Rabia Gale's Blog, page 5

writing with low motivation

I’ve had really low motivation for the past week. Many different factors went into this, but they all begin with the words lack of.

Lack of sleep. Lack of healthy meals eaten at regular intervals (I have a terrible tendency to skip breakfast and lunch, and make it up with snacks. Don’t do this). Lack of exercise (with all our family activities in full swing, it’s easy to let that one go. Especially since I’ve never been excited about working out in the first place).

Lack of excitement about my work, exacerbated by the above factors.

I’ve been writing on willpower, with the aid of an egg timer and a wordcount tool to keep me on track for my word goals.

A bit of social pressure came into play as well. Since I self-identify publicly as a writer, I feel honor-bound to actually do the work.

Those things kept me going through the rough patch. I’ve had a couple of good nights, sleepwise, and I’m feeling all caught up. We’re on break on school this week, giving me time to breathe, recharge, and get my house in shape. I’m no neat freak, but after a while, clutter is just a drag on my spirit. Getting things put away in their proper places lifts my mood.

I’m planning on baking a chocolate cake this afternoon. Now that will really help!

How are you all doing?

friday fiction? all-month fiction!

You may have noticed the lack of Friday Fiction today.

No, I didn’t forget (though such a thing is not unheard of!).

But instead of one story today, I’ll be giving you several all month long. I have 5 more fairy tale prompts to go. One is written, one is planned, the other three have been delivered to the muse to transform into story. Keep an eye out for them as the month goes on.

And if you find this project entertaining, it’s not too late to get into the action. I have space for two more prompts, so go ahead and leave me a fairy tale character & random concrete noun below.

For those of you who follow the usual friday fiction, I have a question: Shall I continue the story about the out-of-work mage from last time, or come up with something else for when I resume?

fairy tale prompt: another adventure

For Karen Lynn (@R_Typewriter) who prompted: The Little Mermaid/Gyrocopter.

One thing these prompts have taught me about myself is that I write long. I’m always pushing the upper edge of what is technically flashfiction!

Another Adventure

“You’re sure about this?” asked Marina. She shifted in the tub Justin had carried up the hill. Her elbow clanged against tin, her tail slapped a wave of seawater over its rim. “This… whatever it’s called again.”

“Gyrocopter.” Justin didn’t look up from where he was fiddling with pedals and gears and other parts whose names Marina didn’t know and whose purpose she couldn’t fathom.

“It doesn’t look entirely safe.” Marina felt bad about complaining, not after she had promised. But she hadn’t realized until her first up-close look just how homemade the contraption looked. After all, Justin had made it following a diagram in a book, using parts scrounged from all over the palace…

Justin walked over to and said, “Marina. I have tested this out. Taken it on solo flights. With weights. It can safely carry up to five hundred pounds. I don’t take your life lightly, you know.”

There was a smudge on his face and grease on his hands. His eyes were very blue and his teeth very white in his grin. “So stop worrying!”

“All right,” said Marina, smiling back.

Warmth spread inside her.

**

The smile didn’t last long.

“Isn’t this great?” Justin yelled over his shoulder, above the roar of the motor. “You can see the whole countryside spread like a quilt from up here.”

The gyrocopter dipped. Marina’s arms tightened around Justin’s waist. The wind howled, whipped her hair, and tried to steal the leather jacket and woolen blankets Justin had given her.

She had laughed when he’d been concerned about keeping her warm.

Now she understood.

“You all right, Marina?” He craned to look back at her.

“I’m fine! You focus on flying this thing,” she shouted back, shamelessly fibbing. She had promised and she wouldn’t let him down.

But she buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling his scent of sweat and grease and leather. He was as solid as a rock and hot like the sun. She heard the beat of his heart, the flow of his blood in his veins, the swish of air in his lungs.

He felt so alive, and in that moment, so was she.

**

“There’s the town!” Justin’s voice echoed in his chest. Marina peeked over her shoulder, just as the gyrocopter descended lower. She bit back a squeak in time.

A pastiche of tiled roofs in all colors. Grey streets winding through them like eels. Rigid things sticking up that must be trees.

For all of her life, she had seen this place only as a smear of colors upon a hillside. Now she was actually looking down on it. Excitement bubbled in her stomach, easing the knot of tension.

People rushed about in a flurry of color. For years before she met Justin, Marina had thought clothing to be some kind of natural plumage. There were humans rooted like anemones, staring straight up or ducking into buildings like crabs hiding in shells. Others made high-pitched sounds that rang in Marina’s ears… oh.

Justin gave a whoop and cheer as he flew low over town. A man shook his fist at them.

