How many of you enjoy them? I find them to be the best exercise to warm up for a day of writing. Trying to think of the right word that the hint (the more vague, the better the feeling of guessing correctly) refers to is probably the closest thing to creative writing (or any writing- for that matter)that one can get.
The New York Times has some very tough puzzles that challenge me and are very gratifying to solve. If you don't solve crosswords you should try it. Your vocabulary tends to expand very quickly while having a lot of fun. The thinking in reverse (vague definitions being the question, rather than the word needing to be defined) tends to make those babies stick right there solid in the noggin.
I love them!
Monday, February 2, 2009
Been Writing Stories
Sometimes I get to the point where my writing is so intense, I forget about the blog. HA! Well anyways, I am back to updating at least weekly.
I am finished with the Cemetery Dance story and I am just fine tuning it. I also have 30k words on the latest novel written. Enjoying the time between the two projects and hoping to soon get out there for all to read.
I'm addicted to this daydreaming business. :D
I also need to find a copy editor. I've been researching First Editors and they seem really eager to help, so I will send them a sample that is full of crap and see what they do to it. I'll let you know how it goes.
I am finished with the Cemetery Dance story and I am just fine tuning it. I also have 30k words on the latest novel written. Enjoying the time between the two projects and hoping to soon get out there for all to read.
I'm addicted to this daydreaming business. :D
I also need to find a copy editor. I've been researching First Editors and they seem really eager to help, so I will send them a sample that is full of crap and see what they do to it. I'll let you know how it goes.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
New Approach
Tonight I have taken the story back to past tense. I think it flows better and I think I am heading in a better direction.
Here is an unedited sample:
He was still at the in between, the subconscious place where the dark things lurk, when it came. Three quick pounds at the door and he woke. At the shallow layer, the room was filled with the hiss of air, stressed springs, and his own breathing as he flipped around, pulled himself to his knees and thumbed a peek hole in the blinds at the window. As he peered through he might of claimed shock, but of course that claim would have been a lie. Eddie had known it was coming since that terrible day in June, and it had been a dark spot growing inside him for two months, growing darker and more terrifying, in accordance with all the rules that govern life after a unlawful act, growing with the same powerful rise of a drummer’s opening crescendo and finally reaching the splash of his giant cymbal.
There on Eddie’s stoop, pounding in sessions, stood an Allegheny County policeman.
As Eddie slid off the bed, the room was alive with the thump of his feet, groans of the floorboards, and the belabored sound of his panting. He had been dreaming about the girl, and the rude awakening had left him shocked and eager to run away.
He stretched his arms out and then over his mass, yawning, shutting his eyes, rocking his weight from one trunk to the other. He stood there blinking wildly, a man in the shape of a pear. He was a whale of a man with rolls of flesh on his belly and back and beneath his chin, his body was covered in patches of brown to black hair and the hair on his head was solid black. It rested against his forehead with disheveled disarray and he stood still, eyes closed, letting the air from the vent wash over him and cool his nerves. He looked the role of the eternal virgin, the school-yard joke, the fast food junkie, the emotional wreck, and he was. He had hoped with a constant and forlorn hope that someone would come and save him-and thus his picture of the white-knight dream woman had been born. It never came. It never happened.
He steps to the chest of drawers, slide it open, removes wads of clothing, tosses them to the bed, bends with each emptied drawer, stomach gurgling as bubbles rise to a shallow place. Slams the drawer, steps to the bed. Sweat rises on his brow; the room might as well have been a steam room except for the occasional relief of the air from the vent on the wall. Creaks and groans whine under his feet with all the bitch and moan of a colicky infant.
Eddie grabbed the black canvas bag from the nightstand. He stuffed it fat and with a tug and a zip, he was ready to dress.
It wasn’t until he was squeezed behind the wheel of the Toyota compact that he made the decision to grab lunch on the way out of Dodge. He turns over the ignition and chocks the stick into D and pulls away from the curb.
And here we are, back up to 503 words but everyone should be able to feel for Eddie ( even if its pity or disgust, its something, it's human).
Here is an unedited sample:
He was still at the in between, the subconscious place where the dark things lurk, when it came. Three quick pounds at the door and he woke. At the shallow layer, the room was filled with the hiss of air, stressed springs, and his own breathing as he flipped around, pulled himself to his knees and thumbed a peek hole in the blinds at the window. As he peered through he might of claimed shock, but of course that claim would have been a lie. Eddie had known it was coming since that terrible day in June, and it had been a dark spot growing inside him for two months, growing darker and more terrifying, in accordance with all the rules that govern life after a unlawful act, growing with the same powerful rise of a drummer’s opening crescendo and finally reaching the splash of his giant cymbal.
There on Eddie’s stoop, pounding in sessions, stood an Allegheny County policeman.
As Eddie slid off the bed, the room was alive with the thump of his feet, groans of the floorboards, and the belabored sound of his panting. He had been dreaming about the girl, and the rude awakening had left him shocked and eager to run away.
