Tag: creativity

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!

 

 

#Ren3: Post One

For the next month I’ll be participating in the Rule of Three: a month-long fiction blogfest, where the sponsors have created a ‘world’, the town of Renaissance, and challenged participating writers to create a story that takes place there. The story will feature 3 characters of my creation, who will be showcased on this blog on 3 different Wednesdays, following the Rule of Three. The 4th Wednesday, will have the culminating scene.
Here’s the beginning of Sen’s story. You can still enter as posts have to be up by October 6th. So get to writing — 500 words is the limit — and join us in thickening plot of life in Renaissance.

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As the sun slid across the horizon and over the top of the tent, the Roundeli Mountains shimmered in the distance. The leaves on the trees remained still. Who do these foreigners think they are? Her father’s question rang in the air. Instead of answering him, Sen swallowed, trying to rid her mouth of the dust of the Schiavonan desert. She tried to push away thoughts of the long limbed leader of the scouts she had passed while searching for the logan berry that kept her father’s cough at bay. Filling our heads with the hope of better lands when we know rain is coming. Here a wracking cough punctured his diatribe. She thumped his back. Help, that’s all Sen seemed to do these days, whether her father, or the older members of their tribe. There was no more time for lingering against the trunk of a tree, rolling down hills deep in the forest, seeking out the Sawtee – a bird with a sweet cry, it reminded her of earlier days.

“None of our people has made it across that river since the days of our fathers’ fathers,” she murmured, saving him the exertion. She pressed his right shoulder so he reclined against the tent’s central pole. He sipped from a wooden spoon filled with a homemade remedy of red berries and leaves. As his eyes closed, Sen rubbed the spoon in a small pile of sand. It would have to do. There wasn’t enough water to drink, much less clean their implements, not to mention their bodies.

Her father’s breath rattled in his chest, sounding like a loose pebble at the bottom of a harvesting bag. But it had been months since a harvest of any kind. Instead of replenishing itself for planting, without rain the earth was drying up; even the verdant Culdees, in whose vales she had played as a child, were diminishing. Trees drooped their branches in surrender to the encroaching desert.

Sen needn’t dread the bittersweet feeling of a Sawtee’s cry because the blue and yellow bird was a rare sight. Wondering where all the birds, even wildlife had wandered to, she felt a fool for not feeling the tall one’s gaze. She had no way of knowing how long he had been watching her. As she crouched low, preparing to run on all fours where she would be fastest; he hadn’t spoken a word, remaining very still, and kept watching her. Instead of lunging for her, he extended a hand. She retreated a few steps. His vine like fingers unfurled, revealing a small oval disk, painted into the likeness of a woman’s face. It was unlike anything she had ever seen.

She drew closer, picked up the flat disk, attached to a rope of delicate, linked metal. He didn’t twitch a hair. The face smiling up at Sen was a dim memory from another life full of laughter; when they ate meat regularly, and she didn’t flatten her chest by winding long strips across it under her tunics. That smile could belong to one other person, the only other person in the tribe to have brown eyes. Sen shook her head, fingers involuntarily closing around the disk. When she looked up again the tall one was
gone.
Her back to the tent, she sat a few feet away against a tree, dangling the disk in the remaining rays of sunlight. There was no doubt who was winking back at her. Her father had told her mother was dead. How then, or why, did a tall one have an engraving of her likeness?

10, 33, 60 — Nothing But Numbers

Photo by Mykl Roventine

This month I had an event that comes only once a year —  my birthday.

As a Hind child growing up in the west, December 25th came and went in our house like most other days. Friends would call and ask what I got. While I fumbled for an answer, the conversation would move on to their substantial gifts. My birthday however was the one day in our house that we were able to choose a present, a cake, even on rare occasion, plan a party funded by our parents. As a child (and later as a college student) I learned to let my birthday slide because it was so early in the American school year that those kids who came to my birthday parties were not those I was friends with by that other great gift giving time: Christmas.

Moving to Qatar had somewhat the opposite effect as there was a national day that was celebrated on September 3rd. This holiday meant a three day weekend during which I’d dash to Bahrain for some festivities. Now we celebrate National Day on December 18th so it appeared I was robbed of the Labor Day like weekend in Doha. Except for this year: Eid Al Fitr came a few days just before, so we packed our bags, snatched up the baby, and went for a weekend getaway to Santorini, Greece.

I promised myself a digital fast as a way to clear my head, enjoy the trip, and also being with my family. I did what many thought would be impossible: left my Blackberry at home. All the flights for this trip were early morning, making my vow to stay away from the Internet relatively easy. The morning we flew out, I did scan my email as the nefarious Cyclopistic blinking red light beckoned me even at dawn.

Congrats on winning the SheWrites New Novelist competition, Mohana!!!!

Incredibly, there it was. One of those messages that you keep your antennae up for but I had to brush my teeth and get on with the more normal parts of real life.

Needless to say, getting into the airport lounge and onto a computer was immediately the next order of business. I read with astonishment that my project, the one that had been rejected 10 times by agents and editors because they “weren’t compelled by it,” or didn’t feel they could do it justice. While the no’s were increasing from polite to reverse compliments (you have a wealth of material) they were still dismissive.

Of course, being no rookie, I knew all about not taking rejection to heart and writing on. And I did — saving this manuscript that is a semi-autobiographical first novel onto the hard drive — starting a second novel based on questions I was thinking about life in Qatar and how people fall in love. Yet when SheWrites reminded me on Twitter that they were doing a contest for the first chapters of unpublished novels. Winners would have their material in front of agents and editors with critiques. I downloaded the chapter, sent it in with my photo, and there my husband was in Greece, reading my synposis and first 2000 words as one of five finalists.

The Help a book that purportedly was rejected sixty times is now opening as a film all around the United States. J.K. Rowling is perhaps one of the most lucrative examples of never giving up on your work or yourself but there are many, many others including Stephen King, whose wife fished out that nail bitter, Carrie, from the trashcan and said she’d help with writing the teenage girlishness he was unsure of.

A contest breathes life back into a story and indeed this writer. A good lesson in writing close to my birthday or indeed any time of year. If you’re an aspiring writer or a writer who need encouragement, dust off the keyboard, notebook, desk and get back in there.

After all, no one can read you if your work isn’t finished.