“Um, Justin? Maybe we shouldn’t be—?”

Justin leaned forward, so suddenly Marina almost lost her grip on him. A woman in red stood in the street, pale face tilted up, eyes and mouth rounded.

“BEATRICE!” Justin roared down. “MERMAIDS DO FLY! NOW WILL YOU MARRY ME?”

**

“So she wouldn’t have you after all,” said Marina the next day. She sat on a flat-topped rock not far from shore, her tail in the water where it belonged, thankyouverymuch.

Justin lay on his back, arm over his eyes, shielding them from the sun’s glare. “It was worth a try.” He didn’t sound too crushed. “But she’s not the type to say yes to a prince, just because he asks.”

Not when there are four unmarried males between said prince and the throne, thought Marina. She’d lurked under piers and heard the gossip from fishermen and fish-wives. But she didn’t say it out loud.

Justin rolled onto his side and propped his head on his arm. “What about you and Salty Fish?”

“Solitapherius,” corrected Marina. Her whole body thrummed when she said his name.

“Whatever. Have you worked up the nerve to talk to him yet?”

“Justin.” Marina combed the tangles from her hair with her fingers. It gave her an excuse to hide her face. “He’s the First Prince of the biggest mer-state I know, and I’m only the second hundredth hatchling of a minor king.” A king who had yet to acknowledge her existence. Marina had hung on the fringes of the court all her life, surviving on scraps, keeping her head down, keeping out of politics.

“So what? Your parentage doesn’t determine your worth, Marina.”

Surprised, she looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He was a prince, yes, but also a scholar, explorer, and inventor. While his relatives tried to gain his temperamental grandfather’s favor, Justin went his own way and did his own thing.

She’d always thought success came easily to him. But yesterday she’d seen him fail. And yet, here he was today, another adventure in his eyes.

I don’t have to be afraid, she realized. I can fail… and it’ll be fine.

“Marina?”

She laughed, threw back her hair, threw him a dazzling smile. “I’ll talk to him! At the ball tonight, even! Thank you, Justin!”

She slipped into the sea’s welcoming embrace, waved farewell. He shouted Good luck! as she dove into the waters.

Yesterday, a mermaid had flown. Today, that same mermaid could introduce herself to a mer-prince. And tomorrow… Marina grinned.

Who knew what she would do tomorrow?

why i write and publish

Because I’m thirty-something and I have a lot of unfinished stories. Stories that are stalled at a few scenes or chapters, stories that are just jotted notes in a notebook or Word document, stories that exist in ethereal fragments inside my head, and stories that are yet to come. One day I realized I’d better get moving if I want to tell even half of these.

Because of the look on my daughter’s face at her first riding lesson, and my determination that if this is what she wants to do, I want to find a way to make it happen.

Because of every reader who leaves a great review, writes an excited email, or signs up for my newsletter.

Because of all the time the oldest son and I have spent watching documentaries of awe-inspiring places and talking of far-off countries and said to each other, “We’ve got to go visit this some day!”

Because of those moments when I read something I’ve written and revised and copyedited and it’s so much more amazing than I could’ve imagined, even with its imperfections. And I think, “I created this. I breathed life into this story. This is the work of my mind.”

And so I write and write and put my work out there and write some more.

october

A new month.

Time to turn another page of the calendar. Fill up its blank squares with the commitments we already have. Rejoice in the free days sandwiched between the busy days. Ponder over how to spread things out so everyone gets a chance to balance active times with quiet times.

Time for me to plan out the month’s writing. Last month, I wrote over 25K. Can I make it to 30K this month? On one hand, beta readers will also return Flux to me with their feedback. On the other hand, there’s also the fall break from school.

I think it over and decide to say Yes! to a 30K month.

I tinker with my daily weights in WriteTrack as I set up the challenge. I want double days on Saturdays and half days on Sundays. I think, if I frontload enough, I can take Sundays off from Flare entirely–and use them to work on fairy tale prompts instead.

I decide to hit the ground running this evening. After a late start–I felt like a general marshaling her troops all day until about four o’ clock–I come up with almost 2500 words.

It’s a good start, better than I’d hoped.

**

I love October, but today was not an auspicious morning. I huddled on the couch, cold, with rain falling outside, the sky grey and the ground soggy. It was hard to think about WIPs and words, while scanning the news for the latest updates on Hurricane Joaquin. My mind went to much more practical things, like canned food and bottled water and mental counting of candles and flashlights.

But at the end of the day, I have many more words and the hurricane appears to be veering away into the Atlantic. I am grateful for both of these.

