Tag: Writing

Bones

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She crouched over his body on the floor. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be happily ever after. He’d sold her a fairy tale, a life she’d barely been able to imagine.

And now he was dead.

They had had only a month together, hardly enough time in which to give her the moon and the stars like he’d promised. He’d sold her a fairy tale, a dream he could not make true.

And now he was dead.

The wind carried her anguish to the hills, swirled her bitter tears out to sea. The trees bent beneath her wails, snapping and cracking like his bones, creaking and groaning like the bones of her house.

When the freak storm finally passed, her neighbors found her frozen in the rubble, still crouched over his body, and thought how sweet it was that they had perished together.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Until We Meet Again

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Tenby, Wales (Explored)

“Fare thee well, my love,” the old man whispered.

The love of his life lay broken on the beach below, hair splayed out like rays from the sun, and he thought as he plummeted toward her that he’d never seen her look more beautiful.

Photo courtesy of Purple128 and Flickr’s Interesting Photos section. 🙂

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Lake of Fog

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It was rainy and dreary here on Monday, then foggy as anything yesterday morning. Nothing inspires me quite the way fog and rain do, especially at this time of year. Add to that “Gretchen am Spinnrade,” which has been getting a lot of play on my iPod, and I quickly found myself in Inspiration City. This piece has been brewing for a couple of days, and I hope you like it. 🙂

The steady beat of the rain on the glass echoed the steady beat of her tears on the floor. The fog on the lake mirrored the fog in her soul, and she wore it the way she’d have worn a comfy old coat. If she could just find him, she could make him see. If she could just find him, then she’d be free.

But the fog hid more than her drooping frame, and the rain did wash freedom’s sun away. She searched through the windows, tore open the door, but the fog hid her love forevermore. She climbed up the mountain, looked high and low, but the fog hid everything in the valley below.

Then a flash caught her eye and without hesitation, she stepped into the sky. She dove toward the lake where he’d rested his head on a pillow of stone, with sand for a bed. But a trick of the light was all it had been, and the freezing cold water welcomed her in. The bitter blue waves stole every breath; with tears in her eyes, she at last greeted Death.

The steady beat of the rain on the glass echoed the steady beat of her tears on the floor. The fog on the lake mirrored the fog in her soul; she wore it the way she’d have worn a comfy old coat. If she could just find him, she could make him see. But she never could find him; she’ll never be free.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

A work in progress

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Work on my novel continues…slowly. I’m my own worst critic, I know, but it’s very hard to turn that inner critic off.

Still, I didn’t think this bit was all that bad:

It was then that he noticed the silence. Riverdell was a small, quiet town, but it had nothing on this place. Even on the quietest night in Riverdell, there was always traffic thrumming in the distance. Electricity sang through the power lines; streetlights hummed on otherwise dark streets; kids toting stereos pumped up the bass loud enough to rattle a whole building.

There was none of that here. There was only the wind in the trees here, tall grass waving in the breeze, a cricket choir backed by a bug band singing him to sleep.

It was another beautiful day here today, and the warmth of the sun has been most welcome. I hope you’re all having a fantastic weekend!

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Writing bunnies

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I’m home from work today with a sick little Thumper bunny and taking advantage of the unexpected time off to catch up on a bit of writing. I’m working on revisions for another novel, and it’s not going as well as I’d initially thought it would. There’s so much more to cut than I’d first thought: trying to keep it to one POV per scene is a major challenge.

I’ve been fiddling around with these books for a good decade. I even queried them a few years ago, but didn’t get anywhere. That, of course, happened long before I decided that one book should become two, but even then it was a hot mess. It’s still a hot mess, but at least I think I’ve grown as a writer since then. I still feel like the head-hopping isn’t such a big deal, but others (okay, pretty much everyone else) disagree, so I’m changing it.

And it’s hard. So very, very hard.

Silencing my diligent and devoted inner literary critic is even harder.

I think the changes I’m making will…

Transcribing memories

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20170112_222829I saw this week’s Discover Challenge post about transcribingmemory about a day after I had discovered the site for myself. Being a huge fan of diaries, and having kept diaries of my own since I was eight, I knew this was a challenge I could have a lot of fun with. I may not be nearly as devoted to my diaries as I was before I had kids, but I do still write in them every now and then, and this challenge provided me with the kick in the pants I needed to sit down and read through some of my old, old, OLD writing once again.

20170112_212507I learned a few things from reading my old diaries, like…

Inspirational quotes from…you!

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You all are some pretty fantastic people. Did you know that?

Well, it’s true. You are. And I want to share your fabulosity. 🙂

My recent-ish (okay, it’s from September) post about writing (or rather, about my lack of recent(ish) writing) has elicited a bunch of crazy awesome comments full of inspiration and encouragement. And, as a result of my efforts to be more positive about pretty much everything in 2017 than I was in 2016, I’ve picked out some of the best bits of the comment section on that particular post and turned them into pretty, pretty pictures.

I’m going to unveil them one by one for the next few months. First up is a quote from Ernest Hemingway, courtesy of Talewriter:

apprenticequote

 

There is just so much truth to this. I hope that, one day, I’ll be much closer to being a master than I am right now, but I suppose that’s really all any of us can say, regardless of whatever it is we’re trying to master. And despite what he said, I’ve got to think that Hemingway was about as much a master of the English language as anyone can hope to be.

So: Practice being masterful. That’s one of my goals for 2017. Because after all, practice makes perfect, right?

What are you going to try to master this year?

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

New

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no-matter-how-dark-the-night-the-sun-always-rises-and-hope-with-itIt’s a new year! Hooray!

And also…what? It’s 2017? But…but I thought 1997 was just a few years ago…

1997-me would have had a lot of New Year’s Resolutions. 1997-me had a lot more free time. But still, new years are nothing if not perfect for making a change, and this year I’d like to make a change in my writing. That is, I’d like to do more of it.

This seems like the perfect place to start.

My poor blog has been rather neglected the last few months, and that needs to change. Once upon a time, I undertook a challenge to post a picture a day for a year. I had a lot of fun with it, even if there were a few times where I posted several days’ worth of pictures all at once. Life happens, you know?

This year, instead of posting a picture a day, I’m going to try to post something every day. Some days, a picture. Some days, a poem. Some days, maybe several days’ worth of things all at once. Because life happens, you know?

More writing isn’t the only change I’ll be making this year – I’m going back to school in the fall – but I hope it’s one that will yield positive results. 2016 was supposed to be a year full of awesome, and instead it was mostly a year full of suck. I’m tired of feeling defeated. It’s time to try feeling hope.

Are you with me?

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.