He stretched his arms out and then over his mass, yawning, shutting his eyes, rocking his weight from one trunk to the other. He stood there blinking wildly, a man in the shape of a pear. He was a whale of a man with rolls of flesh on his belly and back and beneath his chin, his body was covered in patches of brown to black hair and the hair on his head was solid black. It rested against his forehead with disheveled disarray and he stood still, eyes closed, letting the air from the vent wash over him and cool his nerves. He looked the role of the eternal virgin, the school-yard joke, the fast food junkie, the emotional wreck, and he was. He had hoped with a constant and forlorn hope that someone would come and save him-and thus his picture of the white-knight dream woman had been born. It never came. It never happened.
He steps to the chest of drawers, slide it open, removes wads of clothing, tosses them to the bed, bends with each emptied drawer, stomach gurgling as bubbles rise to a shallow place. Slams the drawer, steps to the bed. Sweat rises on his brow; the room might as well have been a steam room except for the occasional relief of the air from the vent on the wall. Creaks and groans whine under his feet with all the bitch and moan of a colicky infant.
Eddie grabbed the black canvas bag from the nightstand. He stuffed it fat and with a tug and a zip, he was ready to dress.
It wasn’t until he was squeezed behind the wheel of the Toyota compact that he made the decision to grab lunch on the way out of Dodge. He turns over the ignition and chocks the stick into D and pulls away from the curb.
And here we are, back up to 503 words but everyone should be able to feel for Eddie ( even if its pity or disgust, its something, it's human).
Friday, December 26, 2008
Cutting words to keep the same effect
Of course, this is just an example of what can be done to a scene. But I think it still holds the immediacy of the previous draft and doesn't lose anything in the way of needed info.
All this scene is intending to do is hook the reader into wanting to know WTH is going on.
I even lost the bit of rough dialogue and it didn't affect a thing. Thus, from 468 words to 297 and no unneeded foul language.
Three quick pounds at the door and he’s awake.
Eddie flips around and lifts himself by the headboard and pulls his knees under him. Level with the window, he thumbs a peek hole between the slats of the blinds and leans forward to peek through it. He shifts his eye to the right and finds the man-in-blue staring resolute at the font door. He snaps back and lets the slat fall down.
He slides off the bed and grabs an overnight bag from the nightstand. He tosses it on the bed and takes two quick steps to the chest of drawers against the wall. Jerking the drawers open, he bends his back and begins tossing their contents as the bulge of his gut knots against his thighs. Tighter and tighter the knot grows as his bend increases with each emptied drawer.
The room is filled with panting, the hiss of air conditioning and the groan of stressing boards beneath his feet. He grabs a final wad and returns to the bed to unload it. He stuffs the pile into the bag then turns to find his shoes.
As he slips into his Nikes, a bubble gurgles up to a shallow place and he decides to grab lunch on his way out of Dodge.
Minutes later, he steps out of his house on Holloway Road and lumbers, bag on shoulder, to the gray Toyota along the curb.
He slings open the its door and squeezes behind the wheel. As he jabs the key into the ignition, he thinks about the girl and the cop. They won’t get me, he thinks as he turns the ignition forward. Not without a fight.
He chocks the lever into D and pulls onto the road.
Yes, it still needs work but that's the fun of it. Making it perfect.
Now, the next scene needs a slower pace in order to build into a climax and start a rising rhythm.
All this scene is intending to do is hook the reader into wanting to know WTH is going on.
I even lost the bit of rough dialogue and it didn't affect a thing. Thus, from 468 words to 297 and no unneeded foul language.
Three quick pounds at the door and he’s awake.
Eddie flips around and lifts himself by the headboard and pulls his knees under him. Level with the window, he thumbs a peek hole between the slats of the blinds and leans forward to peek through it. He shifts his eye to the right and finds the man-in-blue staring resolute at the font door. He snaps back and lets the slat fall down.
He slides off the bed and grabs an overnight bag from the nightstand. He tosses it on the bed and takes two quick steps to the chest of drawers against the wall. Jerking the drawers open, he bends his back and begins tossing their contents as the bulge of his gut knots against his thighs. Tighter and tighter the knot grows as his bend increases with each emptied drawer.
The room is filled with panting, the hiss of air conditioning and the groan of stressing boards beneath his feet. He grabs a final wad and returns to the bed to unload it. He stuffs the pile into the bag then turns to find his shoes.
As he slips into his Nikes, a bubble gurgles up to a shallow place and he decides to grab lunch on his way out of Dodge.
Minutes later, he steps out of his house on Holloway Road and lumbers, bag on shoulder, to the gray Toyota along the curb.
He slings open the its door and squeezes behind the wheel. As he jabs the key into the ignition, he thinks about the girl and the cop. They won’t get me, he thinks as he turns the ignition forward. Not without a fight.
He chocks the lever into D and pulls onto the road.
Yes, it still needs work but that's the fun of it. Making it perfect.
Now, the next scene needs a slower pace in order to build into a climax and start a rising rhythm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
