Ellie Potts's Blog, page 30
February 3, 2016
Creative minds dreaming… #writingwends
All my life I’ve had vivid movie type dreams. A lot I have used for story ideas. Usually I’m never in them the stars are people I’ve never met. But I wake up after one and think that would make a great story idea! So here is a little info I found on research done on creative brains and dreaming.
Creative people place their dreams in unusual, varied settings (compared to the more frequent home dreams of less creative people); dream of creative pursuits; have dreams of loss, children and trying to overcome obstacles in nature. The frequency of their sexual dreams varies depending on whether or not they are actually doing something creative in their waking lives.
Intuitive people (who tend to be creative) remember more “big” numinous, archetypal dreams than do people who prefer to take in information through their five senses.
Introverts (people who focus on the inner world of ideas and feelings) recall more “little” everyday dreams than do extroverts. However, extroverts and introverts tend to recall archetypal dreams just as often.
Thinking types, who make decisions based on logical analysis, tend to have more emotional dreams/tend to experience more emotions in their dreams than do feeling types, who make decisions based on principles and values.
According to David Watson, a professor of psychology in the UI College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, “There is a fundamental continuity between how people experience the world during the day and at night,” he said. “People who are prone to daydreaming and fantasy have less of a barrier between states of sleep and wakefulness and seem to more easily pass between them.” In other words, creative people tend to have vivid dreams.
Jayne Gackenbach, at Grant McEwan University has been doing research into dreams and gamers. She found that lucid dreamers and gamers tended to have better spacial skills. Both groups had a high level of concentration. According to a 2006 study, people who frequently played video games were more likely to have lucid dreams and to be aware that they were dreaming.
“A second study tried to narrow down the uncertainties by examining dreams that participants experienced from the night before, and focused more on gamers. It found that lucid dreams were common, but that the gamers never had dream control over anything beyond their dream selves.
The gamers also frequently flipped between a first person view from within the body and a third person view of themselves from outside, except never with the calm detachment of a distant witness.”
Do you have crazy dreams?
February 2, 2016
Tuesday 10 #tues10
There are those favorite things that just make you happy. Here is mine in no real order.
1. The smell of fresh cut grass.
2. The sound of steady rain.
3. The anticipation of watching a favorite show that’s been on hiatus.
4. Clean sheets.
5. The smell of a brand new bar of Irish Spring right from the box.
6. A blue Poweraid on the verge of freezing.
7. A nice cup of tea.
8. A beautiful real scene-snow on mountains, giant waves at the ocean, fiery sunsets ect.
9. Accomplishing a hard task/creating something.
10. Staying up all night to read a good book.
What are your favorite things?
January 31, 2016
Snippet of Seeing Stars #beachkiss #romance
“I don’t want to go back to the hotel just yet,” Alisa said in the car.
“Where would you like to go?”
“I don’t care. I just need some fresh air.”
“Okay,” he smiled then drove to his spot at the beach. “Fresh air, and plenty of it.”
“This works.”
He helped her down the path. Her shoes were not made for walking on such difficult terrain.
Once they hit the dirt she took them off and dug her feet into the beach sand, still warm even though the sun had gone down hours ago. She was glad she had skipped wearing stockings. She watched as Logan removed his shoes and black dress socks. He rolled his slacks up like a pro.
Standing, he put his hand down. “Walk with me.”
She took his hand, and they walked to the surf, the cold water running over their feet. They moved in comfortable silence, enjoying the night music the waves made. After a while they turned around and started back.
“I should have taken you to a club so you could dance.”
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Really,” he said, pulling her to him. One hand touched her waist, the other still gripped her hand. They danced as the waves rolled over their feet. Alisa giggled as he spun her, pulling her back, close.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked.
“Movies, of course.”
“Of course. Oh, look,” he said and bent down to pick up a wad of sea carrots.
“Eww,” she said as he tossed it back into the retreating water. He bent down and picked up a piece of seaweed and moved as if to touch her with it. “No!”
She ran away from him and turned, seeing he had his phone out. “This is your movie.”
“Seeing Stars, a night out with a movie star,” she said, and they both laughed.
“Attack of the Seaweed Monster!” Logan said, bending down to scoop up some more and came at her again with it.
“Ew, ew, ew, no!” she said between laughs.
“Okay.” He tossed it back into the ocean. “No more.”
