Tag: creative writing

Nanowrimo: Or Write a Novel in a Month

Four years ago I tried the wacky adventure that is National Novel Writing Month: 1600 words a day for 30 days to a 50,000 word manuscript. I was right on target straight out of the blocks. And then — Thanksgiving, a friend’s baby, life. I didn’t finish. But I had a toe in the pool of creativity and my first introduction to an online creative community via the forums, message boards, encouraging emails all created to make sure people keep going. There is more advice during this month than perhaps the rest of the year combined because nearly everyone in the independent writing community is talking about, sweating toward, and churning out those precious words. Free books on writing and I’ve joined in by making my e book on writing, So You Want to Sell a Million Copies free until the end of the month.

This year I’m back, using it to work on a project based on real life events that have happened around my undergraduate women’s college becoming co-ed. Using third person point of view (she rather than I) the story begins as three friends have very different reactions to the news of men being admitted to their beloved campus and follows a diverse cast of characters including their spouses and children. We learn secrets from the past and how they impact whether on not Sibohan, Mary Alice, and Mae will be able to save the Peace that they know or whether their choices will destroy the semblance of relationship they have left.

It’s been ten years since I graduated (more actually) and I got the idea to work on this novel when there were very few submissions to a commemorative anthology project suggested to alumnae. While there weren’t a lot of people writing in about their recollections at Peace, there was (and still is) a lot being said about the changes on Facebook. I can’t wait to hear that their reactions to this fictionalized version of events, past and present.

Main building at Peace College

If you’ve ever considered writing a book, or short story, there’s no time like November and Nanowrimo. Not only is it cool sounding and you’ll have a built in excuse everyday to wander away from your regular life (or stay up into the wee hours meeting your word count) but you just might discover that this writing thing is for you.

Below is the opening to my project Saving Peace. I hope to finish up and edit in time for the holidays.

Comments welcome!

Chapter One

Unlike most calls bearing bad news the call came in the morning, during daylight, while the sun was still outside. But Sibohan was still asleep.  She let the phone continue to ring or rather buzz,, and it rang itself off the night stand and onto the floor, under her bed. The home phone had one handset in the kitchen. While calls began coming in, she slept solidly. Yet  again she wasn’t there for the others when they needed her most. It was as she sat in the makeup chair, having her hair and face prepped for the six o’ clock news that her assistant, Peggy, poked her head in.

“Did you review the notes?” Peggy asked.

Sibohan shrugged. She would wing it as she had been doing for the nearly ten years she anchored for the station. It was a miracle she had shot to straight in front of the camera so fast, everyone said, and yet unlike Oprah, she hadn’t progressed.

“Sure, a home intruder, police chief anniversary…” she waved her hand to indicate this was more of the same.

“You didn’t see the headlines?”

But the producer strode in, shouldering Peggy aside, waving in new pages, with instructions about the sponsors and the salient points they were supposed to avoid for the evening. The co-anchor arrived and it was time to go onto the set. She brushed the wrinkles out of her blouse.

The intro music started and Sibohan shuffled her papers, trying not to touch elbows with Dan, the newest (and youngest) in a series of male anchors using WRAL as a stop in on their way to syndicated networks. He did have a deep voice, she would give him that much. The previous guy Nathanwhatshisname had the face of a choir boy and the prepubescent voice to match. He had done well between twenty and thirtysomething white males, interesting. But twentysomethigns didn’t really make a channel’s ratings.

“A woman wakes to an intruder in her bed,  the city of Raleigh honors a police chief that’s served for nearly thirty years and the historic Peace College changes its name and begins to admit men. All of this and more at the top of the hour.”

Sibohan nearly fell off her chair. They held their frozen smiles in place and waited for the ON AIR sign to click off.

“What did you say?”

“I’ve got two tickets to STOMP at the convention center.” Nathan’s chiseled lips curved into what she was sure was a practiced smile – the kind she learned to avoid from frat boys at North Carolina State. The university where they had prowled as girls, when boredom of the all female campus was too much to turn away.

“No, the other part. On air.”

“We’re back! Camera two, Nate,” Peggy said. “Quiet on the set. Rolling.”

Even after all these years, those two phrases managed to send a shiver up her spine. Sibohan straightened in her seat with a posture her college theater professor would have been admired. It was one of the few things she hadn’t let slide over the years – that the studio wasn’t responsible for.

