German, like a regular tutor. There were a few advantages to being the twelveth child, and eighth daughter. Not many, but to have Lady Park sit and snore instead of snapping the ruler down across the desk was certainly preferable.
It would also be preferable to have any of her siblings at home to keep her company this dreary winter. Alice and Mary both married at the end of last season, and Peter, the closest to Annaliese in age, had been sent to school this year. The rest of them were all long gone, though Clarice and Maybell often asked for Annaliese to spend a week or two with them, and Annaliese missed them dearly.
Lord Park's carriage came through the front gate and made its way up the long drive, bordered on both sides with large oak and walnut trees. It turned in the circle, coming to the front of the house. Annaliese sighed. If Lord Park was home, she'd be expected to appear for dinner, rather than having her abigail bring it up to her in her room, where she could eat in the company of a good book.
Lord Park, covered with a long, black overcoat and hat which were both spattered horrible with dark, red mud, stepped from the carriage, then turned. A second gentleman stepped out. His overcoat was grey, making the muck all the more evident, his mud-crusted boots were of the latest fashion, and even from her window seat, Annaliese could tell his valet was skilled in tying a cravat just so. His features were classic, with the jutting brow and high cheekbones of a Roman soldier, but his wide smile cast an air of joy to the angles.
Annaliese's book fell with a thump to the ground, and she hurried to pick it up before her father came sweeping into the drawing room. She ought to have moved to warn her mother, but the thought didn't occur to her until it was too late. Luckily the stamp of wet boots in the front hall set Lady Park stirring, so she looked tolerably alert when the two gentlemen entered.
"Look here, my dear," Lord Park's voice echoed as he strode in, "Just see what I have found on the side of the road! This poor fellow's carriage got caught in a small mudslide just a mile down the main road, broke both his axels and three of his wheels, though he managed to calm his team well enough. Branson will be bringing them along presently, and I told Lord Alsby that I have a man who can set it all to rights. He won't be more than a week delayed, and in the meantime, we will have some life in this old house again!"
Lord Alsby smiled as he scanned the room. When his gaze fell on Annaliese, a knowing look fell over his features. Lord Park had a daughter of marriageable age, and Lord Alsby was a gentleman of the first circles. His lips pressed together in a frown.
Annaliese read the change in his countenance as easily as she read her books. Only one season out, but one was enough. She allowed her father to make introductions, but returned to her book even before they could make excuses about their dirtied clothing and excuse themselves to change.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Jury Duty
I've been struggling to come up with a prompt this week. I think it's due to nervousness and stress. See, I've been called up for jury duty. (There is still a chance that the case may be settled out of court, and I won't have to turn up, but I won't find that out for two more hours ... sigh.) I'm anxious because I don't like the idea of determining someone else's fate. Yes, I realize if I am on the jury there will be eleven other people with me, but it still weighs heavy on my mind.
Rather than letting it get me down, I decided I'd just go with it for this week's prompt.
Rather than letting it get me down, I decided I'd just go with it for this week's prompt.
Prompt: Jury Duty
Go ahead. Get your John Grisham on.
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My response:
I took advantage of the pause and stretched my fingers, then placed them lightly back down on the keyboard. The middle aged man on the witness stand sighed and nodded.
"We require a spoken answer, Mr. Banks," the judge reminded him for the third time.
My fingers flew with barely a thought. Fifteen years as a court reporter, and I joked with my friends that I could type out my dreams word for word, if only I could get comfortable with my laptop in my bed.
"Yes, sir. Yes. He did leave at ten thirty that night." He shook his head remorsefully and dropped his shoulders forward, avoiding the glare of the defendant.
"In your initial testimony, you stated that Mr. George Fry stayed the whole night at your house, drinking two six-packs and passing out on your couch. Why did you lie?" Mr. Fairlie, the DA, stood facing the jury, as if he were speaking to them instead of to Mr. Banks, on the stand. He always did that when he was trying to make a point. I was just lucky his voice carried, since that meant he usually had his back to me.
"He's my brother, man!" Mr. Banks spat out, a sob escaping his barrel-shaped chest, his rental suit straining at the seams. "I know he and Carlie were having some rough times, but he never would have done what they said. I know he didn't kill her." He dropped his head into his hands, openly sobbing now. "I know it, man!"
First, if he really knew it, he would have told the cops when his brother left and trusted them to figure it out. Second, the way he was breaking down, he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
My eyes slipped over to the defendant. That one was guilty if I've ever seen one, and believe me, I have. Leaning back in his chair in his orange jumpsuit, slouching and glaring like a teenage punk in the back of history class, he was the picture of guilt. I'd bet he was mean even without two six-packs.
"No more questions, your honor."
