Category Archives: My Writing
Four Seasons Contest
Pretty excited today. I’ve just entered my first ever “real” writing contest. In the past, I’ve never been confident enough in my writing to enter more than little online contests. But I’m feeling good with the progress I’ve made on Andropodan to give it a shot.
I’m still light years away from being a “real” writer, but it’s another step in the journey.
For those of you who like entering contests, check out the Windy City’s RWA contest–The Four Seasons. They have openings for a range of categories, including YA. Good luck.
Writing Maniac
Because I feel like a writing maniac, this will be a short post. I wanted to check in and say–yippeee! I’m almost to my halfway point. Over this past weekend I had to spend some time in the car by myself (a truly rare occurence) and the writing faeries blessed me with all kinds of gold nuggets. One mighty fine idea was spawned from Lady Gaga’s Poker Face–please no questions; you’ll have to wait for the book. 
I guess I should get back to writing.
Finding the Perfect Title
I can’t believe we are already into February. It’s taken a while this year, but winter has finally arrived. The cold and snow did help make it a good writing week. I made my quota and caught up on my critiques, whoo hoo.
But I continue to struggle with one part of my current story: the title.
It’s pretty early to start panicking, but I’ve found that I don’t get as many critiques on this story that I used to receive on other stories I’ve posted in the past. Most people probably believe it’s another robot story (the sci-fi tag doesn’t help), but the main thread has more of a YA romance feel. Most girls don’t want to pick up a book titled, Andropodan.
This week, after a writing friend suggested I should change the title, I’ve given it more thought. I could go with– Future Society of Pretentious Women Bent on Restitution for Past Injustices–A little much for the YA crowd? Yeah, I thought so too.
Or maybe I could use something like–Tea Parties, Space Disasters and Castrations–Catchy, isn’t it? But it’s inappropriate, you say. What’s wrong with Space Disasters? It worked for Star Wars.
Once again I turned to The Complete Handbook of Writing by the editors at Writer’s Digest. In “Chapter 22: The Perfect Title”, Steve Almond gives us aspiring writers some advice on creating the best title for our story/novel.
He says, “A title should serve three purposes: and introduction to the story’s crucial images and ideas, an initiation into the rhetorical pitch of the prose, and an inducement to keep reading.” My title, Tea Parties, Space Disasters and Castrations, does introduce some of the crucial images (space disasters–duh), and induces the audience to keep reading, but I’m not sure it initiates the rhetorical pitch.
I guess I have to take comfort in knowing “F. Scott Fitzgerald spent months fretting over the title of his novel…” He even considered, Trimalchio in West Egg. Luckily he ended up with The Great Gatsby.
Steve Almond suggests some title exercises:
- Underline phrases in the story which stand out. Could any of them work as a title?
- Make a list of your favorite novels and/or stories.
Almond also suggests things to avoid:
- Naming the story after a character.–Nox
- Using the last line of the story/novel.–The End.
- Obvious or clever puns.–War and Pieces: One Boy’s Fight Against the Harvest.
- Quoting Shakespeare or the Bible.–Taming of the Shrew.
I guess I need to keep working on my title.
Watch out for the latest in animal fighting…
I’d heard of dog fights, holding animals in small pens, beating and starving them until they tore into their fellow canines. Cock fights sounded even worse, but I recently learned I’m guilty of contributing to competitive animal fights I didn’t even know existed.
Picture a cute kitten or defenseless puppy. Got a clear mental image? Now put that animal in a cage half the size of its own body.
But it gets worse. Children, as young as preschoolers, are used as smugglers. The criminal masterminds sell our children these tiny cages. Our little smugglers then take these animals to school. Word gets around that the child has a new “toy”. Kids learn quickly that they must make these animals into fierce competitors. If a child refuses, he is tormented and ridiculed at school.
Add to the pressures at school, the fact that these criminal masterminds are not only ruthless, but sneaky, and parents are caught off guard. I had no idea my seven-year-old son had become a trainer. I’d even bought him the cages. To think, as a parent, I led him down this path–the shame was nearly unbearable.
