Monday, September 23, 2013

mondays don't have to suck

Because it's Monday,



1. For those of you plotting your story out there, here's a tremendously helpful list you can use to bring that Shiny New Idea floating around in your head to paper. I know I'll be using it for INDIGO TIDES.

Yes, INDIGO TIDES is the name of my new novel. Nothing more can be revealed because nothing else makes sense anyway - yet. I'm hoping that will change once I get to the end of that list.


2. In the similar vein, here's another guide on how not to get lost in your story and finding your way from start to finish. Some suggestions like a) plotting your novel chapter by chapter, b) writing a script beforehand and c) delineating character arcs are pretty useful - at least for me. I've tried them before, and they make it so much easier to crank out the words. 

a) For LAMBS, I plotted about two to three chapters for the next day, and wrote an average of 3,000 words each day. It's how I managed to complete the first draft in a month. 

b) UNTIL MORNING was originally a script (as those of you in EN3271 Advanced Playwriting might remember) before I ran with it and turned it into a novel. The first few scenes took less than a couple of days to write because I already had a little more than the skeleton of each scene ready. 

c) Just a simple line of how you expect the character(s) to change over the course of the story can help provide more focus on where you want to take them. Worked for me for 15 MINUTES, which I finally finished after letting it languish for months and months and months because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my characters.

So give those tips a try and you might just make sense of that Shiny New Idea after all.


3. If you're a grammar Nazi, you'll probably want to figuratively make babies with this website, if you haven't already. I stumbled across it when I wanted to find out what the deal was between addictive and addicting. The latter has never sat well with me, because it sounds about as grammatically credible as "would of" instead of "would have", probably because the only times I've ever seen people use it is when they comment on how "addicting" [insert addiction such as Kpop or a drama series or a figurehead for a beloved book character like Jace Wayland] is. 


Not, of course, that I'm a grammar Nazi.


4. And in case you start thinking I'm only about writing and books and blah blah she has no life blah, here's something other than writing and books.

In the words of Sarah Dessen, "Don't think or judge, just listen."


And this:


And:



I'm not one of those crazy fangirls, but I have to say Big Bang produces some really sick (original) songs. These instrumentals keep me awake during the workday, and are great for working out to!

Have a great week, everyone!

(And just so you know, I'm not usually this organised. I usually just dump all my words into one indiscernible paragraph and attempt to slice it into something more structured after that, but for the sake of those reading it I've decided to be less annoyingly trend-of-thought-y.)

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Short Story - The Road Back


She had been here before countless times, but never had the town square looked so foreign to her. Something in this labyrinth of dusty corridors and stone archways seemed to have shifted in aspect; even the paint peeling in flakes overhead and pools of water gathering in the rough uneven ground served to throw her off.

In the narrow back alley, she had to simultaneously sidestep a puddle and duck beneath an archway on several counts. The only light came from the crescent moon that sliced the sky above, and the pearly unearthly glow of his silhouette. She kept a tight watch on that glow, afraid to lose sight of him.

He moved swiftly ahead of her, a strapping figure cutting through the fog, and she struggled to keep up. Occasionally, he would glance back to see if he had lost her, then reassured by the sight of her, advance along, never once breaking stride.

Not since her thirteenth birthday had she ventured out alone at this time of the night. Yet, even in the darkness, this place felt as familiar as her backyard. Not for the first time, she wondered what had made her decide to follow him here when she knew close to nothing about him. Her father would have an embolism if he found out.

She heard a low murmur, and realised he was muttering to himself as his eyes swept across the doors they passed. It only occurred to her that the doors were marked with what appeared like claw marks, three blatant slashes raked into the worn wood. She had never travelled through these back alleys, but she was certain the embellishments hadn't been part of the doors. What did the shopkeepers suppose of their doors being damaged this way – assuming, of course, that someone else had done the scratching?

He was saying something in a more audible tone now.