**

The words. Ah, the words. The last few chapters have been all about reuniting, homecoming, facing the past and the regrets, and looking to the future. Good chapters that strengthen bonds, build alliances, reveal new facets.

It’s only a brief respite. I know what’s coming. That smudge on the horizon is a massive storm.

**

I love October. It comes from spending over a decade in Vermont (or just across the border, in New Hampshire). It’s my favorite month. When I look out the window and see maple leaves turn a muted orange or feel that autumnal combination of chill wind and warm sun, I am homesick all over again for New England. I remember–oh so vividly–piles of pumpkins and apples at the farm stand, scarlet sumac in all its glory, wood smoke rising from a neighbor’s chimney.

I have yet to appreciate and love fall in Virginia the same way.

**

Three more minutes till October 1st turns to October 2nd. I’m up late, but I enjoy these solitary hours, closed up in my study with music and words. My mind turns to fairy tale prompts again. Cinderella/birthday cake is ready to be written, Little Mermaid/gyrocopter almost there. I will think on them tonight, as I wait to fall asleep.

I will wake up to Friday, which as Weekend Eve, brings its own joyous end-of-week burst of energy. See you in the new day.

How to Escape the Shame of Subpar Work, by Thea van Diepen

Today I have a guest post by Thea van Diepen, a fellow traveler on the creative path. Thea’s latest release is Hidden in Sealskin, a fantasy in which the prickly, suspicious Adren seeks a cure for a unicorn’s madness. She is also the creator of the webcomic, Kara the Brave, that is going to update twice a week soon!

Welcome, Thea, and thanks for your raw honesty.

Drawing frightens me. In drawing, I find all the ways I have failed.

Because I’m proficient enough in writing, these ways are subtle enough that I don’t always see them well. But in drawing? Hoo boy.

Just over a year ago, I decided to start a webcomic.

It’s an idea I’d been playing with for a long time, and the idea of making a comic in general was one I’d been playing with even longer. The only reason I started was because a) there was interest and b) I hoped my subpar beginnings would soon give way to more proficient artistry.

That hasn’t happened anywhere near as quickly as I’d thought. Kara the Brave is nowhere near where I want my comics to be, and I see it every time I sit down to make a new strip.

My writing faults have also come to light during this process — in a comic, I can no longer rely on dialogue and action to carry the story alone. Characters have to have expressions while speaking. They have to use body language. They have to exist in a setting that I can picture well enough to draw, rather than vaguely hint at because I can’t.

Why? I ask myself often. Why couldn’t I have taken the time to learn how to draw properly? Why did I have to give into laziness in my writing and expect that things would be okay?

Why can’t I be better?

At what point did I twist the message of the Ugly Duckling so thoroughly that I thought I could only be beautiful if I considered myself ugly?

This is not a place that logic will get me out of. If I really believe I’m still the ugly duckling, I’ll only think that anyone saying otherwise, at worst, is lying to me or, at best, has no idea what they’re talking about.

I have the feeling you’re far more familiar with this place than you’ll often admit.

And, the fact is, this place is a lie.

It’s not a lie in the sense that I haven’t quite settled into my voice, that my drawing skills are still in need of improvement, or that I do take the lazy way out with various areas in writing. Those are still all true.

The lie is when I believe that these things disqualify me from being loved.

When I believe I am disqualified through my art, every line, every panel, every stroke of the pen against the tablet becomes a fearful act. I must do better if I am to be valued. I must make better if I am to be well regarded.

Because even the smallest error will drop me from honour into shame.

Not only is this a lie, it’s a lie that only I perpetuate.

The truth is that my friends and family are still my friends and family; the fact that my webcomic isn’t as good yet as I think it could be is irrelevant to our relationship.

And, since it’s irrelevant, it’s not their responsibility to make me feel better about it. Rather, it’s my responsibility not to shrink away from them for fear of punishment, but instead to let go of the lie of my ugliness so I can receive what they have always given me.

There’s a reason the last chapter of Kara the Brave isn’t “I Love You,” but “I Love You, Too.”

fairy tale prompt: a sackful of treasure

And now for something more light-hearted. This is for Intisar who requested: Puss in Boots/Pinecones.

A Sackful of Treasure

When Puss finally made it to the Valley of Jewels, he discovered that it was sadly misnamed. It would be far more accurate to call it a ravine, for it was a narrow cut between the shoulders of pine-tree-caped mountains.

It was also full of poisonous snakes, each capable of swallowing Puss whole and aggressive about defending the sparkling gemstones that lay strewn about their territory.

Puss looked thoughtfully down at the newly renamed Ravine of Jewels and Poisonous Snakes, an empty sack over his shoulder. He thought that his thick leather boots could withstand snake bites, provided the snakes confined themselves to his ankles.