*********************************************************************************
The case has not settled, so I'm going in. Wish me luck!
Monday, January 20, 2014
Classic High Fantasy
I was a fantasy nerd growing up - Anne McCaffrey, Piers Anthony, and Orson Scott Card were my favorite story tellers. But I somehow missed out on one of the most amazing sagas of the nineties - Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time.
I only came around to reading it now because of my obsession with Brandon Sanderson (brilliant author in his own right) who finished Robert Jordan's series. My husband read the book first and gave me a run-down on it, but I've only recently picked it up myself. My husband keeps asking me, "What do you think?"
Honestly? It's starting to make me nostalgic. It fits the "fantasy" model so beautifully (maybe because it was part of the original mold ...), and I'm loving watching the story unfold. There's the orphan, the spunky side-kick, a beautiful sorceress, dark, twisted creatures on the dark side, and shadowy figures with cloaks on dark horses. What's not to love?!
And so I feel inspired to do a high fantasy prompt.
I only came around to reading it now because of my obsession with Brandon Sanderson (brilliant author in his own right) who finished Robert Jordan's series. My husband read the book first and gave me a run-down on it, but I've only recently picked it up myself. My husband keeps asking me, "What do you think?"
Honestly? It's starting to make me nostalgic. It fits the "fantasy" model so beautifully (maybe because it was part of the original mold ...), and I'm loving watching the story unfold. There's the orphan, the spunky side-kick, a beautiful sorceress, dark, twisted creatures on the dark side, and shadowy figures with cloaks on dark horses. What's not to love?!
And so I feel inspired to do a high fantasy prompt.
So, there you go. The prompt for this week is this dragon. Enjoy!
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My response:
Kiera led the pair of sheep across the castle green. They shied and pulled skittishly on their ropes now and then, but they were docile creatures, and easily guided. Almost, she felt guilty. They trusted the shepherds and other people who had looked after them, and they saw her as no different. But she was about to betray their trust.
Li'Aia was hungry, but she had the curtesy to wait until Kiera set the ewes into the small enclosure before descending on the beasts in a flurry of flapping wings and flashing jaws. Skillfully, she pinned one kicking bundle beneath a claw while her teeth tore into the other. In a matter of moments, it was over.
More? Li'Aia asked.
No. Kiera shook her head sadly. That is all they would give me today.
Kiera stretched out her hand and Li'Aia reached her scaly head, red in the fading sunlight, though she was more of a gold color, to meet it. Kiera sighed, pulling a rag from her belt and started wiping at Li'Aia's muzzle, wiping the gore away. Again she felt the nagging guilt tug at her. She was no noblewoman with lands and herds to feed a dragon. It had been arrogant of her to sneak into the hatchery to catch a glimpse of the dragon eggs.
Her thoughts were disturbed by the trumpeting of the heralds. The castle doors opened, and a train of people emerged. The women were dressed in sparkling brocades and silks, the men in fine suits. Marching in the center was the Princess Adelaide.
In the next enclosure, the black dragon Markag fluttered his wings and preened. Kiera couldn't hear his voice in her head, as she was only bonded with Li'Aia, but she didn't need to hear him to know he was calling to the Princess. All for naught. Princess Adelaide only crinkled her pretty nose at the smell of the dragon yard, then turned away, leading her ladies after her.
Markag always had enough to eat, and he sat his watch and flew his missions, but his bondswoman probably wouldn't have noticed if he'd disappeared.
No, but maybe you will catch some bandits tonight and be allotted another calf as reward? Kiera suggested.
Maybe I will! Li'Aia said. And nevermind that you cannot buy me another lamb. At least I don't have to clean my face with the straw after I eat. It's very prickly.
Kiera laughed. She'd never expected an egg to hatch while she was there, and she hadn't known enough about bonding to keep away until they had fetched a nobleman or noblewoman to bond with the thing. But her regrets were not for herself, they were for Li'Aia. Kiera, bonded to a dragon, was too valuable to allow to starve. But Li'Aia, bonded to a peasant, had to settle for what the king allowed her for her service.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Narration
"Are you Nuts, or Normal?"
That's the question on the cover of the Reader's Digest sitting on the back of my parent's toilet. It was an interesting article, but it didn't touch on the one thing that really makes me wonder if I might have a touch of clinical craziness in me: I like to narrate my life.
Don't worry, it's not all the time. The words never actually make it out of my mind and onto paper, and usually, it's when I'm doing the most mundane things, like brushing my teeth. I wonder if it's a writer thing.
When I thought about doing a prompt to narrate your own life, I almost brushed it off as too stupid. I mean, what's so exciting about me cooking dinner, buying groceries, or feeding the rabbit? Then I remembered a quote: "The day before your life changes forever just feels like any other day." I heard it on Switched at Birth. There is so much truth in that statement, not only in life, but also in writing.