“Yesterday was a story, today is a statement, and tomorrow is just a rumour. Everything else is buried.” He spun around to direct his moonlit eyes on her. “Do you know the answer to that?”

Caught off guard by the urgency in his gaze, she could only blink and stammer, “I – I don’t….”

“It’s a riddle,” he explained, resuming his stride. “A clue.”

“Clue to what?” Her voice jerked as she started jogging to keep up with him.

“To the place we’re looking for. To the one who can bring you back.”

“Back where?” she pressed, but he was too fixated on searching for the right door. She decided to focus on the riddle instead as she tried to trail behind him as closely as possible. Her footsteps slowed as the answer dawned on her. “There’s a fortune-teller next to a newsstand just around the corner,” she called. “And next to that is a bookstore!”

He whirled around and peered at her curiously, his brows pulling together to make out her meaning.

“A rumour, a statement, a story. Where can you find those things? A fortune-teller’s, a newsstand and a bookstore,” she explained.

“And the rest is buried?”

“There’s a basement in the bookstore. The other two are boarded up. Maybe –”

“Lead the way,” he said.

*

The frayed old bookstore stood at the end of the street like a survivor, flanked by a pottery shop and the newsstand. It seemed more morose than comforting in the dark; she had spent countless afternoons in Between the Pages and never had she seen it this way.

They stood in the face of the crumbling edifice, separate in their respective reveries. A part of her meant to tear down the lane where they came from, back to where she was safe in her ignorance of this secret life she never knew belonged to her. But another part, one that wrestled for dominance in her, forced her to stay where she was, insisting that she would get the answers she sought – finally.

Next to her, he glanced about furtively, eager to duck out of the light. The streetlights burnished his pewter eyes and she found herself unable to look away from the feral glow in his flitting gaze.

Before either of them could calculate their next move, Roy emerged from the depths of the bookstore. The door rasped behind him as he peered at her through his left eye, the one that wasn't clouded with cataract, then took another glance at the stranger by her side. He must have found an answer of some sort in their faces, because a shadow slipped over his face.

“Roy, this is…” She considered how to introduce him, but Roy only stared up at her companion, his face lined with a mix of emotions she struggled to identify.

At length he said to the tall, silver-eyed stranger, as if he had known him forever, “You brought her back.”

of brain pulp and distractions



"Writer’s block is a condition that affects amateurs and people who aren't serious about writing. So is the opposite, namely inspiration, which amateurs are also very fond of. Putting it another way: a professional writer is someone who writes just as well when they’re not inspired as when they are.” 
~ Philip Pullman, from Aerogramme Writers' Studio

In short: to be a professional writer, get over yourself and just write. Good or bad, let the words out and you can edit the crap out of them later.

"Making up a story—for me, an entertaining escape filled with humanity and romance—is at the core of everything. And it’s hard—so hard. Reading it over and over, researching, making changes, asking for advice, thinking till your brain hurts... Because it’s absolutely true: this is the place where I feel most powerful, most indomitable, and most satisfied when it works. This is the peace—when you know in your gut that this is fun, that you like doing it, that even if no one ever paid you, you’d probably do it anyway. And I also like that it’s hard! If it wasn't very hard, what would I be accomplishing? If it wasn't hard, anyone could do it." 
~ Robyn Carr, from Publishers Weekly 

Nice to know I'm not the only one agonising over this whole writing thing. Writers are strange - we put ourselves through this over and over again, even though we know how completely frustrating it can get putting a novel together, how much of ourselves we pour into the story, and putting ourselves at stake whenever we send out a novel, hoping and wishing and praying for it to be picked up by someone else who will believe in it. I'm not getting paid for this, and I'm trying so hard to get people to read my debut novel, and I'm still receiving rejection slips from literary agents. Yet, I am still doing this. Of my own volition. Because I get restless - my brain gets restless - when I'm not creating. 

