"Ten little soldier boys went out to dine,
One choked his little self and then there were nine...."
So begins the poem in each bedroom of the ten guests invited to Soldier Island. Ten guests...and only one knows that none shall ever return.
After dinner one evening, while all are gathered in the living room, a voice is heard, and it accuses everyone present of murder! Then, the number of guests begin to dwindle as, one-by-one, the unknown accusor claims a life. Further more, no one else is on the island save for the dwindling number of guests and the increasing number of bodies. Repelled from each other by fear yet bonded together for security, they must find which one of them is the murderer or none will be left to tell the tale.
This book, often considered Christie's greatest masterpiece, is definitely a winner. Stuffed with shady characters and replete with many twists and turns, not even the reader knows whom he can fully trust. Moreover, the plot is original and genius. A must read for all mystery fans!
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Lecture Four- Description
Have you ever read a book where the author just says something and you can almost feel what just happened? If you're a reader, most likely you'll say yes. How can you accomplish this in your own story? Description.
Description is one of the most enjoyable aspects of writing to me. I know that some people despise it because it involves stringing together words in an almost poetic manner, but I love it.
Description provides the reader with the sights, sounds, textures, and even, if you've done a good job, the smells in your story. You not only want them to see that fire crackling in the hearth, you want them to feel it. What does the rotten meat smell like? What does the steaming stew taste like?
All if this adds reality to your story. Also, it places the reader in the scene, just as if he or she is experiencing the same things as your characters.
However, description does not reach its full capacity by simply stating the facts. Consider the following statements:
The mountains were tall. The grass swayed.
While this might pass as description, it doesn't accomplish quite what it could. Compare it to these statements:
The moutains loomed ahead of us, piercing the clouds, their peaks crowned in snow-white caps. All beneath seemed to pay tribute to them, for even the grass bowed their heads as the wind flowed over them.
This not only tells us all the information we need to know, but lends a mood to the sentences. Although it is never stated outright, we see and feel that the mountains are fearsome.
One rule that applies to every aspect of writing: do NOT be redundant! I have noticed that when I read a book and the author repeats a word that is too conspicuous, I will remember it. Even if it was one hundred pages ago. It's an easy trap to fall into, so be on your guard.
Want to know the secret to writing great description? Learn how to use poetic devices. Alliteration, similes, metaphors, and personification are especially useful tools.
Alliteration occurs when two words start with the same sound (and, although there are exceptions, usually the same word). For example:
Colorful smoke snaked to the ceiling in slow spirals.
Not only does this accomplish the point, but the reader loves the sound of it. If you're experienced enough, you can manipulate the alliteration to do many subtle things, such as reinforce a particular characteristic, or point to someone who is in the scene (in this scene, there is a serpent, and the harsh-sounding s's make a hissing sound).
Similes give a comparison of two things using the words like or as. It is perhaps the most prominent kind of comparison. Here is an example of a simile used in description:
Like a tall tree, she stood rooted to the ground.
Metaphors, like similes, are a comparison of two things. However, a metaphor drops the usage of like or as. These are quite harder to give an example for (how many metaphors can you think of?) but this is my best:
Her eyes were clouds of gray as they penetrated into my soul.
Personification is when a lifeless object is labeled with a life-like quality. This is useful when trying to reveal a mood or feeling critical to that scene. For example:
The gorgeous golden sun glared down at the weary travelers.
This tells tus hat the weather is hot. It also leaves us with the impression that the travelers are a bit oppressed.
Once you have learned to master description, you will be able to do more tricks with it. For now, however, it is best if you just master the bascis of this intricate side of writing. Look up more poetic sound devices, and learn how to apply them to your story. Later, we will really delve into the techniques that will thrill your readers and help to leave them awed and breathless. But that all starts with the basics. Practice them now, and your writing will reach the closest to perfection that it can later.
What mysteries lie in using dialogue? That's next!
Description is one of the most enjoyable aspects of writing to me. I know that some people despise it because it involves stringing together words in an almost poetic manner, but I love it.
Description provides the reader with the sights, sounds, textures, and even, if you've done a good job, the smells in your story. You not only want them to see that fire crackling in the hearth, you want them to feel it. What does the rotten meat smell like? What does the steaming stew taste like?
All if this adds reality to your story. Also, it places the reader in the scene, just as if he or she is experiencing the same things as your characters.
However, description does not reach its full capacity by simply stating the facts. Consider the following statements:
The mountains were tall. The grass swayed.
While this might pass as description, it doesn't accomplish quite what it could. Compare it to these statements:
The moutains loomed ahead of us, piercing the clouds, their peaks crowned in snow-white caps. All beneath seemed to pay tribute to them, for even the grass bowed their heads as the wind flowed over them.
This not only tells us all the information we need to know, but lends a mood to the sentences. Although it is never stated outright, we see and feel that the mountains are fearsome.
One rule that applies to every aspect of writing: do NOT be redundant! I have noticed that when I read a book and the author repeats a word that is too conspicuous, I will remember it. Even if it was one hundred pages ago. It's an easy trap to fall into, so be on your guard.
Want to know the secret to writing great description? Learn how to use poetic devices. Alliteration, similes, metaphors, and personification are especially useful tools.
Alliteration occurs when two words start with the same sound (and, although there are exceptions, usually the same word). For example:
Colorful smoke snaked to the ceiling in slow spirals.
Not only does this accomplish the point, but the reader loves the sound of it. If you're experienced enough, you can manipulate the alliteration to do many subtle things, such as reinforce a particular characteristic, or point to someone who is in the scene (in this scene, there is a serpent, and the harsh-sounding s's make a hissing sound).
Similes give a comparison of two things using the words like or as. It is perhaps the most prominent kind of comparison. Here is an example of a simile used in description:
Like a tall tree, she stood rooted to the ground.
Metaphors, like similes, are a comparison of two things. However, a metaphor drops the usage of like or as. These are quite harder to give an example for (how many metaphors can you think of?) but this is my best:
Her eyes were clouds of gray as they penetrated into my soul.
Personification is when a lifeless object is labeled with a life-like quality. This is useful when trying to reveal a mood or feeling critical to that scene. For example:
The gorgeous golden sun glared down at the weary travelers.
This tells tus hat the weather is hot. It also leaves us with the impression that the travelers are a bit oppressed.
Once you have learned to master description, you will be able to do more tricks with it. For now, however, it is best if you just master the bascis of this intricate side of writing. Look up more poetic sound devices, and learn how to apply them to your story. Later, we will really delve into the techniques that will thrill your readers and help to leave them awed and breathless. But that all starts with the basics. Practice them now, and your writing will reach the closest to perfection that it can later.
What mysteries lie in using dialogue? That's next!
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Lecture three- Characters and the Game of Who are You, What are You, and What are You Doing Here?
Want to know the secret that might propel your book into the bestseller category? Characters. And I don't mean just any characters, but characters that seem to live and breathe. They're imperfect. They've got strengths. They've got weaknesses.
"But why won't people just accept perfect characters?" you may ask.
Perhaps the best example I can use is Nancy Drew. Yes, she has survived over 3/4 of a century, but if you look at some of the yellow hardback versions, you'll find yourself almost frustrated with her. Why? Because she's perfect. Most of her hunches are right, and the guy she suspects in the beginning really is the culprit. She doesn't have dietary weaknesses, and as a result is neither fat nor thin, but just right. Although people love her adventures, you'd be pretty hard put to find someone who can actually relate to our young detective.
Fortunately, there is a way to create characters so memorable that your reader won't be able to put the book down. There are four things that you'll want to consider when writing up your character analysises.
First, you should brainstorm. What do you imagine your character acting like in your book? What personality do you immediately associate with him or her? After you've done this, try to imagine your character's past. Since our past experiences affect how we behave in the present, this tremendously adds depth and reality to your character. Also, you'll want to fill in some information about the character's likes and dislikes, physical appearance, etc. Even if these pieces of information are never stated outright in the book, it will aid your character performance greatly if you know them.
Second, look inside yourself. You'll find your fears, your hurts, your pet peeves, your experiences, and much more. Try putting some of these into your character. Don't be afraid to put in some of your bad qualities,too. After all, no one really has to know that it's you!
Third, observe others. What kinds of people make your blood boil, and why? Who is your best friend, and why do you like him or her? What are the qualities you deem as good in people? What are the qualities you deem as bad? Dig as deeply as you can. What kind of house does the person live in? How do her children behave? What methods of parenting does she use? What is her favorite food? Beverage? What are her morals? You get the picture.
Fourth, try to form characters from the plot. Does your lead need to be good at tracking because she's traveling over mountains trying to catch up with her parents? Is he naturally persistent because it's a lofty goal that you need him to attain? Also, don't make the character good at everything you have for him or her, or the character will be stale. Instead, give the character a weakness(es) that will get everyone in trouble from time to time. You might want to make one character weak in one area, and another character strong in the same area. For example, does the talented tracker lack confidence? Make a character that abounds in confidence, and may be even a little daring, and you'll see that they complement each other nicely.
I have yet to see someone beat the chemistry of Frodo and Sam from J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Frodo's intentions are good, but Tolkien well knew the power of the ring, and it did not fail to take control of the poor hobbit. Had it not been for Sam, Frodo would have turned back. Through all of Frodo's struggles against the power of the ring, Sam remained faithful, confident, and humble. Had Sam not looked on the bright side of situations and encouraged his friend, Frodo most likely would never have made it. Tolkien had taken the time to get to know how his characters would help each other, and the affects are astounding.
As for the naming process, experiment around a bit. Try naming your character something unusual or choose a name with a meaning that fits that individual. Names that point to cultural backgrounds are great, too. In one of my fantasy books, I chose to distinguish my elven characters by naming each of them after trees., most likely because I often place my elven villages in forests. Aspen, Cypress, Willow, Birch, Maple, and Oak are some of the names I thought of. Don't worry if your character's name is a common one, either. Check out some baby name books and websites. When you find the right name, you will know it.
Creating characters is hard work, but the deeper you dig, the better your book will become. Add all of the details you can think of- idiosyncrasies, favorite animal, favorite flavor of lip gloss, etc. Next, we'll discuss dialogue! See ya!
"But why won't people just accept perfect characters?" you may ask.
Perhaps the best example I can use is Nancy Drew. Yes, she has survived over 3/4 of a century, but if you look at some of the yellow hardback versions, you'll find yourself almost frustrated with her. Why? Because she's perfect. Most of her hunches are right, and the guy she suspects in the beginning really is the culprit. She doesn't have dietary weaknesses, and as a result is neither fat nor thin, but just right. Although people love her adventures, you'd be pretty hard put to find someone who can actually relate to our young detective.
Fortunately, there is a way to create characters so memorable that your reader won't be able to put the book down. There are four things that you'll want to consider when writing up your character analysises.
First, you should brainstorm. What do you imagine your character acting like in your book? What personality do you immediately associate with him or her? After you've done this, try to imagine your character's past. Since our past experiences affect how we behave in the present, this tremendously adds depth and reality to your character. Also, you'll want to fill in some information about the character's likes and dislikes, physical appearance, etc. Even if these pieces of information are never stated outright in the book, it will aid your character performance greatly if you know them.
Second, look inside yourself. You'll find your fears, your hurts, your pet peeves, your experiences, and much more. Try putting some of these into your character. Don't be afraid to put in some of your bad qualities,too. After all, no one really has to know that it's you!
Third, observe others. What kinds of people make your blood boil, and why? Who is your best friend, and why do you like him or her? What are the qualities you deem as good in people? What are the qualities you deem as bad? Dig as deeply as you can. What kind of house does the person live in? How do her children behave? What methods of parenting does she use? What is her favorite food? Beverage? What are her morals? You get the picture.