“After over a hundred years as a school for women, Peace College has decided to open her doors to admit men.” Sibohan hear her voice reading the prepared segment, probably by some student news intern, feverishly typing as updates came in through the day. She kept the car salesman smile on her face as she read the rest of the report: an all too familiar list of financial woes, a stalled economy, a new president. It was a testament to her training that she made it through the segment about her alma mater becoming William Peace University without stopping. Or someone, certainly her former roommates, would have though this a defect, a sign of how low she had sunk.

   William Peace University?

The rest of the show passed in an even faster haze than normal: the insipid details of life in the Triangle area were the least interesting they had ever been. She couldn’t wait to get off set and make some phone calls. As the sports report wound up, the sub commentator with one of the worst spray tans she had ever seen, Sibohan wanted to woop for joy that she had made it through another night. She did a quick exit, not even stopping back into the dressing room for her notes from Peggy. Instead she made a beeline for her car. Once inside she turned on the AC on full blast, wiping sweat from her upper lip while sliding out her Blackberry from its case. There they were: a deluge of missed calls from the others as well as email messages.

Inside the Writer's Studio with Emlyn Chand

We’re back in the Writer’s Studio this week with none other than Emlyn Chand, the brains and muscle behind Novel Publicity. I’ve learned a lot from Emlyn in the past year of serving as a blog tour host. She was the first person to do an evaluation of my website and recommend adding photos (which I have done for every post since) as well as give me access to a wide range of books and authors I would have had exposure to otherwise.

Emlyn has always loved to hear and tell stories, having emerged from the womb with a fountain pen grasped firmly in her left hand (true story). When she’s not writing, she runs a large book club in Ann Arbor and is the president of the author PR firm, Novel Publicity. She loves to connect with readers and is available throughout the social media interweb. This week I’m hosting Emlyn because she has done the incredible feat of not only running her own business for writers but published her own book as well. As wordsmiths living in the real world, we all probably wish this was the case but sometimes the demands of juggling the laundry, keeping the lights on and our characters leaves most of us losing the plot.

We’ll have our interview and then an excerpt from Emlym’s hot new paranormal novel, Farsighted (released on 10/24). Before diving in, here’s what you need to know: Alex Kosmitoras may be blind, but he can still “see” things others can’t.  When his unwanted visions of the future begin to suggest that the girl he likes could be in danger, he has no choice but to take on destiny and demand it reconsider.

Emlyn shares with us not only how she does it, but why. I know you’ll be as inspired as I am.

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1. How did you get started as a writer?
As a child, I always had a story to tell. I also loved illustrating my own books and comics. I first became a writer writer when I began doing a book review column for the local paper. That taught me the importance of deadlines and letting the words flow out even when I had no idea what direction they’d take me in.

2. What was the hardest part of writing Farsighted ?
The hardest part was getting started! I spent about three months trying to talk myself out of writing Farsighted. It’s too ambitious, my inner critic pointed out. You’ll never get it done, not in the way it deserves to be done, it pressed. But there was another part of me that couldn’t resist; I knew I had to at least try before giving up. So glad I decided to be an optimist for a change!

3. Was there an easy part (or any part) of writing the book that surprised you?
Getting into the first person point-of-view of a blind narrator wasn’t as hard as I initially assumed it would be. Sure, it was a challenge, and it took practice to get right. But it was not impossible. Not in the least bit. My characters also provided surprises of their own, Alex’s dad and Shapri were not meant to be major characters, but they asserted themselves and so now they are. One of the best parts of writing is getting to know your characters. When they become real to the author, they become real to the reader.

4. What advice would you give aspiring or first time novelists?
My advice is this: Have fun with your writing. Don’t put pressure on yourself or your story and don’t try to fit either into some type of mold. Not every work HAS to be published, but every work will teach you something, and it will make you a better writer. Find the joy in writing, and you won’t go wrong.

5. What advice do you have for other aspiring writers with demanding day jobs?
Something’s gotta give. If writing is important, you’ll move around other aspects of your life to get it done. You have to. Writing is not something you can do with just a little bit of effort. To get through the first draft, editing, what-have-you, you’ll have to work hard! Yes, you could space it out over several years, but if you want to finish anytime this year, you’re going to have to make sacrifices. For me, this was less time with friends and family, less television, and less attention to my health (eating right and exercising).

