Happy Birthday Aunt Kathy, Happy Birthday to you!!!!
Love you bunches and bunches and hope you are having the best day!!!!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Piggybacking- The Duke
Piggybacking – The Duke
"We all have flaws," said the Duke. "Mine is being wicked."
He sipped wine from a jeweled goblet and stroked his hairy chin most thoughtfully. The gleam in his eyes turned from excited to down-right devilish.
"Of course, wickedness is awfully fun."
Greta hugged the cold stone wall, hoping that her heart would stop racing long enough for her brain to start. Think! There had to be some way out of here. She’d always known that her uncle was off, maybe even a little mean, but evil? She would never have believed that of him, at least not until today.
When she woke this morning, she was a carefree princess, not old enough to feel the weight of her position. She knew that she would have to marry someday, and that it would be more an affair of state than of the heart, these were truths she had been prepared for always. However, at twelve, she was still young enough to believe that her betrothed would indeed turn out to be Prince Charming. He could be everything her country needed and exactly what she wanted as well. Why not? She was dressing for breakfast, dreaming of things that could be, when her safe little world had come crashing down.
As most castles do, theirs had many secret passages and tunnels, trapdoors and hidden latches, escape routes and servants’ halls. Greta was tucking the ends of her hair into her chignon, her thoughts wandering from the new books in the library to her horse and back again, when she was startled by the grinding of the false wall scraping across the floor.
When she had become old enough to move out of the nursery and into her own rooms, her father had shown her the panel and the bolthole behind it. He had taught her exactly where to press on the wall to open it and had walked her through the narrow corridor, indicating the passage to his rooms, and the other, which led under the castle walls and out into the eastern gardens. He had warned her never, ever to use them except in extreme emergency, lest a servant should discover them, and had never spoken of it since. The sight of the door cracking open startled her, and in the intervening seconds of silence the hair at the nape of her neck bristled.
“Daddy?”
Greta stood, then hesitated as the panel slid another few inches in. She heard panting, then a small thump. She pushed her stool back and hurried across the room. A few feet from the opening, she stopped so quickly that she almost pitched forward. There was an inky, thick stream of dark red oozing from behind the door.
“Daddy?” She called again, a note of panic in her voice. She picked up her skirts and stepped over the mess, her heart suddenly a small bird fighting to free itself from the cage of her chest. Her father’s great robes were unmistakable, and she felt the aching sob tearing through her as she fell beside him, no longer worried about staining her dress.
“Oh, Daddy! What happened? Who did this to you?” She pressed her hand over the wound in his stomach, trying to hold in the steady stream of his precious life that continued to flow out.
"We all have flaws," said the Duke. "Mine is being wicked."
He sipped wine from a jeweled goblet and stroked his hairy chin most thoughtfully. The gleam in his eyes turned from excited to down-right devilish.
"Of course, wickedness is awfully fun."
Greta hugged the cold stone wall, hoping that her heart would stop racing long enough for her brain to start. Think! There had to be some way out of here. She’d always known that her uncle was off, maybe even a little mean, but evil? She would never have believed that of him, at least not until today.
When she woke this morning, she was a carefree princess, not old enough to feel the weight of her position. She knew that she would have to marry someday, and that it would be more an affair of state than of the heart, these were truths she had been prepared for always. However, at twelve, she was still young enough to believe that her betrothed would indeed turn out to be Prince Charming. He could be everything her country needed and exactly what she wanted as well. Why not? She was dressing for breakfast, dreaming of things that could be, when her safe little world had come crashing down.
As most castles do, theirs had many secret passages and tunnels, trapdoors and hidden latches, escape routes and servants’ halls. Greta was tucking the ends of her hair into her chignon, her thoughts wandering from the new books in the library to her horse and back again, when she was startled by the grinding of the false wall scraping across the floor.
When she had become old enough to move out of the nursery and into her own rooms, her father had shown her the panel and the bolthole behind it. He had taught her exactly where to press on the wall to open it and had walked her through the narrow corridor, indicating the passage to his rooms, and the other, which led under the castle walls and out into the eastern gardens. He had warned her never, ever to use them except in extreme emergency, lest a servant should discover them, and had never spoken of it since. The sight of the door cracking open startled her, and in the intervening seconds of silence the hair at the nape of her neck bristled.
“Daddy?”
Greta stood, then hesitated as the panel slid another few inches in. She heard panting, then a small thump. She pushed her stool back and hurried across the room. A few feet from the opening, she stopped so quickly that she almost pitched forward. There was an inky, thick stream of dark red oozing from behind the door.
“Daddy?” She called again, a note of panic in her voice. She picked up her skirts and stepped over the mess, her heart suddenly a small bird fighting to free itself from the cage of her chest. Her father’s great robes were unmistakable, and she felt the aching sob tearing through her as she fell beside him, no longer worried about staining her dress.