Fourth, try to form characters from the plot. Does your lead need to be good at tracking because she's traveling over mountains trying to catch up with her parents? Is he naturally persistent because it's a lofty goal that you need him to attain? Also, don't make the character good at everything you have for him or her, or the character will be stale. Instead, give the character a weakness(es) that will get everyone in trouble from time to time. You might want to make one character weak in one area, and another character strong in the same area. For example, does the talented tracker lack confidence? Make a character that abounds in confidence, and may be even a little daring, and you'll see that they complement each other nicely.
I have yet to see someone beat the chemistry of Frodo and Sam from J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Frodo's intentions are good, but Tolkien well knew the power of the ring, and it did not fail to take control of the poor hobbit. Had it not been for Sam, Frodo would have turned back. Through all of Frodo's struggles against the power of the ring, Sam remained faithful, confident, and humble. Had Sam not looked on the bright side of situations and encouraged his friend, Frodo most likely would never have made it. Tolkien had taken the time to get to know how his characters would help each other, and the affects are astounding.
As for the naming process, experiment around a bit. Try naming your character something unusual or choose a name with a meaning that fits that individual. Names that point to cultural backgrounds are great, too. In one of my fantasy books, I chose to distinguish my elven characters by naming each of them after trees., most likely because I often place my elven villages in forests. Aspen, Cypress, Willow, Birch, Maple, and Oak are some of the names I thought of. Don't worry if your character's name is a common one, either. Check out some baby name books and websites. When you find the right name, you will know it.
Creating characters is hard work, but the deeper you dig, the better your book will become. Add all of the details you can think of- idiosyncrasies, favorite animal, favorite flavor of lip gloss, etc. Next, we'll discuss dialogue! See ya!
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Crimson Tears
This is a book idea that I got doing...well, I can't quite remember what. I don't really have much of the plot all sorted out, but I know so far that it is about a girl with a red cross upon her hand. A red cross that puts her life, her emotions, and the world's fate on the line. So far, I'm calling it Crimson Tears because of all the hurts and trials she has to go through. Either that or I'm going to call it Chosen, because my character's red cross marks her as a special person, and because the book may be emotional, but it is also a bit dark and mysterious. Here is a fraction of the opening scene:
A girl sat in the middle of the dust laden trail, clutching a tattered blanket about her shoulders. Rain churned the path beneath her into slushy puddles. The girl gnawed on her filthy finger, summoning rivers of blood that bathed themselves in the clear droplets that landed on her hand. Her hair dangled in front of her face in wet, gnarled snarls. The clouds blockaded the sun, not permitting even the smallest of beams to illuminate the dark depths of the world. And that was just what Mercy Accacia's world was; dark.
She turned her face towards the sky and hissed at heaven. "Why is this happening? Why?!"
Sobs throttled her parched throat as she buried her head in dirt lined arms. Her crimson eyes shed tears that dribbled down her cheeks and dropped into the puddles, leaving a mark of pain in the world that seemed to be so adamently against her......
What title do you think works best? Post a comment and tell me!
A girl sat in the middle of the dust laden trail, clutching a tattered blanket about her shoulders. Rain churned the path beneath her into slushy puddles. The girl gnawed on her filthy finger, summoning rivers of blood that bathed themselves in the clear droplets that landed on her hand. Her hair dangled in front of her face in wet, gnarled snarls. The clouds blockaded the sun, not permitting even the smallest of beams to illuminate the dark depths of the world. And that was just what Mercy Accacia's world was; dark.
She turned her face towards the sky and hissed at heaven. "Why is this happening? Why?!"
Sobs throttled her parched throat as she buried her head in dirt lined arms. Her crimson eyes shed tears that dribbled down her cheeks and dropped into the puddles, leaving a mark of pain in the world that seemed to be so adamently against her......
What title do you think works best? Post a comment and tell me!
Friday, December 21, 2007
National Treasure 2- watch it with caution
Three years ago, our nation sat riveted to their seats as Ben Gates, Abigail Chase, and Riley Poole solved complicated riddles, gave us a movie packed with suspense, found a treasure, and managed to teach us unique, little-known tidbits about our nation's history. Well, in National Treasure, Book of Secrets these heroes are certainly back, but whether or not that's a good thing is a matter of debate.
The curtain lifts upon the evening of President Lincoln's assasination, when John Wilkes Booth gives Thomas Gates a document to translate. The rest of the beginning then follows the events of Lincoln's murder, and Gates finds out about the plot and throws the document he is translating into the fire. Nevertheless, over one hundred years later, the name of Thomas Gates is revealed on a missing page of the diary of John Wilkes Booth; in a list of those involved in Lincoln's murder. Thus, Ben Gates, joined by his friends Abigail and Riley, sets off on the mission to prove the world wrong once again. Oh, and the finding of a certain Olmec treasure just happens to be involved.
As intriguing as the plot may sound, do not be fooled. Or go in to the theater with your hopes up, at least. The plot is cookie-cutter of the last one, and slow in some areas. The riddles aren't half as baffling, and the research is in shambles. How in the world did an Olmec (the predecessors of the Mayans of Central America) treasure end up in the Northern U.S., as if it belonged there? Oh, and did I mention that everybody was having relationship problems and that the bad guy wasn't really that much of a bad guy? I will say that Riley was much more funny, but I didn't necessarily go to the theater to laugh my head off.
Don't get me wrong, the movie does have exciting parts, just nothing that's eye-opening or new.
Also, you might want to check Plugged In or another reliable review source to get an idea for the content of the movie. We didn't, and they did add some questionable stuff that I will not repeat here because I don't know the exact age range and maturity level of my audience.
Overall, I'd give it about three stars. Although it was good, it's potential was even greater. They could have made a stupendous, blow-me-away movie, but they blew it. I would still probably recommend you see it, but watch it with caution.
The curtain lifts upon the evening of President Lincoln's assasination, when John Wilkes Booth gives Thomas Gates a document to translate. The rest of the beginning then follows the events of Lincoln's murder, and Gates finds out about the plot and throws the document he is translating into the fire. Nevertheless, over one hundred years later, the name of Thomas Gates is revealed on a missing page of the diary of John Wilkes Booth; in a list of those involved in Lincoln's murder. Thus, Ben Gates, joined by his friends Abigail and Riley, sets off on the mission to prove the world wrong once again. Oh, and the finding of a certain Olmec treasure just happens to be involved.
As intriguing as the plot may sound, do not be fooled. Or go in to the theater with your hopes up, at least. The plot is cookie-cutter of the last one, and slow in some areas. The riddles aren't half as baffling, and the research is in shambles. How in the world did an Olmec (the predecessors of the Mayans of Central America) treasure end up in the Northern U.S., as if it belonged there? Oh, and did I mention that everybody was having relationship problems and that the bad guy wasn't really that much of a bad guy? I will say that Riley was much more funny, but I didn't necessarily go to the theater to laugh my head off.
Don't get me wrong, the movie does have exciting parts, just nothing that's eye-opening or new.
Also, you might want to check Plugged In or another reliable review source to get an idea for the content of the movie. We didn't, and they did add some questionable stuff that I will not repeat here because I don't know the exact age range and maturity level of my audience.
Overall, I'd give it about three stars. Although it was good, it's potential was even greater. They could have made a stupendous, blow-me-away movie, but they blew it. I would still probably recommend you see it, but watch it with caution.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Ambisinister Burrow and the Occupations He Tried
This idea originated a few years ago when I was working on animal characters for an assignment that I had due for a Bravewriter course. I was supposed choose an animal and then write a scene about him or her. I decided on a meerkat. As I developed the scene, I discovered that the meerkat was clumsy. Thus, the name Ambisinister came to mind (I had just learned that the name meant clumsy). Burrow seemed a fitting last name since that's what meerkats do; they burrow. Now, I have the first draft of the book done. It's for toddlers aroudn Brielle's age, so if the writing seems way too young for all of you, it was intended to be that way. So, here it is- Ambisinister Burrow and the Occupations He Tried (Please note that this is only a first draft and might need some work. Feel free to critique it. Those of you with little ones may also copy it if you'd like)!
Ambisinister was a little meerkat. He lived in a burrow with the rest of his family. But, other than that, he wasn’t like the rest of the meerkats at all, because he was clumsy. He always seemed to be tripping over his own two feet.
His friends were always teasing him. “Hey, stumbler! Come and try to catch me!” “Bet I can dive into the hole faster than you can, pokey!”
All of these taunts hurt Ambisinister. He wanted to cry. And now, the teasing had just gotten worse; for it was time to pursue a job.
Ambisinister did his best, but his clumsy habits always seemed to get in his way. While trying to dig tunnels, he would accidentally stand on the wrong pile of dirt, and it would all fall into the hole- covering the entrance. He tried to hunt, but he would trip over a rock and cry out, “Ow!” scaring all of the prey away. He tried to carefully watch his friends, but they got annoyed.
“Oh, just leave us alone, useless one! You’ll never become anything!”
Ambisinister told himself that what they said was not true. “I will become something someday. I will!”
One day, he had an idea. Just as soon as everyone was awake, he dashed out of the tunnel and took up his post upon a rock. Scanning the horizon, he sniffed the air. The sun shone brightly in his eyes.
After a while, he began to dream. He dreamt of being a guard-all of the dangers he would warn his community of, all of the meerkats he would save.
Suddenly, a deep growl snapped him out of his dream. He stood frozen- directly over him stood a great lion.
He opened his mouth to warn the rest of the meerkats, but all that came out was a high pitched screech. “Eeeeeeeee!”
Ambisinister leapt in the air, diving for the hole. Bump! That would leave a mark!
He stood up, rubbing his injured head. He looked behind him- the lion was getting closer. He dove for the hole again; this time making it.
That night, the elders of the meerkat community talked to him. “You should not have tried to guard us. You put everyone in danger.”
Ambisinister dropped his head in shame. Walking back to his home, he slumped down on the floor to sleep.
A few weeks later, the community was beginning to run out of food. The elders held a meeting.
“We need to go hunting,” they agreed.
When everyone heard of the decision, they were very excited. Everyone decided to take a day off of work to get ready to go. Only the babies and their babysitters knew they must stay behind.
Ambisinister tried to get ready, too, but the meerkats were telling him, “You can’t come. You’ll scare everything away.”
Ambisinister was very sad. The other meerkats would get to participate in the hunt, but he would have to stay behind. As he and the babies and their babysitters watched the other meerkats leave, one little baby tugged on his paw.
“Yes?” he said.
“Why aren’t you going with them?” she asked.
A smile suddenly pulled on his lips. He began to tell her a story about a very clumsy meerkat who couldn’t find a job. Gradually, more and more babies abandoned their babysitters to listen to his story. When he was done, they asked for another. And another. He kept telling stories until the parents came home. Everyone was happy with how the were kept occupied. They gave him the job of babysitter. As he grew older, they began to say that he was the best one they ever had. And there was never again another meerkat as clumsy as he.
The End
Ambisinister was a little meerkat. He lived in a burrow with the rest of his family. But, other than that, he wasn’t like the rest of the meerkats at all, because he was clumsy. He always seemed to be tripping over his own two feet.
His friends were always teasing him. “Hey, stumbler! Come and try to catch me!” “Bet I can dive into the hole faster than you can, pokey!”
All of these taunts hurt Ambisinister. He wanted to cry. And now, the teasing had just gotten worse; for it was time to pursue a job.
Ambisinister did his best, but his clumsy habits always seemed to get in his way. While trying to dig tunnels, he would accidentally stand on the wrong pile of dirt, and it would all fall into the hole- covering the entrance. He tried to hunt, but he would trip over a rock and cry out, “Ow!” scaring all of the prey away. He tried to carefully watch his friends, but they got annoyed.
“Oh, just leave us alone, useless one! You’ll never become anything!”
Ambisinister told himself that what they said was not true. “I will become something someday. I will!”
One day, he had an idea. Just as soon as everyone was awake, he dashed out of the tunnel and took up his post upon a rock. Scanning the horizon, he sniffed the air. The sun shone brightly in his eyes.
After a while, he began to dream. He dreamt of being a guard-all of the dangers he would warn his community of, all of the meerkats he would save.