My head has been feeling empty for the past few days, maybe even weeks. Because I still have no idea what I'm trying to write, or the story I'm trying to tell. I keep telling myself to keep it simple, stupid, but my mind just draws a blank after that and I feel like I'm squashing my brain to a pulp in order to get some juice out of it.

(I just Googled images of "squashed pulp", and the search engine vomited images that should not be viewed after breakfast. Or anytime, for that matter.)

Plus, the rejection slips are still coming in for BLOOD PROMISE. I feel like flinging something across the room and going, "Forget it, I should just give up on this story!"

But I can't. Because deep down, I still believe in it. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's mind-blowingly good, since I know what kind of mind-blowingly good books are out there (DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE, hello?). But I don't think it sucks enough to warrant all these rejection slips. I believe it CAN go somewhere. CAN'T IT?!?!

*takes deep breath* 

Okay. It's all good.

At least I'm starting to receive feedback for 15 MINUTES (the title is surprisingly well-received), and editing the manuscript should keep my mind off the less-than-enthusiastic reception to BLOOD PROMISE. Again, thanks to my critique partners for answering all my questions with such candour and and for picking up on details even I didn't spot. Love you girls!

To end this on a positive note:



I'll find my way to the end of this new novel. Somehow. In the meantime, I shall go work on more short stories and play connect-the-dots, if you know what I mean.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Shiny New Novel, here I come!

There's a lot of random stuff floating in my mind every morning when I swim. 50 laps, or 1 hour, is a long time to give free reign to your mind and let it wander.

Sometimes, my mind drifts to cute boys:



*Ahem.*

Sometimes, a song plays endlessly in my head:


Often, I try to steer it towards plotting my book.



And now that I've finally finished the first draft of 15 MINUTES (10 September, 10 pm, if you need the details), new book plotting is in order!

About 15 MINUTES: I started it at the beginning of August of 2011, when the new semester was just starting. As usual, the first half of the book was a breeze - I had fun with the characters. But as the story dragged on, it got to the point where I had no idea where it was going and was just fumbling along with no end in sight. The characters were fun to write, but the stakes weren't high enough, the scenes didn't have enough tension and conflict, and the story just seemed to be chasing its tail. In short: *tears at hair, cowers in despair and think, hmm, maybe I'll come back to this later*

I eventually did, after finishing BLOOD PROMISE and UNTIL MORNING. Yes, two novels later, I was ready for the mess that was 15 MINUTES again. Procrastination becomes thy name, Joyce.



So I pushed through the slush and tried to make it work again. Hopefully, I have. But I can't be sure, since I only just finished it two days ago and can't be trusted to be objective about it. I can't shake the nagging feeling that there's still something wrong about the manuscript, though. Like the ending is too abrupt or the characters' problems are too easily resolved, the stakes still aren't high enough and the characters don't have to sacrifice much to get to the denouement, the characters' arcs aren't fully fleshed out and they don't have much room to grow, etc etc etc.

Why yes, writers are a neurotic, insecure bunch. How did you know?

Still, I've sent the manuscripts to my trusted, honest, and infinitely patient critics (you girls are absolute angels), and I don't want to think about it for at least a week. In the meantime, SHINY NEW IDEA HERE I COME!

I've had this idea brewing in my head for ages, ever since I read the ever-awesome Laini Taylor's book, DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE. If I haven't made myself clear before in this post and this, that book is insanely terrific. And DAYS OF BLOOD AND STARLIGHT, the sequel to DAUGHTER, did not disappoint at all. It was filled with intricate yet mind-blowing twists and turns of the plot, Laini-style prose that is pretty darn close to poetry, and so much epic-ness I had to pause sporadically to catch my breath or marvel at Laini's genius or sigh wistfully, wishing I could write like her.

This is pretty much me as I read the book(s):

 photo excited_zpsf599bc12.gif


Anyway, so my point is, after reading Laini's story, I am so incredibly tempted to write an epic fantasy story. You know how some stories make you go, "How could I never have thought of that?" DAUGHTER is such a book. Teeth-dealer, a hole in the sky, a resurrectionist, animal hybrids, war between beasts and angels. Sure, how could I have not thought of that?