He didn’t think that was very likely.

There was another adventurer already in the ravine, a muscular sort who leapt with indefatigable energy and nimbleness among the snakes. Puss watched admiringly as the man scooped up a sapphire as big as his fist, thrust it into his sack, and decapitated the snake who hissingly protested the theft. Two other snakes, sneakily slithering up behind him, were similarly dispatched.

The man’s sack bulged with his findings. He seized one last gemstone, a diamond with star fire at its heart, then bounded for the ravine wall as the irate snakes gathered for a final strike. He swarmed up the side with the snakes in pursuit, grabbed a waiting rope, and hauled himself up an overhang. A determined reptile attached itself to his ankle. He beat it off with the flat of his sword.

Puss looked around. Something sparkled nearby. Strolling up to it, he beheld a ruby hidden in the brown carpet of last year’s pine needles.

An idea occurred to him.

As the adventurer trotted up the path, Puss made a great show of pouncing on the ruby. He picked it up, made a disgusted face and a disappointed noise, then hurled the ruby into the ravine. It flashed red as it fell back among the snakes.

The adventurer stopped and stared.

Puss scrabbled among the needles and came up with pawfuls of pinecones. These he stuffed gleefully into his sack.

“Wh-why?” stuttered the adventurer. “Why did you do that?”

“Hmm?” said Puss, still looking down.

“A ruby!” The adventurer windmilled his arms in agitation. “And you… you… just threw it away.”

“Pshaw! Who needs rubies? It’s these pinecones that are the real treasure.” Puss picked up another one, examined its rough brown surface, and placed it in his bag.

“What do you mean?”

“There are hundreds of ruby and diamond and emerald mines. But this is the only place in the world where Vitalis Coniferous grows.” Puss waved a paw at the pine trees.

“The what?”

“These pine trees. Life Trees, they’re called.” Puss held up a pinecone. “And these are used in the making of the Elixir of Life. The ultimate cure.”

The other’s eyed widened. “I’ve—heard of it,” he breathed. “Not even kings can afford it. An Emperor might.”

Puss beckoned the man closer. The adventurer bent down, till they were mouth to ear. “Drink enough of it, they say,” Puss whispered, “and you might even gain… immortality.”

The adventurer straightened. His face hardened with resolution. He slung the sack off his shoulder and dumped its glittering contents at Puss’ feet. Then he went on a mad hunt, hurling pinecones into his sack, showering the cat with old needles and dirt.

Puss shrugged. He went back to work, slower now.

When the adventurer left, his sack stuffed with pinecones, Puss sauntered over to the carelessly-left gemstones. Whistling softly, he shook the pinecones out of his own bag and replaced them with jewels.

Then he left the misnamed Valley, thinking he’d better start for home. Now. And fast.

fairy tale prompt: to grandma’s house

This one is for DKoren, who prompted: Red Riding Hood/boxes

To Grandma’s House

“Hey there, pretty lady.” The voice was baritone, a low rumble designed to vibrate through a woman’s body and make her curl her toes with pleasure.

Red sighed, her concentration broken. So much for the invisibility cloak. She peered around the stack of boxes she carried.

Over six feet of gen-gineered masculinity stood on the cracked pavement, blocking her path. Amber eyes and pointed canines revealed in his leer screamed Wolf! Muscle shirt, showing off a ripped body and muscular hairy arms; artfully torn jeans; high-end sneakers.

And that grin. Meant to dazzle someone into losing their senses.

“Need help, gorgeous?” the wolf said.

A frisson of desire shot through her, followed by a flash of irritation. Red shifted and the boxes grew heavy. Pheromones, of course. Well, if you can’t fight ’em…

“All right, then.” Red deposited the boxes in the wolf’s arms. “I’ve been hauling Grandma’s junk from her storage unit to her house all morning, anyway.”

His eyes widened as he glanced at his load. He gave a whistle. “Wow. She has some nice stuff!”

The lacquered boxes were of a wood you couldn’t find anymore and inlaid with mother-of-peal. There were three of them in varying sizes: dark chocolate, cognac red, and honeyed gold. Red had spent hours as a child tracing the whorls of grain. She’d considered them her favorite of Grandma’s treasures—until she’d had to carry them for blocks in the high heels and tight skirt her job required.

“Oh, yeah,” Red said flippantly, draping the now-useless cloak over her arm and, incidentally, showing off her curvesand long legs. “She’s into antiques: Chinese vases, African masks, and all that.”

“Oh yeah?” said the wolf. As they walked side by side, Red glanced at him from under her lashes. Greed and lust?