Suddenly, a deep growl snapped him out of his dream. He stood frozen- directly over him stood a great lion.
He opened his mouth to warn the rest of the meerkats, but all that came out was a high pitched screech. “Eeeeeeeee!”
Ambisinister leapt in the air, diving for the hole. Bump! That would leave a mark!
He stood up, rubbing his injured head. He looked behind him- the lion was getting closer. He dove for the hole again; this time making it.
That night, the elders of the meerkat community talked to him. “You should not have tried to guard us. You put everyone in danger.”
Ambisinister dropped his head in shame. Walking back to his home, he slumped down on the floor to sleep.
A few weeks later, the community was beginning to run out of food. The elders held a meeting.
“We need to go hunting,” they agreed.
When everyone heard of the decision, they were very excited. Everyone decided to take a day off of work to get ready to go. Only the babies and their babysitters knew they must stay behind.
Ambisinister tried to get ready, too, but the meerkats were telling him, “You can’t come. You’ll scare everything away.”
Ambisinister was very sad. The other meerkats would get to participate in the hunt, but he would have to stay behind. As he and the babies and their babysitters watched the other meerkats leave, one little baby tugged on his paw.
“Yes?” he said.
“Why aren’t you going with them?” she asked.
A smile suddenly pulled on his lips. He began to tell her a story about a very clumsy meerkat who couldn’t find a job. Gradually, more and more babies abandoned their babysitters to listen to his story. When he was done, they asked for another. And another. He kept telling stories until the parents came home. Everyone was happy with how the were kept occupied. They gave him the job of babysitter. As he grew older, they began to say that he was the best one they ever had. And there was never again another meerkat as clumsy as he.
The End
Darkness Cloaked the Moon....A Christian Writers Guild Assignment
I wrote this poem as part of a Christian Writers Guild assignment that I had to send to my mentor. It needed to include two similes, two metaphors, one use of personification, one use of an apostrophe, an oxymoron, a paradox, three different forms of exaggeration, and it needed to be in free verse (don't make me explain all of that!). It also had to be divided up into stanzas, be at least 48 lines long, and be a story. Anyway, the following is what I ended up with:
Stanza 1
Darkness cloaked the moon,
As the bells tolled out my ruin.
Stanza 2
The stone about my throat,
As I struggled to stay afloat.
Stanza 3
Alas, if only I had followed his advice,
For my situation is not nice.
Stanza 4
For I met him,
And all on a whim,
Stanza 5
My heart was stolen from me,
And then all was too late to foresee.
Stanza 6
For his father liked me not,
And he tried to foil our plots.
Stanza 7
We would steal away in the night.
Meet each other in moonlight bright.
Stanza 8
Then on one night he said to me,
“Come. Let us steal away and be free.”
Stanza 9
Follow this plan we did,
And from his father’s face we hid.
Stanza 10
Throughout the land we wandered,
And with each step we pondered,
Stanza 11
What we had done ill,
For our supplies were nearly nil.
Stanza 12
And when he lay dying,
I grasped his hand and began crying.
Stanza 13
“Oh, my Romeo! Oh, my dove!
“What can I do to help you, my love?”
Stanza 14
He took my hand and looked at me long.
“Oh, my Esther, my Queen! I have done you wrong!
Stanza 15
“For I have led you from your home,
And into a fruitless adventure tome.
Stanza 16
“Here me now, it’s my last cry,
“Here me now and do apply.
Stanza 17
“Do not go back from whence you came!
“Take another and bear his name!
Stanza 18
“For I shall not live to see you again,
Beware my father’s trap, his den!”
Stanza 19
And with that came a sigh.
In my arms he did die.
Stanza 20
Follow his advice I tried to do,
But I found my affections hard to renew.
Stanza 21
So I made my way back,
Through a world doused in black.
Stanza 22
Black hovered before my eyes,
Deepening my grief and filling the skies.
Stanza 23
And every night,
In the middle of my plight,
Stanza 24
Like a warning noise,
Came the wind’s howling voice.
Stanza 25
Then one day, as the sun arose,
I saw the little house rows.
Stanza 26
And for the first time in a while,
My heart rejoiced like a child.
Stanza 27
But when his father saw me, he found a way,
To get me back, to make me pay.
Stanza 28
He cackled his malice,
His heart like a callous.
Stanza 29
He accused me of witchcraft,
But I just laughed,
Stanza 30
Until he took me away,
And made me pay.
Stanza 31
So here I am; what’s left of me,
And listen now to my last plea.
Stanza 32
The guilty do not take the blame,
Nay, guilt is the innocent’s shame.
Stanza 33
For the guilty never take the penance,
The innocent serve the sentence.
Stanza 34
Be careful where you go,
For in places a savory cruel life can grow.
Stanza 35
Be gone, O darkness! Be gone with thee!
Leave me now and let me be!
Stanza 36
Let me sink in love’s sweet despairing sea.
Be gone, now, and let me be!
Stanza 1
Darkness cloaked the moon,
As the bells tolled out my ruin.
Stanza 2
The stone about my throat,
As I struggled to stay afloat.
Stanza 3
Alas, if only I had followed his advice,
For my situation is not nice.
Stanza 4
For I met him,
And all on a whim,
Stanza 5
My heart was stolen from me,
And then all was too late to foresee.
Stanza 6
For his father liked me not,
And he tried to foil our plots.
Stanza 7
We would steal away in the night.
Meet each other in moonlight bright.
Stanza 8
Then on one night he said to me,
“Come. Let us steal away and be free.”
Stanza 9
Follow this plan we did,
And from his father’s face we hid.
Stanza 10
Throughout the land we wandered,
And with each step we pondered,
Stanza 11
What we had done ill,
For our supplies were nearly nil.
Stanza 12
And when he lay dying,
I grasped his hand and began crying.
Stanza 13
“Oh, my Romeo! Oh, my dove!
“What can I do to help you, my love?”
Stanza 14
He took my hand and looked at me long.
“Oh, my Esther, my Queen! I have done you wrong!
Stanza 15
“For I have led you from your home,
And into a fruitless adventure tome.
Stanza 16
“Here me now, it’s my last cry,
“Here me now and do apply.
Stanza 17
“Do not go back from whence you came!
“Take another and bear his name!
Stanza 18
“For I shall not live to see you again,
Beware my father’s trap, his den!”
Stanza 19
And with that came a sigh.
In my arms he did die.
Stanza 20
Follow his advice I tried to do,
But I found my affections hard to renew.
Stanza 21
So I made my way back,
Through a world doused in black.
Stanza 22
Black hovered before my eyes,
Deepening my grief and filling the skies.
Stanza 23
And every night,
In the middle of my plight,
Stanza 24
Like a warning noise,
Came the wind’s howling voice.
Stanza 25
Then one day, as the sun arose,
I saw the little house rows.
Stanza 26
And for the first time in a while,
My heart rejoiced like a child.
Stanza 27
But when his father saw me, he found a way,
To get me back, to make me pay.
Stanza 28
He cackled his malice,
His heart like a callous.
Stanza 29
He accused me of witchcraft,
But I just laughed,
Stanza 30
Until he took me away,
And made me pay.
Stanza 31
So here I am; what’s left of me,
And listen now to my last plea.
Stanza 32
The guilty do not take the blame,
Nay, guilt is the innocent’s shame.
Stanza 33
For the guilty never take the penance,
The innocent serve the sentence.
Stanza 34
Be careful where you go,
For in places a savory cruel life can grow.
Stanza 35
Be gone, O darkness! Be gone with thee!
Leave me now and let me be!
Stanza 36
Let me sink in love’s sweet despairing sea.
Be gone, now, and let me be!
Monday, November 12, 2007
Lecture Two- Creating Great Plot Lines
So you’ve been wondering, “What makes a good story a great story?” Answer? Plot. Yes, characters, setting, and theme have a lot to do with it, too. But can you imagine what a story would be without plot? It wouldn’t even be a story, just a list of events. And, no matter how unique your style is (we’ll cover that topic later), or how lushly described a scene is, you will have a much better chance of making it if your book has thread that your readers can pick up on or follow. So, how do get this awesome plot line?
There are infinite answers to this question. There is no method, no particular rules or structure of rules that you have to follow to create a plot.
Plots come from everywhere. They come from moments when your brother is annoying you to death or your dog is barking. A mere combination of spoken words that are meant for you to understand might hurtle your mind into a whole other world. Your sister snowboards off a ramp and falls off of the snowboard. You suddenly get an idea about a girl who injures herself just before a major high school competition. Will she ever reach her dreams of becoming an Olympian?
I got one of my plots from a dream that I once had. A young boy was serenading his sweetheart, who was on a platform about to be…..well, I don’t know. Hanged, maybe? That little dream, which was actually a sign that I was totally obsessed about the book Voyage of Slaves by Brian Jacques, became just what I needed to start a tale which took place in 1814 Baltimore. That short dream is now nearly novel-length Sweet Chariot.
If you already have your plot, you know that it didn’t come to you planned from A-Z. And that’s okay. Most of my plot lines begin as a vague, unfinished summary with a few images of certain characters doing something (which, half the time, I have no clue why they are doing it, it’s just there).
I don’t want to give too much about creating plots; just the basics for now. The rest will be covered in the lecture So You’ve Got a Great Idea. Okay, What Now?
There are infinite answers to this question. There is no method, no particular rules or structure of rules that you have to follow to create a plot.
Plots come from everywhere. They come from moments when your brother is annoying you to death or your dog is barking. A mere combination of spoken words that are meant for you to understand might hurtle your mind into a whole other world. Your sister snowboards off a ramp and falls off of the snowboard. You suddenly get an idea about a girl who injures herself just before a major high school competition. Will she ever reach her dreams of becoming an Olympian?
I got one of my plots from a dream that I once had. A young boy was serenading his sweetheart, who was on a platform about to be…..well, I don’t know. Hanged, maybe? That little dream, which was actually a sign that I was totally obsessed about the book Voyage of Slaves by Brian Jacques, became just what I needed to start a tale which took place in 1814 Baltimore. That short dream is now nearly novel-length Sweet Chariot.
If you already have your plot, you know that it didn’t come to you planned from A-Z. And that’s okay. Most of my plot lines begin as a vague, unfinished summary with a few images of certain characters doing something (which, half the time, I have no clue why they are doing it, it’s just there).
I don’t want to give too much about creating plots; just the basics for now. The rest will be covered in the lecture So You’ve Got a Great Idea. Okay, What Now?
Quest of Peace
Okay, so I won't go into too much detail about how I got this one. Let's just say I had a really stupid dream about dog kings (you read right, dog kings), elves, an Aragorn looking-dude, and Zac Efron (no joke!). Well, I finally (after a very large amount of clawing at it) made it into what I perceive as a good story. I'm calling it Quest of Peace.
Quest of Peace portrays a time when war ravages between the elven and human lands. However, no one seems to know why they are fighting.
Then, one night young Aspen and her friends are hurtled from their peaceful lives and into a world full of obscure riddles, legends of an evil sorceror's whereabouts, and a legacy strewn with legends. The following is how the story begins:
Aspen’s feet sped down the path, mud splashing at her ankles. Rain spilled gently from the clouds above, cutting puddles into the earth below. Her hair clung to her face in wet clusters. Her fair hand clenched a bow. A quiver dangled from her shoulder.
She glanced nervously behind her. Swiftly firing two arrows at her enemies, she hurled herself at the trunk of a tree. Thrusting down her bow, she clutched the slippery bark with her slim fingers.
As she observed the soaked land about her, her heart sank. This was her home. And to think she was leaving it; to think she’d never return.
She suddenly went rigid. Hoofbeats. Quickly, she turned around, crouching behind the shrubbery.
Three magnificent steeds rounded the bend, their riders bearing the standard of the royal elven family. Their leader, a tall man with extensive white hair and deep hazel eyes, glanced about himself. Aspen felt a pond in her eyes, which were not unlike the man’s, that was about to flood.