 I've never been too hot on angel stories, partly because of its religious undertones (I steer clear of books that talk about religion), but mostly because they're all about forbidden love between an angel and a human. And of course the angel is inhumanly beautiful and interested in a random teenage girl.

But the romance in DAUGHTER is completely justifiable and not like other angel stories in the market. *cough* HUSH, HUSH *cough* FALLEN

 And while I'm not about to attempt writing a story with angels in it in the foreseeable future, I'm really taken with the idea of a character being raised by beasts. Beasts who are not really beasts, but who have families and homes and are just fighting back against their oppressors.

But really, it was the dream that sealed it for me. Not too long ago, I had this dream about this guy who erased a girl's memory for her safety and was accused of treason. It might have been the result of my brain being all hyped up on DAUGHTER, but in the dream I was the girl. I was one bewildered and struggling to recall who the guy was. And a dream as surreal as this is hard to deny.

I'm dying to write this story - I've already decided I'll write it in third-person POV, something I've never done before because I think I'm awful at it - but I'm terrified it'll turn out like some DAUGHTER rip-off. But I'll try to work out the kinks of the story. World-building is a daunting task, one that's way bigger than the size of my head, so it's like trying to hold on to a fistful of water. There is always something that leaks out, something I miss, and everything's a shapeless mess, as evidenced by the short stories I've been writing lately (see them here and here). There's a story here somewhere - if only I can string it all together into something coherent.

Sunday, September 01, 2013

Short Story - Light as a Feather, Heavy as Silver

 
 
She saw the bloodied coat of feathers before anything else.

In the dark, she couldn't be certain if what she had seen was the result of a mind running on snatches of shut-eye for the past week. Surely it was just an injured bird, even if the bird appeared to be human-sized.

But then his eyes flickered into view, a flash of silver, like liquid mercury. She didn't know how she knew the intruder was male – maybe it was the set of his jaw, the regal slope of his nose or the planes under his cheekbones – but she froze at the sight, tracking the shallow beats of her heart as she waited.

Now, he was perched atop the tree directly outside her window, head dipped and motionless, like a frightful bird of prey roosting. Though half-obscured by the canopy of leaves, the shards of moonlight that danced off the facets of his wings revealed how ravaged they were. In the scant light, she noticed the feathers that stuck out, frayed and bloodstained, and one of his wings bent at an awkward angle.

He looked like something from her dream – literally. It had been ages since she had that dream, but she could remember it as vividly as though she were living in it. In the dream, a winged boy no older than eighteen extended his hand to her, hovering a few feet in mid-air. His eyes shone like polished metal, a smile curling at the edges of his lips as he waited for her to take his hand. How certain he was that she would, and oh how she longed to.

She could see the vague resemblance between the boy in her dreams and the one right before her eyes. Just as she debated whether to open the windows to get a closer look, the boy lifted his gaze. It cut to her and she let out an involuntary gasp. There was no mistaking those eyes: like those of the boy in her dream, they were alert, defiant and brimming with life – along with something else she couldn’t quite pinpoint – despite the state of his body. He looked almost inhuman.

Of course he’s not human, she thought. He has wings.

Later, she would wonder why she decided to open the window and let him in, why she trusted that he meant her no harm, that the savagery in his eyes was not intended for her. Later, she would struggle to recall the trepidation as she held out her hand, because all she would remember was the inexplicable exhilaration that stirred in her.

She decided then that this had to be a dream, an extended version of the one she had as a child, because in no circumstance now would she let a complete – inhuman – stranger into the house.

He seemed duly surprised that she could see him, even more so that she would reach out for him. Still, he spared only a sliver of hesitation before tumbling through the windows and crashing into her arms as though he had found home.

The swiftness of his movement caught her off guard. She only had time to take a step back before she found herself pinned under him. For a while, neither of them moved. She could feel his heartbeat, clopping heavily like erratic hoof-beats, and her own hummingbird one, buzzing and light and ready to take flight.