His mission: to memorize the animal guide, train these wide-eyed cuties, and battle against his friends in a public arena (and I thought we sent him to school so he could learn to read). The arena-style combat allowed all his buddies to watch the fun. They took turns releasing their animals–creatures that would fight until the other animal either fled or was incapacitated. After each battle, my son moved up the ranks until he was ready to defeat his school’s gym leader. But I intervened before this final confrontation.
The moment I learned of the dark world my son had fallen into, I sent him a lifeline. No longer will he be allowed to walk the streets of hustlers and gamblers. No longer will he feel the need to compete for domination over his peers. No longer will he contribute to the demise of innocent beings that deserve to find their own happiness, free from a world of fighting and death.
Are you guilty? Have you spun cycle of the abuse? It’s not too late. You can make a difference. Repeat after me–Save the Pokemon!
Yay–Nano Winner
With one day left, I kicked nano butt at 51,157 words. Too bad, I’m barely halfway through the novel–Blurred Descent. This one still needs a ton of work, but it’s good to know that I have a huge chunk of it started. It’s even better that for the first time in years, I’m excited about this particular story. Thanks Nano peeps.
Now if I could get an agent for Horizons, I’d be a happy camper. All I really want for Christmas is an agent, an agent…
I swear I’ve been good this year, mostly.
Past the Point
Yesterday, I finally made it past my problem spot in Blurred Descent. In the past, I’ve never managed to make it past 30,000 words. Today, yup, I’m at 33, 700 and still going strong. I might actually finish a first draft after six long years. I think I owe my thanks to Ashlin, a new character in the story. She’s helped me get back on track.
Contest
So I’ve entered a writing contest for the best story start. About 250 people entered with, what I’m sorry to say, some pretty stiff competition: everything from Thrillers to Romance and, yes, Young Adult. Not sure how Blurred Horizons will hold up against murder, mahem, and erotica, but it did propel me to rework the first three chapters into something. Hopefully, something that may interest teens (and agents).
The Question
A little dabble in poetry…
The Question
I buried my dad today.
But I didn’t want to listen to the sermon.
If there’s a Heaven, there must be a
Oh, Hell.
I buried my dad today.
And I didn’t want wonder if he made it.
Can bad deeds really be forgiven?
Oh God.
I buried my dad today.
But I stopped listening to the words.
The words, the words.
The threatening peace of salvation.
I buried my dad today
Amid the rain and lightning.
And the what ifs…
I buried my dad today.
I didn’t want to cry,
But I did.
The Disease–An Ode to the Essay
Okay, so as the school year draws to a close, I find myself grading problem-solution essays, again. This little story sort of took over as I sat daydreaming about the other things I could be doing instead…
The screams in the waiting room remind me that this isn’t just any doctor’s office. No, Dr. Necole only deals with special patients.
Trying to hold on to reality just a little longer this time, I stare down at the paper in my lap. But I begin to shake. Beads of sweat break out across my forehead. I can feel another attack coming. My vision, no, it’s blurring. Slipping, slipping.
“Hi, my name is Koreen, and I’m going to tell you…”
Can’t concentrate. Am I at an AA meeting? How’d I get here? No, wait. Listen. Oh no, the voices; they’ve returned. Make them stop. Please make them stop.
“Marijuana should be legalized, most importantly, because no one has ever overdosed on it.”
A blanket of black shadows clouds my head. Where am I? The voices have taken over. I can’t see where I am. But the voices…Am I at a drug fest? Why on earth would I be here? I’ve never inhaled.
“Global Warming is a problem that we must face today.”
Where did Al Gore come from? Why is he in my head? At the drug rally? Did he inhale?
I blink, clearing my head of the voices. The doctor’s office is bathed in the soothing colors of hospital yellow. No, I’m not at a drug rally. I’m here. Still waiting.
“Ms. Gonzales?” a woman in striped scrubs calls.
I stand.
She smiles in sympathy. I can see it in her face. She knows. She has to know I’m going crazy. “The doctor will see you now.”