“That’s it, Sire. Your daughter is gone,” said one of his companions.
The man pursed his lips. He nodded slowly. “Let it be so. Due to her disloyalty, Aspen is henceforth banished from this land. She will come back only to find death waiting for her.”
With a saddened countenance, she witnessed the riders turn back. Rivers streamed down her face as she sobbed silently. “I’m not disloyal. I’m not disloyal.”
Why had she been banished, anyway? She hadn’t meant to shoot her fellow soldier; it was the wind!
As the drizzle escalated into a pour, she wept on. Oh, if only she could run to her father, if only she could see her mother!
“But the king’s word is spoken,” she whispered, “and according to the law it can not be undone.”
Several minutes passed before she picked herself up from the muddy soil. Grasping her bow, she looked at the path in front of her through tear-obstructed eyes. Sighing, she made for the road.
I’d better go before someone finds me and has me executed.
She began to run once more. Suddenly, she stopped. Flicking out her dagger, she went off of the trail and knelt beside a little green plant. The stem coated itself in fuzz, and the petite white flower peeked out its head.
Sawing away ruthlessly, she severed the attachment between roots and stalk until the plant lay in her hand. She proceeded to perform the operation on several more before tucking them into the pouch that dangled from her waist.
A tree from above allowed a single droplet to cascade downwards, landing in Aspen’s hand. Struggling to fight the tears, she forced herself to run down the path, blundering into her uncertain future.
Quest of Peace portrays a time when war ravages between the elven and human lands. However, no one seems to know why they are fighting.
Then, one night young Aspen and her friends are hurtled from their peaceful lives and into a world full of obscure riddles, legends of an evil sorceror's whereabouts, and a legacy strewn with legends. The following is how the story begins:
Aspen’s feet sped down the path, mud splashing at her ankles. Rain spilled gently from the clouds above, cutting puddles into the earth below. Her hair clung to her face in wet clusters. Her fair hand clenched a bow. A quiver dangled from her shoulder.
She glanced nervously behind her. Swiftly firing two arrows at her enemies, she hurled herself at the trunk of a tree. Thrusting down her bow, she clutched the slippery bark with her slim fingers.
As she observed the soaked land about her, her heart sank. This was her home. And to think she was leaving it; to think she’d never return.
She suddenly went rigid. Hoofbeats. Quickly, she turned around, crouching behind the shrubbery.
Three magnificent steeds rounded the bend, their riders bearing the standard of the royal elven family. Their leader, a tall man with extensive white hair and deep hazel eyes, glanced about himself. Aspen felt a pond in her eyes, which were not unlike the man’s, that was about to flood.
“That’s it, Sire. Your daughter is gone,” said one of his companions.
The man pursed his lips. He nodded slowly. “Let it be so. Due to her disloyalty, Aspen is henceforth banished from this land. She will come back only to find death waiting for her.”
With a saddened countenance, she witnessed the riders turn back. Rivers streamed down her face as she sobbed silently. “I’m not disloyal. I’m not disloyal.”
Why had she been banished, anyway? She hadn’t meant to shoot her fellow soldier; it was the wind!
As the drizzle escalated into a pour, she wept on. Oh, if only she could run to her father, if only she could see her mother!
“But the king’s word is spoken,” she whispered, “and according to the law it can not be undone.”
Several minutes passed before she picked herself up from the muddy soil. Grasping her bow, she looked at the path in front of her through tear-obstructed eyes. Sighing, she made for the road.
I’d better go before someone finds me and has me executed.
She began to run once more. Suddenly, she stopped. Flicking out her dagger, she went off of the trail and knelt beside a little green plant. The stem coated itself in fuzz, and the petite white flower peeked out its head.
Sawing away ruthlessly, she severed the attachment between roots and stalk until the plant lay in her hand. She proceeded to perform the operation on several more before tucking them into the pouch that dangled from her waist.
A tree from above allowed a single droplet to cascade downwards, landing in Aspen’s hand. Struggling to fight the tears, she forced herself to run down the path, blundering into her uncertain future.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Lecture One- Writing Your Book; What You'll Need
You should always know what ingredients you'll need before you should start on your recipe. In the same way, you'll need to know what ingredients are required to write your book before you start on it. So here's what we'll be talking about for much of the course:
Who- your characters. Who's in your story? What are they like? What's their favorite color? Vegetable preference?
What- what is your story about? What's your plot? Your theme?
When/Where- when or where does your story take place? Baltimore of 1814? A Nazi camp in 1943? The Pacific Islands? Hawaii? Fantasy Land? China?
How- writers differ when it comes to this one. Many outline and many don't. But it's probably a good idea to know a little bit about where you're going with the story before you actually leave on the journey of telling your tale.
Of course, there's a lot more to writing than just that, but those are the basics. Many writers find that their writing requires intensive research (you might be moaning by now, but I personally kind of like it).
You'll also need to know the genre of your book (is it a romance, sci-fi, historical fiction, fantasy, mainstream, etc.). This especially comes in handy when you're looking for publishers. Many publishers only accept certain genres, so it will be useful if you familiarize yourself with the one your book's in.
In addition to this course, you'll probably need to read some books on writing. One book that I'm finding extremely informative and helpful is Deborah Perlberg's The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing for Young Adults. Even if you're not writing for adolescence, check this book out. Ms. Perlberg gives you excellent tips on writing dialogue, where many other books will tell you the same thing vaguely with no examples whatsoever.
Courses, workshops, and conferences are also terrific ways to learn about your craft. I am currently a student of the Christian Writers Guild (owned by Jerry Jenkins). This is a great circle of Christian writers who can hook you up with professional writers who will critique your assinments and provide one-on-one training (many writers are published during these courses, so they are very practical and helpful). They also teach you the knowledge you need to know and how to find great techniques in the writing of others (something that we will cover later).
So, good writing takes a lot of techniques and time to truly master it. Don't try to go it alone.
Next up? Plot lines! See you there!
Who- your characters. Who's in your story? What are they like? What's their favorite color? Vegetable preference?
What- what is your story about? What's your plot? Your theme?
When/Where- when or where does your story take place? Baltimore of 1814? A Nazi camp in 1943? The Pacific Islands? Hawaii? Fantasy Land? China?
How- writers differ when it comes to this one. Many outline and many don't. But it's probably a good idea to know a little bit about where you're going with the story before you actually leave on the journey of telling your tale.
Of course, there's a lot more to writing than just that, but those are the basics. Many writers find that their writing requires intensive research (you might be moaning by now, but I personally kind of like it).
You'll also need to know the genre of your book (is it a romance, sci-fi, historical fiction, fantasy, mainstream, etc.). This especially comes in handy when you're looking for publishers. Many publishers only accept certain genres, so it will be useful if you familiarize yourself with the one your book's in.
In addition to this course, you'll probably need to read some books on writing. One book that I'm finding extremely informative and helpful is Deborah Perlberg's The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing for Young Adults. Even if you're not writing for adolescence, check this book out. Ms. Perlberg gives you excellent tips on writing dialogue, where many other books will tell you the same thing vaguely with no examples whatsoever.
Courses, workshops, and conferences are also terrific ways to learn about your craft. I am currently a student of the Christian Writers Guild (owned by Jerry Jenkins). This is a great circle of Christian writers who can hook you up with professional writers who will critique your assinments and provide one-on-one training (many writers are published during these courses, so they are very practical and helpful). They also teach you the knowledge you need to know and how to find great techniques in the writing of others (something that we will cover later).
So, good writing takes a lot of techniques and time to truly master it. Don't try to go it alone.
Next up? Plot lines! See you there!
Lecture Series Introduction
Okay, so you've said to yourself quite a few times, "Wouldn't it be cool to write a book?" You think that when you submit a book for publication that, all of a sudden, boom! You're famous! You see it as an easy way to get rich (and to reach people with the Gospel). Always happens, right?
Wrong. If you're thinking like this as we begin these lectures, we should take a moment and get all of those ideas out of your head. Sure, you could become famous instantly (on your first submission to a publisher) if you had an extraordinary (and I mean super, super extraordinary) gift for words, dialogue, description, characters, plot lines, setting, and research (not to mention having a firm understanding of assonance, onomatopeia, alliteration, and other poetic techniques to enhance your writing). That's a whole lot to be gifted at!
But my point here is that most authors learn the long, hard way. It can take anywhere from months to years to finish a single novel-length book. John Erickson, author of Hank the Cowdog submitted his books for fifteen years without receiving a single offer for publication. It may sound daunting now, but you'll be a lot less likely to quit if you have in mind at the beginning that writing is hard.
I'm not trying to discourage you. If you want to write, go for it! I actually find much of the process enjoyable. Yes, there will be days when your characters, your plot, or your thinking cap just won't cooperate. But, other than that (and the series of rejection slips from publishers), writing can be an absolute blast! Think of it; characters that you create with their own personalities, each unlike the rest, plot lines that excite you and pop up out of nowhere, learning your history while researching a time, creating dialogue that suites the era or country, making people cry over the death of a character, and laugh at a funny spot. All of it comes with writing.
But, as a beginner, you're most likely struggling. You don't know where to begin. So that's where I come in. I'm here to help you because I know how difficult it is to be a writer, especially a Christian writher when you want to share the Good News of Jesus Christ so badly. How do you write like this with interesting characters and plot, without sounding as if your theme is being shoved down your readers' throats?
It's a big demand, but a great calling. The world needs Christian writers. So, what do you say? Let's begin!
Wrong. If you're thinking like this as we begin these lectures, we should take a moment and get all of those ideas out of your head. Sure, you could become famous instantly (on your first submission to a publisher) if you had an extraordinary (and I mean super, super extraordinary) gift for words, dialogue, description, characters, plot lines, setting, and research (not to mention having a firm understanding of assonance, onomatopeia, alliteration, and other poetic techniques to enhance your writing). That's a whole lot to be gifted at!
But my point here is that most authors learn the long, hard way. It can take anywhere from months to years to finish a single novel-length book. John Erickson, author of Hank the Cowdog submitted his books for fifteen years without receiving a single offer for publication. It may sound daunting now, but you'll be a lot less likely to quit if you have in mind at the beginning that writing is hard.
I'm not trying to discourage you. If you want to write, go for it! I actually find much of the process enjoyable. Yes, there will be days when your characters, your plot, or your thinking cap just won't cooperate. But, other than that (and the series of rejection slips from publishers), writing can be an absolute blast! Think of it; characters that you create with their own personalities, each unlike the rest, plot lines that excite you and pop up out of nowhere, learning your history while researching a time, creating dialogue that suites the era or country, making people cry over the death of a character, and laugh at a funny spot. All of it comes with writing.
But, as a beginner, you're most likely struggling. You don't know where to begin. So that's where I come in. I'm here to help you because I know how difficult it is to be a writer, especially a Christian writher when you want to share the Good News of Jesus Christ so badly. How do you write like this with interesting characters and plot, without sounding as if your theme is being shoved down your readers' throats?
It's a big demand, but a great calling. The world needs Christian writers. So, what do you say? Let's begin!
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Collaborating with Ileana Morgan- and a sneak peak into The Oracle Prophecy
What's another great attribute about being a writer? You have a circle of friends that love to write! Literally, it is amazing how many of my friends, upon being asked what they like to do in their free time, have answered "I like to read and write."
But the most serious writer I have ever met is my friend Monica. She is a fantasy fanatic, but she also loves to read myths and is completely in love with Ancient Egypt. How did these two San Antonian writers meet and where? Hours south of where we live. The exact place? Laredo, a city that is so close to Mexico that I saw the country with my own to eyes during that trip!
We were both there to watch our brothers (who were teammates) play hockey for the San Antonio Diablos. I got to talk to her after the game.
That very night, her family asked me and Brant if they could take us to dine at a former team member's house. We agreed to go. During the ride over there, I asked Monica what she liked to do. Lo and behold, she loved to write fantasy!