6. How do you get it all in over 24 hours?
I can’t add hours to the day, but I can take them out. Who needs TV, leisure, sleep? I work anywhere from 13 to 17 hours per day. Every day. This does not leave time for social interactions, family, taking care of my health, or any sort of leisure activity. Didn’t somebody important say, “far and away the best prize that life has to offer is the chance to work hard at work worth doing?” I don’t mind having to give-up the other parts of my life to pursue my work, because I love it. I know I’ll eventually need to achieve a better balance, but for now, I’m content to push the pedal to the metal.

7. What’s a typical day like for you? How much of it do you spend writing? Business?
My day is simple. Wake up (usually anywhere from 2 AM to 6 AM depending on how much I need to get done). Work until 7 PM. Eat dinner with my husband. Either watch television or read a book until I fall asleep. Repeat on loop. When I’m actively writing (as opposed to editing or marketing my work), I like to write at least 1 1/2 hours first thing in the morning. I go to Biggby or Panera to get it done. The rest is devoted to my burgeoning business, Novel Publicity.

8. Do you recommend daily or weekly writing goals? Why or why not?
Yes, structure is crucial. I’d recommend a time goal over a word count goal. Word count goals put too much pressure on the writer. You may be going slowly… but writing truly wonderful bits. When I hit a snag in Farsighted about midway through, I found that holding myself “writing hostage” at Panera was a great way to break through the block. I went there when they opened at 6 AM and stayed from 8 hours at a stretch. I did this every day for about 3 weeks until draft 1# was done and my self-editing was complete.

9. Anything else you want to tell readers?
I hope you’ll enjoy reading Farsighted. My main goal was to tell an interesting story that people will be glad they spent the time to read. I also wanted to infuse contemporary Young Adult fiction with a bit more diversity and teach readers about the beauty of other cultures and other ways of life.

“Fight”: an excerpt from Farsighted, chapter 3

I sulk into school the next day, irritated about the way my brain’s been malfunctioning lately and embarrassed by how I’ve been around Simmi. The last thing I need is more problems. I head into first period attempting to disappear. No such luck.

“You better watch yourself, Kosmitoras,” Brady Evans growls. I wasn’t even aware he had entered the class, but now here he is, uncomfortably close to my desk.

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to encourage him. Even the slightest word taken out of context might set him off. The bell rings, but the teacher hasn’t come in yet. The other students are milling about, whispering excitedly.

“You’re lucky you’re a cripple, freak, or I’d—” Brady says. Why is he still here? I didn’t do anything to make him angry. Some of the students start taunting Brady, telling him to throw a punch at me. Brady laughs; clearly he loves the attention.

After a moment, the whispering stops. Brady’s moved away from my desk so fast I hardly even realized it. I decide to let the whole thing go, but then footsteps come toward me again, carrying with them the scents of Axe deodorant spray and dried sweat. Brady seems intent on a confrontation. Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

Slyly, I nudge the end of my cane across my seat and into the aisle. Not sticking out far enough to be noticed but still far enough to get in the way.

Thud! Brady trips and falls headlong down the aisle.

Ha, always wanted to do that. Sometimes blindness comes in handy. No one would ever guess this wasn’t an accident.

“You better watch yourself, Kosmitoras,” Brady growls, back on his feet now.

“You better watch yourself, Evans,” I hiss back, drawing out the S at the end of Evans. I’m a venomous cobra, ready to spring at the slightest hint of danger.

The bell rings. Wait didn’t the bell already ring? Haven’t I been here before?

The other students in the class are milling about, whispering excitedly.

“You’re lucky you’re a cripple, freak, or I’d—” Brady says.

“Or what?” I challenge, rising to my feet while wrapping my knuckles around the handle of my cane and solidifying my grip. I’ve had enough, and besides, what have I got to lose by standing up to him? If anything, a fight with Brady could improve my social standing.

The whispering grows louder. Some of the students start taunting Brady, telling him to throw a punch at me.

Brady laughs arrogantly, “or I’d make you sorry.” He cracks his knuckles as if his words weren’t clear enough.

“I’m not a cripple, but I am going to make you sorry,” I shout, bringing the end of my cane down hard on Brady’s toes.

I can tell it hurt, but Brady doesn’t make any noise to indicate it. He’s too much of a tough guy. Instead, he punches me in the stomach.

I don’t feel anything except a pulsing pain in my middle. And anger, a lot of anger. I raise my cane again and thwack Brady higher up—his face, his neck, I don’t care as long as it hurts.

This time he cries out in pain.

Now, I’m laughing. This is what he deserves, since he just couldn’t leave me alone.