If you start your story in the middle of the action, your readers are lost. They have no context for the scenario, they don't know the characters, and it's easier for them to simply put the book down than to try and figure it out. BUT if you set the stage beforehand, with the day before everything changes, you can draw your readers, bit by bit, into your world, so when the action happens, they're right there next to you, reading as if their lives depend on it.
So, the prompt is: Narrate a bit of your own life.
Don't worry that it's mundane. Don't worry that it's simple. Pretend this is the day before your life changes, and you're setting the scene.
Go ahead. Enjoy!
*********************************************************************
My response:
She sat in front of the sewing machine, a formless mass of crushed blue velvet in her hands, her legs crossed in front of her. Her fingers worked the edge of the fabric, measuring, turning, pinning. Then she looked up. She eased her head to the side, as if trying to lie down on a pillow, and was rewarded with a pop. Then the other side. She rolled her shoulders.
Sighing, she looked down at the unfinished garment and laid it over the top of the sewing machine. Her fingers found the switch and turned the sewing machine off as she stood. Her eyes sought out the clock on the wall, and another sigh escaped her lips. She always took longer than she planned when she sewed, and now dinner was late. Rather than crossing to the pantry, she moved to the phone on the counter, where she kept her coupons. There had to be something there. She pursed her lips as she flipped through what she had. Pizza. Hamburgers. More pizza. Nothing healthy. Nothing really worth spending the money.
With a resigned frown, she turned to the pantry. Whole wheat pasta. Thick, chuncky spaghetti sauce. Even if it wasn't exciting, it would do the job.
(I'm actually remembering a book - THE LOST WIFE??? ... I can't remember the title right, and I didn't like it well enough to keep it, but it started almost just like this. Except then her husband didn't come home that night and she went on a cross-country trek to find him. And when she found him, she realized she didn't want him anymore. Sad.)
Anyway, I'm excited to see what you guys come up with!
That's the question on the cover of the Reader's Digest sitting on the back of my parent's toilet. It was an interesting article, but it didn't touch on the one thing that really makes me wonder if I might have a touch of clinical craziness in me: I like to narrate my life.
Don't worry, it's not all the time. The words never actually make it out of my mind and onto paper, and usually, it's when I'm doing the most mundane things, like brushing my teeth. I wonder if it's a writer thing.
When I thought about doing a prompt to narrate your own life, I almost brushed it off as too stupid. I mean, what's so exciting about me cooking dinner, buying groceries, or feeding the rabbit? Then I remembered a quote: "The day before your life changes forever just feels like any other day." I heard it on Switched at Birth. There is so much truth in that statement, not only in life, but also in writing.
If you start your story in the middle of the action, your readers are lost. They have no context for the scenario, they don't know the characters, and it's easier for them to simply put the book down than to try and figure it out. BUT if you set the stage beforehand, with the day before everything changes, you can draw your readers, bit by bit, into your world, so when the action happens, they're right there next to you, reading as if their lives depend on it.
So, the prompt is: Narrate a bit of your own life.
Don't worry that it's mundane. Don't worry that it's simple. Pretend this is the day before your life changes, and you're setting the scene.
Go ahead. Enjoy!
*********************************************************************
My response:
She sat in front of the sewing machine, a formless mass of crushed blue velvet in her hands, her legs crossed in front of her. Her fingers worked the edge of the fabric, measuring, turning, pinning. Then she looked up. She eased her head to the side, as if trying to lie down on a pillow, and was rewarded with a pop. Then the other side. She rolled her shoulders.
Sighing, she looked down at the unfinished garment and laid it over the top of the sewing machine. Her fingers found the switch and turned the sewing machine off as she stood. Her eyes sought out the clock on the wall, and another sigh escaped her lips. She always took longer than she planned when she sewed, and now dinner was late. Rather than crossing to the pantry, she moved to the phone on the counter, where she kept her coupons. There had to be something there. She pursed her lips as she flipped through what she had. Pizza. Hamburgers. More pizza. Nothing healthy. Nothing really worth spending the money.
With a resigned frown, she turned to the pantry. Whole wheat pasta. Thick, chuncky spaghetti sauce. Even if it wasn't exciting, it would do the job.
(I'm actually remembering a book - THE LOST WIFE??? ... I can't remember the title right, and I didn't like it well enough to keep it, but it started almost just like this. Except then her husband didn't come home that night and she went on a cross-country trek to find him. And when she found him, she realized she didn't want him anymore. Sad.)
Anyway, I'm excited to see what you guys come up with!
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