Immediately excited, I blurted out, "Me too!"
Thus, the conversation veered off in the direction of characters and plot lines, and there it remained for the rest of the night. Needless to say, I was thrilled to have a friend who adored the art just as much as I did.
The next morning at breakfast in the hotel, we talked about collaborating (co-authoring) a book. And, although it took a sleepover at her house and many hours to figure out what our book was going to be about, we finally agreed.
Surprisingly, we drew the story out of two old legends. One was the long ago Halloween practice where a person would be sacrificed to keep the evil spirits away (I'm not entirely sure they really did that, but that was one of the springboards for our idea). The other was from a Mexican legend about a woman who had lost her children. The latter was used to scare children into staying indoors after dark.
The results? A plot line where a young fairy named Isleen discovers that young fairies are vanishing, but not without undergoing symptoms that are similar to all the rest of the vanishing young ones. Will Isleen find the truth and be able to protect herself from those dreaded symptoms? Then, she finds an oracle stone with a prophecy ethched into it; a prophecy that speaks of her.
Here is an excerpt from our book The Oracle Prophecy:
As the stars illuminated the moonless night, Isleen slipped beneath the rough covers that shunned the cold's biting chill. The pillow was far from comfortable, but the girl paid it no heed.
The wind whistled through the open window. The stars were shrouded briefly by a cloud and the world immersed into an eerie blackness. Then the cloud shifted and the stars peaked out timidly from behind their former barrier.
But all of this mattered little to Isleen. Her ears were open, catching every little sound that was made in the next room.
A door was quietly closed. She could hear shuffling, then a few creaks as her mother laid upon the overused bed whose faded wood had seen much better days.
The girl lay heaving silently, waiting until she was certain that Merre would be resting. Then, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and submerged them into her shoes. Having left her dress on, she pulled her door ajar and peered out cautiously.
Stealing acorss to the cabinets, she grabbed a slice of bread just in case the journey gave her the reason for a hasty bite, along with the potatoes. Pulling her ragged shawl from the peg near the main entrance, she thrust it over her shoulders and yanked the door open.
The wind's chilling cold whipped about her suddenly, playing with her ragged skirt and piercing her thin clothing. She clutched the shawl to her as her hair slapped her face. She gave the stable a longing glance, wishing that taking a horse wouldn't make any noise at all.
Suddenly, she found her feet pounding upon the trodden path that meandered from their humble home and into the hills that guarded it. Glancing up at the stars, she attempted to determine the time. Midnight was only a few hours off, and the village was still many miles away.
Standing on the last hill, she peered down, searching for the village that concealed itself in the dark. Her feet ached from the sheer beating they had received. A nervous feeling began to inhabit her, escalating itself to a sickening dread, as if she was getting herself into something she didn't want to. Shaking herself, she darted down the hill, meeting her fate head on, her face sullen and jaw set firm.
As she neared the village, she slowed a bit so as not to arouse the city. It took some time in the dark, but she eventually recognized the spot that she had often set up shop. Leaning her back against a building, she waited. And waited.
A thump sounded from a distance, its lone rhythm announcing that it was steadily approaching. Isleen drew in her breath, trying to prepare for the inevitable.
A voice from beside her caused her to start. "Are you there, young one? Did you bring me the potatoes I asked for?"
The fairy forced her voice not to quiver. "I am here. And so are the potatoes."
An aged hand was extended to her. Isleen drew a potato from the bag that dangled from her shoulder and placed it into the old one's hand.
The scrutinizing fingers inspected it, as they had done the others. Slowly, the stranger spoke, "Yes. These are indeed fine potatoes. They are a just payment. Follow me now."
Using her staff as an aid, she trotted off at a surprising speed for one of her age and condition. Isleen found herself struggling to keep up. The woman, even with her shortcoming of no sight, seemed to know exactly where she was going.
The village gave way to hills. The hills to valleys. The valleys to marshes. And it was in one of these damp areas that they finally descended the last hill. Their feet met the mud, and they sloshed around in it for many minutes.
Suddenly, as if from out of nowhere, the woman drew aside a curtain and held it open. Isleen stepped in. Then, the ancient one banished the star's brilliant glow by dropping the curtain back over the opening. After some shuffling and indistinguishable words from the lips of the blind one, the light of a fire sprang up upon the hearth, revealing the woman stooped over it.
Isleen realized that they were in a tiny grass hut; the walls being lined with nothing other than her hostess's few belongings. But it was not a poorly constructed shelter, either, for one glance told the newcomer of the lovingness of which the hands had woven the extensive strands of grass together.
"You are quite skilled for being blind," she remarked.
"Never say that again! Never!"
"Why not?"
"Because blindness is not a disibility. Instead, it gives one the ability to sharpen their other senses, and to know that the things of this life are fleeting, so we must enjoy them to their fullest. It may disable the weaker ones who yearn for pity, but to those who are willing to work, it can be a rich lesson in leading an alert and satisfied life. My name is Oglanda."
"Isleen."
"Ah, Isleen," Oglanda said. "Your name means Dream or Vision. Did you know that?"
"No. You seem to know a great many things."
The woman sighed. "Having many years behind you isn't all bad, either. If you spend your time wisely, it can greatly aid your knowledge of times and cultures. Never waste a minute. The tea is ready. Would you like some?"
"Sure."
Filling two cups, Oglanda kept one for herself and handed the other to Isleen. The familiar aroma settled the remainder of the guest's nerves and almost made her drowsy. She stirred the drink absently. "What do you have to tell me about your story Oglanda?"
Setting aside her tea, the ancient one proceeded thoughtfully. "That is perhaps the darkest part of my memory. The girl I spoke of was my daughter, but back then we didn't live here. Nay, she was raised in the hills that you now live in. I can tell by your accent. As I said, she went away to school. She was single, and no one had even been interested in her until she met a young man in her class. I believe that he was in love with her, and I liked him very much. But she was currently trying to win over another young man, one I knew that she could never love. She didn't succeed. Eventually, she got depressed. One day, I received a letter from the school sumoning me immediately, for she had suddenly gone pale and became very ill. By the time I arrived, they said that she had vanished. I moved here, for the memories in that house were too painful. I never heard of her again."
Isleen found herself pouring out Kai's story, which she had found so similar to the one Oglanda had given her. Even her host was astonished by their similarities.
"I'm going to find him. I must find him." Isleen was surprised at her sudden decision.
"That you should. But there may be more to this. These situations are too much alike to be coincidences. Somebody with power may be behind them. Be careful, and fell free to ask me for anything."
Isleen rose. "Thank you. But my mother will worry if I'm not home beofre she awakes. I must go."
Oglanda didn't speak. She only watched her guest shove the curtain aside, allowing a stream of starlight to enter momentarily. Then, she turned away, feeling hope's warm rays fill her cold body.
But the most serious writer I have ever met is my friend Monica. She is a fantasy fanatic, but she also loves to read myths and is completely in love with Ancient Egypt. How did these two San Antonian writers meet and where? Hours south of where we live. The exact place? Laredo, a city that is so close to Mexico that I saw the country with my own to eyes during that trip!
We were both there to watch our brothers (who were teammates) play hockey for the San Antonio Diablos. I got to talk to her after the game.
That very night, her family asked me and Brant if they could take us to dine at a former team member's house. We agreed to go. During the ride over there, I asked Monica what she liked to do. Lo and behold, she loved to write fantasy!
Immediately excited, I blurted out, "Me too!"
Thus, the conversation veered off in the direction of characters and plot lines, and there it remained for the rest of the night. Needless to say, I was thrilled to have a friend who adored the art just as much as I did.
The next morning at breakfast in the hotel, we talked about collaborating (co-authoring) a book. And, although it took a sleepover at her house and many hours to figure out what our book was going to be about, we finally agreed.
Surprisingly, we drew the story out of two old legends. One was the long ago Halloween practice where a person would be sacrificed to keep the evil spirits away (I'm not entirely sure they really did that, but that was one of the springboards for our idea). The other was from a Mexican legend about a woman who had lost her children. The latter was used to scare children into staying indoors after dark.
The results? A plot line where a young fairy named Isleen discovers that young fairies are vanishing, but not without undergoing symptoms that are similar to all the rest of the vanishing young ones. Will Isleen find the truth and be able to protect herself from those dreaded symptoms? Then, she finds an oracle stone with a prophecy ethched into it; a prophecy that speaks of her.
Here is an excerpt from our book The Oracle Prophecy:
As the stars illuminated the moonless night, Isleen slipped beneath the rough covers that shunned the cold's biting chill. The pillow was far from comfortable, but the girl paid it no heed.
The wind whistled through the open window. The stars were shrouded briefly by a cloud and the world immersed into an eerie blackness. Then the cloud shifted and the stars peaked out timidly from behind their former barrier.
But all of this mattered little to Isleen. Her ears were open, catching every little sound that was made in the next room.
A door was quietly closed. She could hear shuffling, then a few creaks as her mother laid upon the overused bed whose faded wood had seen much better days.
The girl lay heaving silently, waiting until she was certain that Merre would be resting. Then, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and submerged them into her shoes. Having left her dress on, she pulled her door ajar and peered out cautiously.
Stealing acorss to the cabinets, she grabbed a slice of bread just in case the journey gave her the reason for a hasty bite, along with the potatoes. Pulling her ragged shawl from the peg near the main entrance, she thrust it over her shoulders and yanked the door open.
The wind's chilling cold whipped about her suddenly, playing with her ragged skirt and piercing her thin clothing. She clutched the shawl to her as her hair slapped her face. She gave the stable a longing glance, wishing that taking a horse wouldn't make any noise at all.
Suddenly, she found her feet pounding upon the trodden path that meandered from their humble home and into the hills that guarded it. Glancing up at the stars, she attempted to determine the time. Midnight was only a few hours off, and the village was still many miles away.
Standing on the last hill, she peered down, searching for the village that concealed itself in the dark. Her feet ached from the sheer beating they had received. A nervous feeling began to inhabit her, escalating itself to a sickening dread, as if she was getting herself into something she didn't want to. Shaking herself, she darted down the hill, meeting her fate head on, her face sullen and jaw set firm.
As she neared the village, she slowed a bit so as not to arouse the city. It took some time in the dark, but she eventually recognized the spot that she had often set up shop. Leaning her back against a building, she waited. And waited.
A thump sounded from a distance, its lone rhythm announcing that it was steadily approaching. Isleen drew in her breath, trying to prepare for the inevitable.
A voice from beside her caused her to start. "Are you there, young one? Did you bring me the potatoes I asked for?"
The fairy forced her voice not to quiver. "I am here. And so are the potatoes."
An aged hand was extended to her. Isleen drew a potato from the bag that dangled from her shoulder and placed it into the old one's hand.
The scrutinizing fingers inspected it, as they had done the others. Slowly, the stranger spoke, "Yes. These are indeed fine potatoes. They are a just payment. Follow me now."
Using her staff as an aid, she trotted off at a surprising speed for one of her age and condition. Isleen found herself struggling to keep up. The woman, even with her shortcoming of no sight, seemed to know exactly where she was going.
The village gave way to hills. The hills to valleys. The valleys to marshes. And it was in one of these damp areas that they finally descended the last hill. Their feet met the mud, and they sloshed around in it for many minutes.
Suddenly, as if from out of nowhere, the woman drew aside a curtain and held it open. Isleen stepped in. Then, the ancient one banished the star's brilliant glow by dropping the curtain back over the opening. After some shuffling and indistinguishable words from the lips of the blind one, the light of a fire sprang up upon the hearth, revealing the woman stooped over it.
Isleen realized that they were in a tiny grass hut; the walls being lined with nothing other than her hostess's few belongings. But it was not a poorly constructed shelter, either, for one glance told the newcomer of the lovingness of which the hands had woven the extensive strands of grass together.
"You are quite skilled for being blind," she remarked.
"Never say that again! Never!"
"Why not?"