With a soft moan, he slid off her and struggled to sit up.

Up close, she saw that one of his wings was definitely broken. His face was slick and ashen, stark against his shock of dark hair. He seemed so incongruously human, crumpled beneath the weight of his battered wings.

“Let me see,” she said. Her first words to him sounded much braver than she felt.

His brows pulled towards each other as he appraised her, but he was either too weak to protest or trusted her to know what she was doing. He flinched when she touched him with a slightly shaking hand and inspected the damage and she said, rather lamely, “It’s okay,” even though she struggled to make sense of everything that was happening.

There was something disconcerting about his gaze, as though it held a confession, and she kept her attention doggedly on mending his ruined wings, preparing the First Aid kit, a towel and a bowl of warm water as surreptitiously as she could without waking her family.

She worked in silence, all the while contending with the feeling that there was something she ought to say, something she meant to say. Questions sat in her stomach like swallowed air bubbles, but her mind was in too violent a tumult to string the words together. There was something in the silence that she didn’t want to upset, anyway.

He watched her run her fingers over the ridges of his wings, cleaning up his fresh wounds, and winced when her hand skated across the broken bone. She muttered an apology, then resumed working with that narrow, almost stubborn, intensity, as though pushing a memory, a nagging thought, out of her mind. Could it be? Could she possibly remember?

On her his attention felt like a scythe, and she babbled, “Some of these wounds are deep. I can clean them up, but the broken bone I can’t mend.”

“I will heal,” he replied. His voice was stronger than she expected, the baritone of someone who was used to making assurances.

“You might not be able to … fly for a while.”

“Wings only mean as much as the places you go.”

“Not if there are better places for you to be.”

His eyes sparked with surprise, as though she had stolen his line. “Would you like to be someplace else?”

She could hear the offer in his voice, see his outstretched hand inviting her to take to the skies, and like in that dream she ached to slip her hand into his and tear free from the watchful eye of her father, if only for a while.

Flight terrified her. The sense of giving yourself up to the wind, of losing control. Water was her element; it grounded her in a way air never could. But after what happened to her mother, her father had forbidden her to go near the water. Now, it felt like all the water in the world – seas and lakes and rivers and lagoons, puddles and raindrops and thawed ice – sat in her gut, growing heavier as days passed. She only just realised that it was the need to move, to escape, to live.

Still, that was not enough to make her turn to flying.

“I – I’m happy where I am,” she lied.

He let out a low chuckle – a sound that seemed irreconcilable with his wide serious eyes – as though he saw right through her feebly constructed lie and expected nothing less of her answer. This was followed by a coughing fit so violent she feared for him and worried that they would be heard.

“Maybe you should rest,” she suggested, helping him into the beanbag chair by the bookshelf.

He sank into it gratefully, but didn’t close his eyes until he said, “It was nice meeting you.” He might have said her name – in a whisper like an afterthought – but that wasn’t possible since she had never offered that information.

She didn’t know how long it took for either of them to finally settle into sleep, but the sight of his tranquil resting face made her racing heart peter to a sedated rhythm that lulled her back to sleep.

When the first shaft of sunlight edged its way into her room, she jolted awake to find herself back in her bed. There was no sign of the boy, or traces of the tools she used to nurse his wounds. In the daylight, everything seemed innocuously ordinary, almost taunting in its normalcy.

It had to have been a dream, she thought, although she couldn’t recall the last time a dream felt this surreal. But already, she was beginning to regret falling back to sleep, or keeping her questions to herself.

The window was tightly shut, though she recalled how wide open she had flung it last night, how he had crashed through it and fallen upon her.

She tried to beat down the flush creeping up her neck. Could she really have dreamed it all up?

She was just about to head over to the window when she saw it – the only proof he left behind: a single feather, pure and white as a freshly fallen snowflake, resting on the bedside table.