“Oh, Daddy! What happened? Who did this to you?” She pressed her hand over the wound in his stomach, trying to hold in the steady stream of his precious life that continued to flow out.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Working at least
Okay, I'm going to be as brave as TT. Here is what I just wrote, completely unedited, rough first draft. It isn't my piggybacking and therefor what I should be working on, but it is what was on my mind today. I really am going to have to buckle down, pick a project and run with it, like Jan did, if I am ever going to accomplish anything... I get that... but dang it's hard. So anyway, here's what I've got: [it is the beginning of a larger idea that I had]
Lost
To Carter the world couldn’t get much better than this. Yesterday he had turned eight and his mom and dad had gotten him the 10-speed he had been begging and pleading and dying for. They had told him over and over that he wasn’t old enough for one yet, always careful not to say ‘too little’ because of course Carter was huge. Not fat, just huge. He hulked over the other second graders and was happier about summer vacation than even his new bike. No more teasing, no more jokes. His dad told him over and over, Carter, you have a responsibility. Your size gives you an advantage, but because of that, you can’t use it. What was the point of being a big ole freak if he couldn’t even pound on the shrimpy little snots who teased him for it?
He turned as he came up to the Shelton house. He loved to look at it. It had a tower, just like a castle, and Jaymie Shelton lived in the room at the top, just like a princess. He hoped she would look out her window and see him on his new bike. Maybe she would wave, and he would wave back, and then she’d put up the window and call down for him to wait and then…and then…
There was something splattered across the glass on the big patio door. There were no sounds, no music, no tv noise coming from the house. It was creepy and quiet. Something was wrong. Then suddenly a sharp, blaring noise pierced the silent afternoon, and Carter yanked his bike around and raced for home.
Lost
To Carter the world couldn’t get much better than this. Yesterday he had turned eight and his mom and dad had gotten him the 10-speed he had been begging and pleading and dying for. They had told him over and over that he wasn’t old enough for one yet, always careful not to say ‘too little’ because of course Carter was huge. Not fat, just huge. He hulked over the other second graders and was happier about summer vacation than even his new bike. No more teasing, no more jokes. His dad told him over and over, Carter, you have a responsibility. Your size gives you an advantage, but because of that, you can’t use it. What was the point of being a big ole freak if he couldn’t even pound on the shrimpy little snots who teased him for it?
He turned as he came up to the Shelton house. He loved to look at it. It had a tower, just like a castle, and Jaymie Shelton lived in the room at the top, just like a princess. He hoped she would look out her window and see him on his new bike. Maybe she would wave, and he would wave back, and then she’d put up the window and call down for him to wait and then…and then…
There was something splattered across the glass on the big patio door. There were no sounds, no music, no tv noise coming from the house. It was creepy and quiet. Something was wrong. Then suddenly a sharp, blaring noise pierced the silent afternoon, and Carter yanked his bike around and raced for home.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Lillies and The Lovely Bones
In this kingdom there are lillies, growing tall and beautiful, strong and wild. They know the secrets of peace, of bending to the wind, and of waiting for things to come to you. What I would give to be a lilly...
Okay, I know, this is not piggybacking or storytelling or even reasonably good poetry, and therefor I will certainly be accused of cheating, but it has been a long few days, and this was on my mind. Other than that bit, I wanted to recommend Anne Seabold's The Lovely Bones to any who haven't picked it up. Not to give the wrong impression, it is not a book to be taken lightly. It is also not for the faint of heart. I had to put it down three times in the first 33 pages; just set it down, walk away and take a breath. Play with my babies, do something cheerful. It was not a darkly written book, it was oddly cherful and light in some regards. I was actually amazed at Seabold's ability to do that. It would not be easy for someone who has lost a child, because of course it is about the death of a young girl. It lets you know that in the opening line, "My name was..."
In truth it is not an easy read for anyone, but it is a great read. I truly enjoyed the book. It was more than a book to me, it was a lesson, a learning experience, about grief and life and family and the impact of death on everyone. I commend and thank Mrs. Seabold for sharing her wisdom, and will, when I am ready, pick up Lucky.
Okay, I know, this is not piggybacking or storytelling or even reasonably good poetry, and therefor I will certainly be accused of cheating, but it has been a long few days, and this was on my mind. Other than that bit, I wanted to recommend Anne Seabold's The Lovely Bones to any who haven't picked it up. Not to give the wrong impression, it is not a book to be taken lightly. It is also not for the faint of heart. I had to put it down three times in the first 33 pages; just set it down, walk away and take a breath. Play with my babies, do something cheerful. It was not a darkly written book, it was oddly cherful and light in some regards. I was actually amazed at Seabold's ability to do that. It would not be easy for someone who has lost a child, because of course it is about the death of a young girl. It lets you know that in the opening line, "My name was..."