"Because blindness is not a disibility. Instead, it gives one the ability to sharpen their other senses, and to know that the things of this life are fleeting, so we must enjoy them to their fullest. It may disable the weaker ones who yearn for pity, but to those who are willing to work, it can be a rich lesson in leading an alert and satisfied life. My name is Oglanda."
"Isleen."
"Ah, Isleen," Oglanda said. "Your name means Dream or Vision. Did you know that?"
"No. You seem to know a great many things."
The woman sighed. "Having many years behind you isn't all bad, either. If you spend your time wisely, it can greatly aid your knowledge of times and cultures. Never waste a minute. The tea is ready. Would you like some?"
"Sure."
Filling two cups, Oglanda kept one for herself and handed the other to Isleen. The familiar aroma settled the remainder of the guest's nerves and almost made her drowsy. She stirred the drink absently. "What do you have to tell me about your story Oglanda?"
Setting aside her tea, the ancient one proceeded thoughtfully. "That is perhaps the darkest part of my memory. The girl I spoke of was my daughter, but back then we didn't live here. Nay, she was raised in the hills that you now live in. I can tell by your accent. As I said, she went away to school. She was single, and no one had even been interested in her until she met a young man in her class. I believe that he was in love with her, and I liked him very much. But she was currently trying to win over another young man, one I knew that she could never love. She didn't succeed. Eventually, she got depressed. One day, I received a letter from the school sumoning me immediately, for she had suddenly gone pale and became very ill. By the time I arrived, they said that she had vanished. I moved here, for the memories in that house were too painful. I never heard of her again."
Isleen found herself pouring out Kai's story, which she had found so similar to the one Oglanda had given her. Even her host was astonished by their similarities.
"I'm going to find him. I must find him." Isleen was surprised at her sudden decision.
"That you should. But there may be more to this. These situations are too much alike to be coincidences. Somebody with power may be behind them. Be careful, and fell free to ask me for anything."
Isleen rose. "Thank you. But my mother will worry if I'm not home beofre she awakes. I must go."
Oglanda didn't speak. She only watched her guest shove the curtain aside, allowing a stream of starlight to enter momentarily. Then, she turned away, feeling hope's warm rays fill her cold body.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Sweet Chariot Excerpt
The following is my latest scene from Sweet Chariot:
Emily's ears caught the voices almost as soon as she stepped outside to gather firewood. She stopped, listening as they steadily approached.
Thinking swiftly, she ran around the house and pressed herself against the wall. She inhaled deep, silent breaths as she waited. Apprehensiveness crept into her and filled her inner being with nervous terror until she shook with it and the humid air drew perspiration from her skin.
Finally, two figures emerged; a young lady and her father. A lantern was in the man's hand.
Anne's voice rang clear throughout the night. "Oh, Father, I am quite weary. Can we not sit down under that tree and talk of this problem?"
"Of course, Anne dearest."
Mr. and Miss Jackson elapsed into silence as they turned in Emily's direction. Their slow, even strides eventually brought them to the tree which stood between Emily's home and her neighbors'. Sitting with her back to the trunk, Anne continued the conversation. "Ah, that is much better. Now, I heard that Sarah mention God to you. Do you think she knows of Him?"
"Doubtless, my dear, doubtless. But I haven't the faintest clue to who could have told her about Him."
"I still suspect that it is all the cause of the cholera pandemic. We should have sold them all, as I said."
"That is something that I simply must deny you of, Anne. I am sorry."
"Seeing as that is not your course of action, than what is?"
Emily heard him sigh, then begin slowly. "I have conferred over this matter with your mother. Indeed, that was the very reason I have aked you to accompany me upon this walk; to relay to you our plan and ask your opinion. We are ordering that every slave and overseer who hears the Bible being referred to in any form to immediately report to us. I shall then have the offender flogged and sold. There shall be no mercy."
From her tone of voice, Emily could tell that Anne was opening her pocket mirror and inspecting her curls. "Hmm, yes. That is a fairly reasonable plan. It should be applicable as well as mightily effective. It is a great alternative to my plan, and, I must admit, that even I could not have thought of something better."
Emily could listen no longer. Silently, she darted around the house and into the forest.
Feet running swiftly, she ran until she came upon the little cememtery, whose gravestones seemed to have sprung up overnight. Her eyes meandered from one stone to the next. She found herself wandering among them, each name etched into the past bringing up an image of the sick one whom she had watched slip into death's cold grip in her attempt to tell them about Jesus. She knew all too well that the Jacksons meant what they said.
"Oh, God, what am I to do?" she whispered, rubbing her hand affectionately upon the rough edge of one of the stones.
A breeze rippled her hair as she roved aisle upon aisle of graves. The thought of running away danced in her head, but it was countered by a feeling in her heart that she was not done here, that something else was coming.
She lingered by Rosa's grave. The deceased child's words rang in her ears. "I done so much bad. Dere's so much dat I need to say 'sorry' for, an' now I ain't ne'er gonna have dat chance!"
Emily sat, her legs tucked beneath her. Tears formed in the back of her eyes as she stared at the crude letters engraved into the stone. She absently scooped up a fistful of dirt and allowed it to filter through her fingers. God's Voice resonated through her head and heart.
You must not give in now, My child. You must stay strong, for your greatest challenge lies still ahead of you, one that , if rightly performed, will leave an indelible mark on your plantation. Look yonder, by Rosa's grave. What do you see?
Emily bent forward and grasped the stem of a withering rose that she had cast upon the girl's grave only a week before. She answered God mentally as she fingered it. A rose. It's a rose, but it's withered.
But, if properly cared for, would it live?
Yes.
Then keep it. Nurture and care for it. In life, there will be times that you will wonder if I still love you. In your mind, it will be just as if My love has withered. But, if you cling to Me, you will discover that My love never dies, and can be lovelier than that rose when it blooms. Keep it as a reminder for when times get harsh.
Emily nodded, sweeping away the tears with the back of her hand. She whispered, "Yes, God. Thank You."
She rose. Picking up any tinder she found along the way, she made her way back to her lowly abode, the precious rose riding in between her left hand and the pile of wood.
Emily's ears caught the voices almost as soon as she stepped outside to gather firewood. She stopped, listening as they steadily approached.
Thinking swiftly, she ran around the house and pressed herself against the wall. She inhaled deep, silent breaths as she waited. Apprehensiveness crept into her and filled her inner being with nervous terror until she shook with it and the humid air drew perspiration from her skin.
Finally, two figures emerged; a young lady and her father. A lantern was in the man's hand.
Anne's voice rang clear throughout the night. "Oh, Father, I am quite weary. Can we not sit down under that tree and talk of this problem?"
"Of course, Anne dearest."
Mr. and Miss Jackson elapsed into silence as they turned in Emily's direction. Their slow, even strides eventually brought them to the tree which stood between Emily's home and her neighbors'. Sitting with her back to the trunk, Anne continued the conversation. "Ah, that is much better. Now, I heard that Sarah mention God to you. Do you think she knows of Him?"
"Doubtless, my dear, doubtless. But I haven't the faintest clue to who could have told her about Him."
"I still suspect that it is all the cause of the cholera pandemic. We should have sold them all, as I said."
"That is something that I simply must deny you of, Anne. I am sorry."
"Seeing as that is not your course of action, than what is?"
Emily heard him sigh, then begin slowly. "I have conferred over this matter with your mother. Indeed, that was the very reason I have aked you to accompany me upon this walk; to relay to you our plan and ask your opinion. We are ordering that every slave and overseer who hears the Bible being referred to in any form to immediately report to us. I shall then have the offender flogged and sold. There shall be no mercy."
From her tone of voice, Emily could tell that Anne was opening her pocket mirror and inspecting her curls. "Hmm, yes. That is a fairly reasonable plan. It should be applicable as well as mightily effective. It is a great alternative to my plan, and, I must admit, that even I could not have thought of something better."
Emily could listen no longer. Silently, she darted around the house and into the forest.
Feet running swiftly, she ran until she came upon the little cememtery, whose gravestones seemed to have sprung up overnight. Her eyes meandered from one stone to the next. She found herself wandering among them, each name etched into the past bringing up an image of the sick one whom she had watched slip into death's cold grip in her attempt to tell them about Jesus. She knew all too well that the Jacksons meant what they said.
"Oh, God, what am I to do?" she whispered, rubbing her hand affectionately upon the rough edge of one of the stones.
A breeze rippled her hair as she roved aisle upon aisle of graves. The thought of running away danced in her head, but it was countered by a feeling in her heart that she was not done here, that something else was coming.
She lingered by Rosa's grave. The deceased child's words rang in her ears. "I done so much bad. Dere's so much dat I need to say 'sorry' for, an' now I ain't ne'er gonna have dat chance!"
Emily sat, her legs tucked beneath her. Tears formed in the back of her eyes as she stared at the crude letters engraved into the stone. She absently scooped up a fistful of dirt and allowed it to filter through her fingers. God's Voice resonated through her head and heart.
You must not give in now, My child. You must stay strong, for your greatest challenge lies still ahead of you, one that , if rightly performed, will leave an indelible mark on your plantation. Look yonder, by Rosa's grave. What do you see?
Emily bent forward and grasped the stem of a withering rose that she had cast upon the girl's grave only a week before. She answered God mentally as she fingered it. A rose. It's a rose, but it's withered.
But, if properly cared for, would it live?
Yes.
Then keep it. Nurture and care for it. In life, there will be times that you will wonder if I still love you. In your mind, it will be just as if My love has withered. But, if you cling to Me, you will discover that My love never dies, and can be lovelier than that rose when it blooms. Keep it as a reminder for when times get harsh.
Emily nodded, sweeping away the tears with the back of her hand. She whispered, "Yes, God. Thank You."
She rose. Picking up any tinder she found along the way, she made her way back to her lowly abode, the precious rose riding in between her left hand and the pile of wood.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Sweet Chariot- a sneak peak into the makings of it
A few of you have read my major work-in-progress (and when I mean major, I mean it will be finished before anything else), Sweet Chariot. It takes place during one of the most forgotten wars in American history, the War of 1812. Moreover, I don't settle for a book, I try for novels, which can be anywhere from 50,000-100,000 words, or approximately 400-600 pages (normal pages, not typed). A lofty goal, but I was excited and ready to reach for the stars.
The absolute first step for me is planning. I simply must plan everything from A-Z or I won't be able function. Yes, half of these ideas might not make it to the final draft, but at least I have a springboard.
Okay, so I don't really go from A to B and so on. Usually, I already know what A and Z are going to be, I just have to fill in the blanks. On a historical work such as Sweet Chariot I must find ways to incorporate history into it. Otherwise, this time period may not be needed.
After I have planned, I usually do one of two things. 1, I go ahead and begin writing (although technically I'm not supposed to), or 2, I do a character analysis. The latter is more challenging than it sounds. With every story, there is at least one character. It's the writer's job to make him imperfect and believable. By imperfect I mean those little likes and dislikes that make each and every one of us unique. Does he have a favorite food? What does she think about her nation going to war? I write all of these things down.
In Sweet Chariot, there are five main characters; four protagonists and one antagonist. I do a character analysis for each main character and for some feature players (characters, but not the leads). This can get challenging because I have to make my protagonist Luke different from Emily, but not too much like Caleb. Likewise, I have to find a balance between Emily's sweetness and her boldness to stick up for what's right.
My cast for this book is a motley crew of sailors, soldiers (both British and American), housekeepers, slaves, slave traders, wealthy plantation owners, a lawyer, a few French people, and a forgetful but kind resident of Baltimore. Each of their social statuses, the way they lived, grew-up, their beliefs, how they have been treated in the past; all must weave skilfully into a story, and each can affect the plot in a great way.
Another task that I have undertaken is research. For this book, I must know exactly what they wore, ate, what the different characters would talk like, what the religion of the slaves was, when they would dine, as well as military moves that were taken during that time. I even read a book on Francis Scott Key in order to get a grasp on what his character might be like.