I follow the woman back to a small room unlike any other examination room I’ve ever been in. A hammock dangles from the corner as ocean waves drift through the speakers on the wall.
“Please sit. The doctor will be with you shortly.” She closes the door behind her.
I sit and gaze at the pictures of tropical destinations. A sense of peace fills my limbs like a sedative.
This is bad. I shouldn’t be this relaxed. Not yet. Is this a trap? If I relax now, I won’t be able to cope. The voices will consume me. I have to stay alert. Focus. This time I will focus.
“Hi, my name is Koreen, and I…”
No, not again. I knew the voices would be back.
“We should be allowed to ride skateboards anywhere we want.”
“Cell phones are a daily part of life. Schools should allow us to use them whenever we want. What if our parents need to call us in an emergency?”
Stop. The scream echoes in my head as I pull at my hair. No more. I can’t take it anymore.
A man in a white lab coat opens the door. “Ms. Gonzales.”
I look at him through my crazed tears. “Doctor, please help me.” The edge in my voice nearly takes my breath away.
He glances at my hands, at the paper I’ve now clawed to shreds and smiles. “I think I can take those.”
As he reaches out for them, I recoil. “No, you can’t. I have to…”
He puts his hands up in surrender clearly afraid that I might hurt someone. “It’s alright. You can keep them for now.”
I relax, a little, but the tension in my neck feels as though my head might snap off at any moment. That may be better, at least then the voices would cease. “What’s wrong with me?”
He stands, and prods me with a tongue depressor and reflex hammer. Light glitters across my retinas. “Mmm,” he mutters.
“What? What is it? You can tell me.”
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid you have an acute case of Boringhighschoolessayitis.”
“What? Is it contagious?” Panic rises in my throat as I think about my children waiting for me at home.
“Highly, but not to worry. With the right precautions we can avoid contamination.”
“But how? How did I contract this…”
“Virus?” He sat. “It’s quite simple. Happens quite a bit this time of year, but that’s not what worries me.”
I begin to shake again. Could I possibly take more bad news? Not really, but I must know. “What, what worries you?”
He takes a deep breath. “The Boringhighschoolessayitis strain can be quite debilitating, and once infected, a patient can spread the disease to a whole host of people, quite by accident. But the worst part is that this disease can live years, decades before resurfacing again in children.”
I gasp.
He begins writing on his clipboard. “The good news is that we’ve caught this early for you. Now that we know, we can break the cycle before you infect others.”
“Tell me. What can I do?” Desperation seeps into my voice as I think again of my children.
“First, you must hand over those papers.” He palms a hand at me, gesturing to the stack of essays I’ve brought along to grade.
“But, I can’t. CSAP, curriculum guidelines say that I…”
“Ms. Gonzales, you must stop the cycle. That is the disease, the virus that’s talking. Listen to yourself. Do you really want to grade those papers?”
Tears fill my eyes. “No,” I whisper, “but I have…”
“Give them up. You must. In doing so, you will free yourself and others. Think about the hundreds of children you’ve already infected.”
My tears spill down onto my cheeks. “I didn’t mean. I was only doing what I’d been taught.”
“Exactly. You’ve been infected long ago. Now it’s time to end your students’ suffering, end your suffering. Give me those papers.”
I reach out toward him, shaking more than ever. The doctor grasps the corner and tugs. They fall from my hand, and I collapse in sobs. “What should I do now?”
“The only thing we can do. Prevent the Boringhighschoolessayitis from spreading. Stop assigning essays.”
“Can it be that simple?”
He nods. “As we speak, a vaccination is being mass-marketed for CSAP, and we are close to curing Standards.” The doctor hands me a prescription: three months vacation, and a brochure: “How to prevent Boringhighschoolitis from spreading in your school.”
It’s a miracle. I stand, smiling. “Thank you doctor. Thank you for curing me.”
The door closes behind me, and the doctor sighs as the nurse walks in. “So do you think she’ll remember this time?”
The doctor shakes his head. “Naw, poor girl. The summer will wipe out her memory like it always does, and she’ll be back here again next year.”