The teacher comes into the classroom. The other students grow quiet, waiting to find out what she’ll do.

Brady punches me in the nose. There’s a crack as he makes contact with the bone. Blood spurts out from my nostrils and flows into my mouth—guess I’ve gotten my daily dose of iron now. I almost throw up, but before I can, the teacher is pulling me and Brady out of the classroom by the collars of our shirts and walking us down the hall toward the principal’s office.

Blog Tour Notes

The Book: Get your copy today by visiting Amazon.com’s Kindle store or the eBook retailer of your choice. The paperback edition will be available on November 24 (for the author’s birthday).

CASH PRIZES:  Guess what? You could win a $100 Amazon gift card as part of this special blog tour. That’s right! Just leave a comment below saying something about the post you just read, and you’ll be entered into the raffle.

GIVEAWAYS:  Win 1 of 10 autographed copies of Farsighted before its paperback release by entering the giveaway on GoodReads. Perhaps you’d like an autographed postcard from the author; you can request one on her site.

MORE FUN: There’s more fun below. Watch the live action Farsighted book trailer and take the quiz to find out which character is most like you!

 

 

Rule of Three Blogfest: Part 3

I’m having so much fun with the Rule of Three, posting, and reading others work: I’m truly grateful to Damyanti and the other hosts for encouraging us to do this. Over 60 writers are all writing this month in weekly installments about the shared world of Renaissance, from different perspectives, genres, and with a variety of characters. My story involves Sen, her ailing father, and the increasing intrusion by strangers.

Photo by Jose Luis Cernades Iglesias

Sen paused while looking for berries for her homemade remedy. There was a smell in the air. Not like the musky floor of the Culdees, nor the sharp tang of the trees; not the stench of manure or rotting carcass. She crouched low, ready to spring away. A rustle, a snap: someone who had no idea how to walk in the forest. Sen felt the flint edge of her rooting tool. The foliage drying up, she hadn’t used it yet. Never to hurt someone else — maybe to scare off a wolf if they were mistakenly in the same area. Anything bigger, the best recourse was to run as fast as she could on all fours.

She wiped her palms on the green beast leather her father had made for her from his last skill. The days when he was still strong enough to go out with the rest of the hunters; the days when there were still beasts to hunt. Move fast, she told herself, her father’s words resonating in her head, sending a hum through her veins.

“Sen.”

She ran, jumping over gnarled roots, hands first, in leaps powered by her seasoned haunches. The wind in her hair, erasing the sound of that voice, a voice she hadn’t heard since her childhood, a voice that belonged to a dead women. Sen came up on a tree, intending to climb into its branches when she heard it again.

“Sen. Don’t be afraid.”

She whirled again, the texture of the bark against her palms, to face the ghost. Instead of a ghost, she saw a tall one, brown haired, large eyes, staring at her. They were alone in the clearing.

“Ama?”

The tall one nodded, coming forward, almost gliding across the forest floor, upright on her two feet. Sen clenched her teeth and the tree.

“But you’re dead.”

Her throat constricted before she could say more.

The tall one shook her head.

“Soon you will be though, my baby, if you stay here on this planet.”

The accent made her sound as if she had several berries in her mouth while she was talking.

“We will fight you,” she said, letting go of the tree’s support to clutch the rooting tool in a fist.

The tall one drew even closer. Sen’s eyes darted around the clearing but they were alone. The flint of the tool felt fragile in her hands.

Photo by Nicholas_T

“Not by us,” a woman who looked amazingly like her memories of her mother said. “From the heat. The sun draws ever closer.”

Then they weren’t alone; the tall one Sen had seen a few weeks ago entered with a few other tall ones, all men. Sen felt her chest heave. There was no way she could attack all of them with just one not even weapon.

“Let’s go Alysia,” one of them motioned. “She’s not worth it. Look she barely stands up.”

Sen felt her spine, which had been curled downward, prepared to crouch and propel her away, stiffen, though she didn’t understand what he said.

“She’s my daughter,” the woman said. “I’m not leaving without her. She’s the missing link.”

Intent on the creatures in front of her, Sen never noticed the one creeping up behind her. Without the dense foliage to hamper him, the tall one slid across the forest floor, around the tree, and threw the bag over her head.

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In Sen’s ongoing search to take care of her father, and keep curiosity about the tall ones at bay, we get another 559 words. This week watch as she discovers a long held secret.