So, as you can see, it can get a bit complicated. But, with time, I hope to produce something that will make it all worth it.
The absolute first step for me is planning. I simply must plan everything from A-Z or I won't be able function. Yes, half of these ideas might not make it to the final draft, but at least I have a springboard.
Okay, so I don't really go from A to B and so on. Usually, I already know what A and Z are going to be, I just have to fill in the blanks. On a historical work such as Sweet Chariot I must find ways to incorporate history into it. Otherwise, this time period may not be needed.
After I have planned, I usually do one of two things. 1, I go ahead and begin writing (although technically I'm not supposed to), or 2, I do a character analysis. The latter is more challenging than it sounds. With every story, there is at least one character. It's the writer's job to make him imperfect and believable. By imperfect I mean those little likes and dislikes that make each and every one of us unique. Does he have a favorite food? What does she think about her nation going to war? I write all of these things down.
In Sweet Chariot, there are five main characters; four protagonists and one antagonist. I do a character analysis for each main character and for some feature players (characters, but not the leads). This can get challenging because I have to make my protagonist Luke different from Emily, but not too much like Caleb. Likewise, I have to find a balance between Emily's sweetness and her boldness to stick up for what's right.
My cast for this book is a motley crew of sailors, soldiers (both British and American), housekeepers, slaves, slave traders, wealthy plantation owners, a lawyer, a few French people, and a forgetful but kind resident of Baltimore. Each of their social statuses, the way they lived, grew-up, their beliefs, how they have been treated in the past; all must weave skilfully into a story, and each can affect the plot in a great way.
Another task that I have undertaken is research. For this book, I must know exactly what they wore, ate, what the different characters would talk like, what the religion of the slaves was, when they would dine, as well as military moves that were taken during that time. I even read a book on Francis Scott Key in order to get a grasp on what his character might be like.
So, as you can see, it can get a bit complicated. But, with time, I hope to produce something that will make it all worth it.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Lost in the Mail!!!!
I was asked by the Christian Writers Guild curriculum to write a 4-6 scene personal narrative (kinda like a short memoir) about a time in my life and send it to my mentor. She would critique it and send it back to me. She suggested that I publish it! Well, it hasn't been to any editor's desk yet, but I want to post it here anyway. Feel free to comment or critique further! Here it is:
The roof shaded the walkway of the second-floor shops from the glaring sun. I walked out of the theater where I had just finished taking an acting lesson. My mom, Tracy, and my brother, Brant, were coming to meet me.
"Hey," Mom said in her friendly, glad-to-see-you manner as I enveloped her in a hug.
"We got our referral," Brant said, answering the question I longed to ask.
"We did?" I replied eagerly.
Mom's blonde hair swished slightly as she turned her head to fix her blue eyes on Brant. "No we didn't."
His chocolate eyes looked at me incredulously as we walked to the car. "You honestly believed me?"
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I don't know," Mom said disappointedly.
On the way home, we chatted animatedly about my class. However, the referral was still in the back of my mind.
A year earlier....
Darkness held its temporary reign over the snow-strewn land. The night was cold and peaceful, with the stars shining overhead. A tiny house, tucked away in a small village in Sheboygan county, Wisconsin, was doubtless one of the happiest homes in the world that night. Its four inhabitants, Dad, Mom, me, and my brother were practicing a Valentine's Day tradition in our family.
Dad gave his us gifts, starting with a joke or some candy. He'd end with a more serious thing, such as an inexpensive toy.
"That's it," he said, saying what he said after every single object he brought out. "That's everything."
Brant and I looked at him half-expectantly, attempting to feel out if he meant it. Eventually, we began to become interested in our gifts once more.
"Oh, I've got one more thing. Tracy, you get on the couch, too."
Bewildered, my mother obeyed him. She positioned herself with her face down in the couch's back cushion with her hands behind her back in the way that we did when we were receiving our presents.
He came back from his room and placed something in our hands. My inquisitive fingers wandered up and down the object, trying to guess what it was.
Newspaper? I wondered. But why would Dad give us newspaper? Could this possibly be what I think it is?
"Okay, you can look now."
We turned around. A scroll of lined paper, secured by a rubber band was in our hands. Removing the band, we unrolled the papers.
A thrill of exhilaration ran through me. Over the past six months, I had written Dad contracts (we got our dog under a contract, so why not try for what I wanted most?) and letters, pleading with him to adopt a child. We didn't even know that he had saved them, and yet here four of them were.....signed!!!
I looked up at my mom. Her eyes wer already crimson and teary. "Honey, are you serious?"
"Yep," he said, nodding.
Next thing I remember, my father was sitting on the love seat, dazed as my mother sobbed tears of joy onto his shoulder. I flung myself onto his other shoulder, thanking him and laughing at Mom's tears as my own spilled down my face. Brant just witnessed the joyful scene, laughing at the two of us......
And now, over a year later, we still had no information. No, we didn't even have a picture, of our precious bundle from China.
Mom went to check her adoption internet group for any signs of referrals (the packet that contains the baby's information and picture). As she came back into the living room, I asked, "Any news?"
"They're lost in the mail."
Lost in the mail! I thought. After waiting all this time?!
I sank down into the leathery comfort of one of our living room chairs. After a while, Mom asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I was just so expecting to get it today."
"God is in control."
The next few days, we heard no news of our referrals. Furthermore, we weren't the only ones. Sixty-four of the referrals from the agency Great Wall and all of the referrals for our agency, CHI (Children's Hope International), were nowhere to be found.
"If they don't find them soon, they'll have to redo them," Mom told me and Brant.
"And how long will that take?" I asked.
"I don't know."
The days passed. What Mom read got worse. The Center of Chinese Adoption Affairs told Anna, a girl working for the neighboring CHI, that they had no tracking number for the destination that she requested. But they did have a tracking number for Children's House International (also a CHI) in Utah.
Once I was in bed that night, I contemplated our situation. Where was our baby? Was she happy or sad? Was someone giving her the love that we couldn't yet show her? Mom had so often said that, "God is in control," but waiting for God to do what we wanted when I could see no reason for it, was hard. I sighed, remembering the prayer that Mom had prayed that night.
Oh God, I prayed, like Mom said, help the referrals to be found soon, but if it's not to be, then so be it.
My feet hastened down the hardwood steps to retrieve the ball that had rolled down the stairs. I began to give it to my brother, for it was his turn to try to score at my goal in our homemade game that was somewhere in between soccer and volleyball.
The phone! We froze momentarily. Without a word passing between us, we we dashed down the very same steps that I had just ascended. Just the day before, Children's House International had called our agency to affirm our suspicions; they had received our referrals!
Mom was already answering it. "Hello?"
Brant grabbed for the camera as I just stood and eavesdropped on the part of the conversation that I could hear. Flashes went off from all angles as Mom asked questions and wrote down all of Mary's answers on a sheet of paper that had been laying near the phone, poised and ready for the call. So far, the following information had been filled out:
"Chinese name: Xi Ai Mei
Province: Anhui, Dingyuan SWI" (SWI is an orphanage)
"What's her date of birth?" Mom asked. 7-17-05 appeared on the page. Our little girl was a mere 7 1/2 months. The call that we had awaited for such a long time had come!
Two months later.....
The hallway of the Civil Affairs Center in Hefei, China was lined with foreign families. They searched the faces of each baby, hoping to find the slightest detail that would give it away as the child they had prayed for, thought about, and held dear from thousands of miles away. A nanny smiled at us joyously, probably trying to hide the pain she felt by mixing it with the joy she had for the baby in her arms.
Suddenly, a little girl in a man's arms bent backward and looked straight in my direction. Recognition struck me. My sister!
"Mom, I think I see Brielle!"
"Where?' she replied quickly.
I pointed towards her. Mom got Dad to snap a quick photo.
Minutes later, cameras and tears of joy entered the scene as one-by-one, the babies' Chinese names were called out. The families entered a room empty-handed, and left smiling and holding a precious Chinese treasure.
"Xi Ai Mei," our coordinator, Wendy, finally announced. "Whose baby is Xi Ai Mei?"
That name! I had memorized it. I had stared at the pictures of her. I had thought aout her even before she could remember anything at all.
We stepped into the room where we were destined to meet our little bundle of love. Tears flowed over Mom's cheeks as an almost ten-month-old girl with chubby cheeks, thick eyebrows, and beautiful almond eyes was placed into her arms. Another famiy captured the scene with our DVD recorder.
What all the recorders in the world will never be able to capture, however is the feeling which some would call happiness. But, from experience, I think that God alone can put this emotion into words.
I looked into my sister's face. So this was the child that had once only been a letter in my hand, and before that, a dream in my head. We had trusted God, and, once again, He didn't let us down.
The bonding time which followed strengthened my affection for the girl who had once been Xi Ai Mei. She was a nobody in her own land, but, through the miracle of adoption became Brielle Goodrich and means the world to us. There is no doubt about it. We are family.
The roof shaded the walkway of the second-floor shops from the glaring sun. I walked out of the theater where I had just finished taking an acting lesson. My mom, Tracy, and my brother, Brant, were coming to meet me.
"Hey," Mom said in her friendly, glad-to-see-you manner as I enveloped her in a hug.
"We got our referral," Brant said, answering the question I longed to ask.
"We did?" I replied eagerly.
Mom's blonde hair swished slightly as she turned her head to fix her blue eyes on Brant. "No we didn't."
His chocolate eyes looked at me incredulously as we walked to the car. "You honestly believed me?"
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I don't know," Mom said disappointedly.
On the way home, we chatted animatedly about my class. However, the referral was still in the back of my mind.
A year earlier....
Darkness held its temporary reign over the snow-strewn land. The night was cold and peaceful, with the stars shining overhead. A tiny house, tucked away in a small village in Sheboygan county, Wisconsin, was doubtless one of the happiest homes in the world that night. Its four inhabitants, Dad, Mom, me, and my brother were practicing a Valentine's Day tradition in our family.
Dad gave his us gifts, starting with a joke or some candy. He'd end with a more serious thing, such as an inexpensive toy.
"That's it," he said, saying what he said after every single object he brought out. "That's everything."
Brant and I looked at him half-expectantly, attempting to feel out if he meant it. Eventually, we began to become interested in our gifts once more.
"Oh, I've got one more thing. Tracy, you get on the couch, too."
Bewildered, my mother obeyed him. She positioned herself with her face down in the couch's back cushion with her hands behind her back in the way that we did when we were receiving our presents.
He came back from his room and placed something in our hands. My inquisitive fingers wandered up and down the object, trying to guess what it was.
Newspaper? I wondered. But why would Dad give us newspaper? Could this possibly be what I think it is?
"Okay, you can look now."
We turned around. A scroll of lined paper, secured by a rubber band was in our hands. Removing the band, we unrolled the papers.
A thrill of exhilaration ran through me. Over the past six months, I had written Dad contracts (we got our dog under a contract, so why not try for what I wanted most?) and letters, pleading with him to adopt a child. We didn't even know that he had saved them, and yet here four of them were.....signed!!!
I looked up at my mom. Her eyes wer already crimson and teary. "Honey, are you serious?"
"Yep," he said, nodding.
Next thing I remember, my father was sitting on the love seat, dazed as my mother sobbed tears of joy onto his shoulder. I flung myself onto his other shoulder, thanking him and laughing at Mom's tears as my own spilled down my face. Brant just witnessed the joyful scene, laughing at the two of us......
And now, over a year later, we still had no information. No, we didn't even have a picture, of our precious bundle from China.
Mom went to check her adoption internet group for any signs of referrals (the packet that contains the baby's information and picture). As she came back into the living room, I asked, "Any news?"
"They're lost in the mail."
Lost in the mail! I thought. After waiting all this time?!
I sank down into the leathery comfort of one of our living room chairs. After a while, Mom asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I was just so expecting to get it today."
"God is in control."