In truth it is not an easy read for anyone, but it is a great read. I truly enjoyed the book. It was more than a book to me, it was a lesson, a learning experience, about grief and life and family and the impact of death on everyone. I commend and thank Mrs. Seabold for sharing her wisdom, and will, when I am ready, pick up Lucky.
Monday, January 12, 2009
excuse me please
Sorry, slacking I know, but I have been doing some reviewing and editing for a fellow writer, so I am working...sorta...
Saturday, January 10, 2009
More Piggybacking...
Three days earlier:
"Kyle, man what happened last night?"
"Stu! Dude, you were awesome! I won like five hundred bucks betting on you." Kyle's voice was like thunder booming in Stuart's head. He winced and held the phone several inches from his ear as he turned the shower on.
"Um, okay. Great for you. What the hell was I doing? I woke up covered in something sticky.
Just something sticky, Kyle.
My place is trashed and I feel like I've been run over. What happened?"
"Well, first there were those girls from Eastern..."
Stuart wasn't listening anymore. He had turned to grab a towel and caught sight of his reflection. There was not only what looked and smelled like chocolate syrup smeared all over him, but there was also an unmistakeable ring of lipstick decorating his - personal parts.
Stu had lived his entire life in luxury. He had done some wild things, some crazy things, some things he wasn't proud of and sure, a few things that he couldn't really remember, but to not even remotely have any recollection of a hummer? Yeah, he was officially on the wagon.
"Kyle, man what happened last night?"
"Stu! Dude, you were awesome! I won like five hundred bucks betting on you." Kyle's voice was like thunder booming in Stuart's head. He winced and held the phone several inches from his ear as he turned the shower on.
"Um, okay. Great for you. What the hell was I doing? I woke up covered in something sticky.
Just something sticky, Kyle.
My place is trashed and I feel like I've been run over. What happened?"
"Well, first there were those girls from Eastern..."
Stuart wasn't listening anymore. He had turned to grab a towel and caught sight of his reflection. There was not only what looked and smelled like chocolate syrup smeared all over him, but there was also an unmistakeable ring of lipstick decorating his - personal parts.
Stu had lived his entire life in luxury. He had done some wild things, some crazy things, some things he wasn't proud of and sure, a few things that he couldn't really remember, but to not even remotely have any recollection of a hummer? Yeah, he was officially on the wagon.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Piggybacking
Our project for the next two weeks is something called 'piggybacking', which is a writing exercise in which you steal a first line and go from there. (I've just been told the correct term is 'borrow' a first line, I disagree, but po-tay-to po-tah-to, right?) So anyway, I have considered a few:
"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." This of course from Stephen King's The Gunslinger. I don't think I can do this one, it is one of my all time favorite stories and it is my favorite first line ever. I keep thining, 'how on earth can you go anywhere else with that?' Next:
"We all have flaws," said the Duke. "Mine is being wicked." This was in People magazine as 'thus begins' a book named 13 clocks, that I have not actually read, though I belive I will soon be picking up for the kids. I like it, but am not certain if that is the actual first line. If it is, I was thinking:
"We all have flaws," said the Duke. "Mine is being wicked."
He sipped wine from a jeweled goblet and stroked his hairy chin most thoughtfully. The gleam in his eyes turned from excited to down-right devilish.
"Of course, wickedness is awfully fun."
Okay, so whadda ya think? Huh huh huh?
Yeah, let's try one more just in case...I am going to randomly pick something off of my sister's bookshelf...hmmm, Nora Roberts' Sweet Revenge. This may take several tries. First line is - oh, this may be do-able. Here goes:
'Stuart Spencer hated his hotel room excessively.' Not marginally, not slightly, not even grievously. Excessively.
Stuart was well acquainted with excess. You might even say it defined him. He not only indulged himself with his every desire, he overindulged. He had never stayed in anything less than a five-star hotel suite. He looked around the grimy walls of his 15x15 room just as a fat, shiny cockroach skittered across the door. A shudder ran down his spine and he wondered how he had gone from there to here in just three days.
Hmmm. This is harder than it sounds. I keep second guessing myself, wondering if I am totally messing up someone else's work, if I am too close to the original work and thereby bordering on plagerism, if I am too opposite and thus losing the perfection of that first line's placement... gahhh! Anyway, this is my start, let me know what you think, please.