She noted the minimalist watch he wore on his wrist, a slim band of steel-grey with a sliver of a dial. Live metal. Able to scan in a dozen different ways across fifty yards and through just about anything: concrete, earth, clothing. No wonder the cloak hadn’t worked.

“These are a collector’s dream.” The wolf carried the boxes with a gentle reverence that Grandma would approve of. “And you say she has more?”

Oh, I’ll just bet you know several collectors. But Red obliged him with descriptions of Grandma’s other treasures as she led him past abandoned storefronts, an expanse of graffiti-ed warehouse wall, and down a narrow alley filled with rubbish. Red squeezed past a rust-eaten refrigerator and a pile of mildewed shower curtains to the hidden opening at the back.

The wolf followed close behind, panting, his breath hot on the back of her neck. She smiled.

He blinked in surprise as they came into a quiet cul-de-sac. Three Queen Anne-style houses sat in vast, overgrown lots in a state of gentle decay. The road leading into the cul-de-sac was cut off by a screen of oaks, undergrowth, and vines. Grandma was in an anti-technology mood these days, which sounded romantic, but meant a lot of hauling and walking for Red.

Her heels clicked up the brick-paved path to the middle house. She climbed the wooden steps to the covered porch. The wolf sprang up them, but he was sweating profusely. The muscles in his arms twitched and his veins stood out along his skin.

Red was impressed, but she didn’t show it. She opened the screen door and applied the knocker vigorously.

“So… heavy…” panted the wolf, nearly bent double.

“Try putting them down,” suggested Red.

He tried, but couldn’t. He flung back his head in alarm, showing the whites of his eyes.

“Do you know why you can’t?” Red asked conversationally, hand on her hip. “The boxes are made of sympathetic wood.”

The wolf’s lips peeled back from his teeth, revealing too much gum. He hadn’t the breath to talk, but he understood all right. He knew collectors, after all.

“You’ve been walking along for half-an-hour, lusting and coveting and filling the boxes with your dark thoughts. Now they’re weighted down and you can’t let go.”

The door grated open, and Red turned to the woman who stood at the threshold. “Hello, Grandma. I brought someone.”

The wolf whimpered, hunching down. If it weren’t for the boxes, he’d be on his belly on the splintery boards.

Grandma’s eyes gleamed orange as a hunter’s moon. Silvery fur covered her face and body. When she smiled, she showed teeth as sharp as knife points. “Well, well,” she said, her voice deep as night, her breath warm as blood. “Come right in, then.”

Behind her, the house stretched dark and open as a maw. The wolf cast Red a beseeching look as he stumbled past Grandma, who followed him inside.

Red put a foot in the doorway, hesitated. With a shake of her head, she backed away, let the screen door bang shut.

I’ll be late for work, she told herself as she hurried down the steps. She clapped her hands over her ears and sped for the alley.

She almost made it before the screaming began.

prompt me: the fairy tale edition

Today, I finished up a fractured fairy tale, this one based on Snow White and Rose Red. It’s been a while since I did one of these and I’m reminded of how much I enjoy them.

I’m busy with The Sunless World series, so I don’t have time for long side projects. However, I’m eager to stretch my creative muscles with drabbles and flashfic.

Here’s where you all come in. I need prompts, specifically a fairy tale (or fairy tale character) and a concrete noun to go with it. Something like Prince Charming/chimpanzee or Sleeping Beauty/disco ball. Weirdness is encouraged, because Snow White/mirror and Cinderella/shoe have been done already.

So. Have at it. I’ll post my short pieces in response to your prompts as I write them.

a numbers post, among other things

This month I have already written 26,302 words, which is a goodly chunk over my 25K goal. And I still have 7 more writing days to go!

Flare now sits at a hefty 51,990 words. I’m now in the second act, wherein my heroes have regrouped to make a push at solving their rather massive problem. They think they have a good plan–they’re even feeling cautiously optimistic for once–but they have no idea what I have in store for them.

Cue the maniacal laughter.

My rule is: what could go wrong, does.

**

In other news, I cleaned my desk.

Why is this a big deal? Well, I realized I was subconsciously avoiding my writing space. I’d pause at the study, frown at the clutter, then keep walking past. I’d write on the couch, my bed, or the kitchen table. Now I’m a big proponent of Have Laptop, Will Write Anywhere, but there’s something to be said about having a space of one’s own, with notes and pens and scrap paper within reach.

And all it took to reclaim the space was five minutes of stacking and putting away. I’m happier and the words flow better.

**

In other other news, the daughter had her very first riding lesson.

So it begins.

**

And that’s my midweek. How’s yours treating you?