The next few days, we heard no news of our referrals. Furthermore, we weren't the only ones. Sixty-four of the referrals from the agency Great Wall and all of the referrals for our agency, CHI (Children's Hope International), were nowhere to be found.
"If they don't find them soon, they'll have to redo them," Mom told me and Brant.
"And how long will that take?" I asked.
"I don't know."
The days passed. What Mom read got worse. The Center of Chinese Adoption Affairs told Anna, a girl working for the neighboring CHI, that they had no tracking number for the destination that she requested. But they did have a tracking number for Children's House International (also a CHI) in Utah.
Once I was in bed that night, I contemplated our situation. Where was our baby? Was she happy or sad? Was someone giving her the love that we couldn't yet show her? Mom had so often said that, "God is in control," but waiting for God to do what we wanted when I could see no reason for it, was hard. I sighed, remembering the prayer that Mom had prayed that night.
Oh God, I prayed, like Mom said, help the referrals to be found soon, but if it's not to be, then so be it.
My feet hastened down the hardwood steps to retrieve the ball that had rolled down the stairs. I began to give it to my brother, for it was his turn to try to score at my goal in our homemade game that was somewhere in between soccer and volleyball.
The phone! We froze momentarily. Without a word passing between us, we we dashed down the very same steps that I had just ascended. Just the day before, Children's House International had called our agency to affirm our suspicions; they had received our referrals!
Mom was already answering it. "Hello?"
Brant grabbed for the camera as I just stood and eavesdropped on the part of the conversation that I could hear. Flashes went off from all angles as Mom asked questions and wrote down all of Mary's answers on a sheet of paper that had been laying near the phone, poised and ready for the call. So far, the following information had been filled out:
"Chinese name: Xi Ai Mei
Province: Anhui, Dingyuan SWI" (SWI is an orphanage)
"What's her date of birth?" Mom asked. 7-17-05 appeared on the page. Our little girl was a mere 7 1/2 months. The call that we had awaited for such a long time had come!
Two months later.....
The hallway of the Civil Affairs Center in Hefei, China was lined with foreign families. They searched the faces of each baby, hoping to find the slightest detail that would give it away as the child they had prayed for, thought about, and held dear from thousands of miles away. A nanny smiled at us joyously, probably trying to hide the pain she felt by mixing it with the joy she had for the baby in her arms.
Suddenly, a little girl in a man's arms bent backward and looked straight in my direction. Recognition struck me. My sister!
"Mom, I think I see Brielle!"
"Where?' she replied quickly.
I pointed towards her. Mom got Dad to snap a quick photo.
Minutes later, cameras and tears of joy entered the scene as one-by-one, the babies' Chinese names were called out. The families entered a room empty-handed, and left smiling and holding a precious Chinese treasure.
"Xi Ai Mei," our coordinator, Wendy, finally announced. "Whose baby is Xi Ai Mei?"
That name! I had memorized it. I had stared at the pictures of her. I had thought aout her even before she could remember anything at all.
We stepped into the room where we were destined to meet our little bundle of love. Tears flowed over Mom's cheeks as an almost ten-month-old girl with chubby cheeks, thick eyebrows, and beautiful almond eyes was placed into her arms. Another famiy captured the scene with our DVD recorder.
What all the recorders in the world will never be able to capture, however is the feeling which some would call happiness. But, from experience, I think that God alone can put this emotion into words.
I looked into my sister's face. So this was the child that had once only been a letter in my hand, and before that, a dream in my head. We had trusted God, and, once again, He didn't let us down.
The bonding time which followed strengthened my affection for the girl who had once been Xi Ai Mei. She was a nobody in her own land, but, through the miracle of adoption became Brielle Goodrich and means the world to us. There is no doubt about it. We are family.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
9-1-1, Dedicated to the Catastrophe of 9/11
9/11. The day that changed it all. Before that fateful day, we were just a normal country, innocent bystanders of the Middle Eastern crisises.
Then, all of a sudden, Dad phoned from work as our school day was beginning. It was only about 8:00 our time, 9:00 in New York City. He was watching the news, and asked Mom to do the same.
For many minutes, our schoolwork laid neglected as we all stared in horrified silence at the smoke spiraling into the sky. We were already hearing rumors of important buildings being evacuated. Even at our young ages of 8 and 6, Brant and I could understand the tragedy of this day. Brant thought that Dad should leave work, while Mom and I tried to calmly explain to him the unlikeliness of Dad being harmed.
I recall kneeling on our couch and looking out upon the sunset. The news must have still been on, for I heard the words, "This morning, the world started out rightside up. Tonight, it is upside down."
That's so true, I thought.
Since then, I have often wondered why the terrorists selected that day to execute their plans. Could it, by any chance, have anything to do with the fact that the American emergency number (9-1-1) matched with the numbers of the date (9/11)?
Thus, I came up with this plot line. It's not fully developed yet, but I thought that I'd include the beginning here in memory of the victims of 9/11. So here it is, the opening words of 9-1-1!
"Mom and Dad? It's me, Sydney. I wanted to let you know that the plane has been hijacked. I wanted to say that I love you so much. Tell everyone that I love them. Oh, and Lindsay? I don't have any hard feelings because of what you said yesterday. It grieves me to know that I'll probably never see you guys again. If you call the airline authorities, tell them I'm on United Flight 175. Well, I guess this is-"
Seventeen-year-old Lindsay slapped the buton which stopped the answering machine. Stunned, her trembling hands grasped the keys to her car. She had to go tell her parents.
As she pulled out of the driveway, her mind lingered on everything that she and her sister had fought over. Was it just last night that Lindsay had called Sydney selfish just because she wouldn't buy her tickets to see her favorite band? She banged the wheel in her frustrated remorse.
She was still brooding over this as her car slowly ascended the parking garage reserved for the northern one of the Twin Towers. Parking on the visitors level, she stepped out. The elevator took her to floor 14, where both of her parents worked for a banking company.
Stopping at an office door, she hesitated to gather up the courage to confide such a tragedy to her mother. She rapped on the door.
"Lindsay! What are you....What's wrong?" Her mother's smile vanished.
"Mom," Lindsay's voice quivered. Suddenly, the ponds welling in her eyes overflowed into streams upon her cheeks as she choked out the message. "Sydney called to...to...to say that her plane has been hijacked!"
A deafening shatter was heard from above. The structure shook. Lindsay clasped her hands to her ears as fire alarms beeped out there message. Bewildered, she looked at her mother. The woman gulped, then slid a protective arm about her daughter and said, "Let's go outside."
"What about Dad?"
"Daddy's...a man. He'll know what to do."
The door to the nearest stairwell was already ajar when the duo reached it, and people were beginning to fill the narrow width of the stairs. Lindsay began the descent, followed by her mom.
Crash! The ceiling collapsed behind her.
"Mom!" Lindsay yelled, whirling around. Racing back to the pile of rubble, she shouted, "Mom?! Are you alright?"
"Yes, I am," came the voice from behind the debris.
"You just wait there. I'll get you out."
Just as Lindsay began shoving broken bits of glass, wood, metal, and other unidentifiable solids around, she smelled smoke. She heard her mother say, "The fire's at the doorway! You'll never be able to move all this in time. Spare yourself; leave me here!"
"But I-"
"I love you. I'm saying this for your own good!"
"I love you, too, Mom," the girl wailed. "I'm sorry for how rebellious I've been these past years. If I had another chance, I'd be better!"
"I hold nothing against you. But you must go now, or we'll both die!"
All of a sudden, Lindsay felt a hand grab her arm and pull her from her post next to her mother. Raising an ash-stained face, she saw her father. His stern gaze met hers. "She's right, Lindsay. Go!"
Gulping to swallow her grief, the girl nodded. Weeping, she fled down the steps and out into the sunshine.
The buzz of a plane flying overhead became audible. Gazing over her shoulder, she spotted the words United upon the side of the airplane, just moments before it crashed into the South Tower. Tears sprung to her eyes afresh. Sydney's life had just ended.
Then, all of a sudden, Dad phoned from work as our school day was beginning. It was only about 8:00 our time, 9:00 in New York City. He was watching the news, and asked Mom to do the same.
For many minutes, our schoolwork laid neglected as we all stared in horrified silence at the smoke spiraling into the sky. We were already hearing rumors of important buildings being evacuated. Even at our young ages of 8 and 6, Brant and I could understand the tragedy of this day. Brant thought that Dad should leave work, while Mom and I tried to calmly explain to him the unlikeliness of Dad being harmed.
I recall kneeling on our couch and looking out upon the sunset. The news must have still been on, for I heard the words, "This morning, the world started out rightside up. Tonight, it is upside down."
That's so true, I thought.
Since then, I have often wondered why the terrorists selected that day to execute their plans. Could it, by any chance, have anything to do with the fact that the American emergency number (9-1-1) matched with the numbers of the date (9/11)?
Thus, I came up with this plot line. It's not fully developed yet, but I thought that I'd include the beginning here in memory of the victims of 9/11. So here it is, the opening words of 9-1-1!
"Mom and Dad? It's me, Sydney. I wanted to let you know that the plane has been hijacked. I wanted to say that I love you so much. Tell everyone that I love them. Oh, and Lindsay? I don't have any hard feelings because of what you said yesterday. It grieves me to know that I'll probably never see you guys again. If you call the airline authorities, tell them I'm on United Flight 175. Well, I guess this is-"
Seventeen-year-old Lindsay slapped the buton which stopped the answering machine. Stunned, her trembling hands grasped the keys to her car. She had to go tell her parents.
As she pulled out of the driveway, her mind lingered on everything that she and her sister had fought over. Was it just last night that Lindsay had called Sydney selfish just because she wouldn't buy her tickets to see her favorite band? She banged the wheel in her frustrated remorse.
She was still brooding over this as her car slowly ascended the parking garage reserved for the northern one of the Twin Towers. Parking on the visitors level, she stepped out. The elevator took her to floor 14, where both of her parents worked for a banking company.
Stopping at an office door, she hesitated to gather up the courage to confide such a tragedy to her mother. She rapped on the door.
"Lindsay! What are you....What's wrong?" Her mother's smile vanished.
"Mom," Lindsay's voice quivered. Suddenly, the ponds welling in her eyes overflowed into streams upon her cheeks as she choked out the message. "Sydney called to...to...to say that her plane has been hijacked!"
A deafening shatter was heard from above. The structure shook. Lindsay clasped her hands to her ears as fire alarms beeped out there message. Bewildered, she looked at her mother. The woman gulped, then slid a protective arm about her daughter and said, "Let's go outside."
"What about Dad?"
"Daddy's...a man. He'll know what to do."
The door to the nearest stairwell was already ajar when the duo reached it, and people were beginning to fill the narrow width of the stairs. Lindsay began the descent, followed by her mom.
Crash! The ceiling collapsed behind her.
"Mom!" Lindsay yelled, whirling around. Racing back to the pile of rubble, she shouted, "Mom?! Are you alright?"
"Yes, I am," came the voice from behind the debris.
"You just wait there. I'll get you out."
Just as Lindsay began shoving broken bits of glass, wood, metal, and other unidentifiable solids around, she smelled smoke. She heard her mother say, "The fire's at the doorway! You'll never be able to move all this in time. Spare yourself; leave me here!"
"But I-"
"I love you. I'm saying this for your own good!"
"I love you, too, Mom," the girl wailed. "I'm sorry for how rebellious I've been these past years. If I had another chance, I'd be better!"
"I hold nothing against you. But you must go now, or we'll both die!"
All of a sudden, Lindsay felt a hand grab her arm and pull her from her post next to her mother. Raising an ash-stained face, she saw her father. His stern gaze met hers. "She's right, Lindsay. Go!"
Gulping to swallow her grief, the girl nodded. Weeping, she fled down the steps and out into the sunshine.
The buzz of a plane flying overhead became audible. Gazing over her shoulder, she spotted the words United upon the side of the airplane, just moments before it crashed into the South Tower. Tears sprung to her eyes afresh. Sydney's life had just ended.
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