"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." This of course from Stephen King's The Gunslinger. I don't think I can do this one, it is one of my all time favorite stories and it is my favorite first line ever. I keep thining, 'how on earth can you go anywhere else with that?' Next:
"We all have flaws," said the Duke. "Mine is being wicked." This was in People magazine as 'thus begins' a book named 13 clocks, that I have not actually read, though I belive I will soon be picking up for the kids. I like it, but am not certain if that is the actual first line. If it is, I was thinking:
"We all have flaws," said the Duke. "Mine is being wicked."
He sipped wine from a jeweled goblet and stroked his hairy chin most thoughtfully. The gleam in his eyes turned from excited to down-right devilish.
"Of course, wickedness is awfully fun."
Okay, so whadda ya think? Huh huh huh?
Yeah, let's try one more just in case...I am going to randomly pick something off of my sister's bookshelf...hmmm, Nora Roberts' Sweet Revenge. This may take several tries. First line is - oh, this may be do-able. Here goes:
'Stuart Spencer hated his hotel room excessively.' Not marginally, not slightly, not even grievously. Excessively.
Stuart was well acquainted with excess. You might even say it defined him. He not only indulged himself with his every desire, he overindulged. He had never stayed in anything less than a five-star hotel suite. He looked around the grimy walls of his 15x15 room just as a fat, shiny cockroach skittered across the door. A shudder ran down his spine and he wondered how he had gone from there to here in just three days.
Hmmm. This is harder than it sounds. I keep second guessing myself, wondering if I am totally messing up someone else's work, if I am too close to the original work and thereby bordering on plagerism, if I am too opposite and thus losing the perfection of that first line's placement... gahhh! Anyway, this is my start, let me know what you think, please.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
TRUE intro
Okay, this is the intro page to a much larger piece, (working title 'The True Story') (Not a true story) but I am a little stuck on some things, so please let me know what exactly this gives you, so that I will at least know if I am on the right track or completely derailed or somewhere in between. Also, I can't quite get the formatting right here in the blog, so bear with me on that, please...
A woman asked me once, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
We were on our second date and she’d done nothing but interrogate me for hours. I humored her, because really, why not. When you know that a person is experiencing the last hours of their life, it’s easy to be tolerant.
I grinned at her, knowing my dimples would make me seem boyish and cute. “Sometimes I sing too loud in church.”
She thought that was the funniest thing.
A woman asked me once, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
We were on our second date and she’d done nothing but interrogate me for hours. I humored her, because really, why not. When you know that a person is experiencing the last hours of their life, it’s easy to be tolerant.
I grinned at her, knowing my dimples would make me seem boyish and cute. “Sometimes I sing too loud in church.”
She thought that was the funniest thing.
Monday, January 5, 2009
One Scary Lady
Have you ever noticed that there are no truly scary women? ('m sure there are men and women alike outraged around the world by that statement, or there would be if anyone were reading my blog...) Okay, so there are plenty of scary women. My mother is among them. What I mean is, if you are a fan of horror, who is your role model? Stephen King? (He's mine, so he goes first) Clive Barker? Ray Bradbury? Neil Gaiman? Someone older? Nathaniel Hawthorne? Poe? Where are the women? There are a few, don't get me wrong, but can you think of any that are popular, active, best-sellers, or even good? Not I. Does it say something odd about me that my greatest dream is to not only be listed among Horror writers, but to be truly as horrific, as SCARY as the best of the guys? To not, ahem, 'scare like a girl'? Well, whatever it says about me, it is true. That is my passion, my dream and my goal. King describes it as (paraphrase) people paying good money to be made extremely uncomfortable. I want to be the one creeping them out and taking their money.
So here I am, with my New Year's resolution to by gosh write every day, even if it is just crap, and that's exactly what I'm starting with, crap about what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. I also have resolved to branch out in my reading. This has been helped along by the Thursday Night Book Club, hereafter to be the TNBC, which some fellow writers and I have created. Any readers out there who enjoy being extremely uncomfortable and have not discovered Cormac McCarthy, you should do so. No Country for Old Men was EXCELLENT, gripping, disturbing and highly enjoyable.
If anyone would like to help me out, my latest obsession is fear. What are you afraid of? Let me know so I can sneak up and throw it back at you. Thanks, that's all for today.
So here I am, with my New Year's resolution to by gosh write every day, even if it is just crap, and that's exactly what I'm starting with, crap about what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. I also have resolved to branch out in my reading. This has been helped along by the Thursday Night Book Club, hereafter to be the TNBC, which some fellow writers and I have created. Any readers out there who enjoy being extremely uncomfortable and have not discovered Cormac McCarthy, you should do so. No Country for Old Men was EXCELLENT, gripping, disturbing and highly enjoyable.
If anyone would like to help me out, my latest obsession is fear. What are you afraid of? Let me know so I can sneak up and throw it back at you. Thanks, that's all for today.
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