“Good,” she kicked some water at him, soaking a pant leg. She gasped, covering her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, now I am going to touch you all over with my seaweed hands,” he said and took a couple of steps towards her.
She danced away from him, but soon he caught her.
“I am sorry,” she whispered as he held her arm.
“It’s just water,” he said as he pulled her to him. Their eyes locked, and he bent in.
Alisa’s mind had only a second to freak out before his lips touched hers, warm and soft. Oh, how she wanted this kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck and relaxed into it.
Time flew by yet seemed to stand still all at once. All that mattered was his lips pressed against hers, his tongue teasing hers. Her insides clenched, giving her an itch she knew she could not scratch. He pulled back, breaking apart from her, and something inside Alisa screamed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “No, I’m lying. I’m not sorry. I have been thinking about kissing you for days, and you know what? It was better than I thought it would be.
She blushed. “It was better than I’ve ever daydreamed,” Alisa whispered. Then her thoughts went back to Kurt. She was still married. Was this a rebound? She didn’t want to just rebound with Logan; she liked him way too much.
His hand touched her face. “Why the sad eyes?”
She shook her head and looked away. “I don’t want to ruin the moment.”
“I understand,” he said and kissed her forehead.
Logan drove her back to the hotel. He gave her a chaste kiss goodbye before leaving.
She went to her room and fell on her bed. She thought of his lips, his hands, and sighed. She wanted more.
Read it here! http://www.amazon.com/Seeing-Stars-Starstruck-Book-1-ebook/dp/B00M68SVIW
January 27, 2016
Write what makes you happy… #writingwends
A lot of advice I received in creative writing classes was pretty much write what popular people write to be accepted or if you want to hit it big. I’ve also read people who have done that but never succeed. By Then I was already writing what I wanted to write. I never really tried to put anything out, well I did, but I didn’t try very hard. The rejections I received were mostly we don’t sell that genre or not interested at the time.
I never let it get to me and continued to write. Writing is my therapy. It keeps me sane in my crazy life. In my worlds I can kill people who have made me mad, and no one can say anything or get arrested. I try my hardest to research enough to make my stories seem real enough, and I try, I really do, to make a great story. I am not perfect, and no one really is. But my stories scream to be written. And I will tell you one thing I never expected to be an Author. Really I just like to write. So I write what I like to write, and usually it isn’t popular or in. It is weird and me :o) These characters scream to tell their stories.
So write what feel right. Right what makes you happy. In the end you have to be proud of the work you did, the story you told.
January 26, 2016
You know you’re a writer… #tuesdaylist
You know you’re a writer when you copy snippets of conversation because you know your character would laugh at it later.
You know you’re a writer when “real” people don’t seem as exciting as the people we create.
You know you’re a writer when you can’t stop writing or typing and you tell your (roommate, spouse, family member) that you just got to “the really good part.
You know you’re a writer when you doodle random poems on your piece of paper that was supposed to be class notes, work papers, etc.
You would rather talk to the voices in your head than the person sitting next to you.
Some of the letters on your keyboard are completely worn off.
Your/you’re and their/there/they’re errors send you into an apoplectic fit.
You get cranky if you don’t get to write.
You’ve ever said, “The voices are getting louder; I must go write.”
You wake up in the middle of the night and scrabble for the pen and paper you keep next to your bed to write down a scene to make the voices be quiet so you can get some sleep.
Getting the scene finished is more important than food, coffee, or the bathroom.
You purposely eavesdrop when out in public.
At parties, your method of making conversation is to discover people in the room with interesting occupations (preferably your hero’s or heroine’s) so you can conduct research. (Bathroomstallnote: What writer goes to parties? I know I don’t.)
You can’t write because you’re mad at one of your characters.
You argue with said character.
You drive three hours to a city where you don’t know anyone, spend another three hours driving around the city, then drive three hours home and decide NOT to set your story there.
You start to laugh out loud in public, because you just came up with something your character might say
You know you’re a writer when after a friend says something “cool” you whip out your notebook, write it down only to look up and see them walking away from you, their face really really red!
The list “You know you’re a writer if…” makes you happy because it confirms that you have a writer’s nature.
Said list also relieves you because you realize that you’re not going insane and that other writers feel like you, too.
You secretly think that you won’t get any “real respect” for your work until you go crazy or die.
You are actively accused of trying to sabotage your own relationships in order to create honest conflict to write about.
You have stacks of notebooks that you refuse to throw away because “hey, there might be some epic idea in there that I’ll come upon later and write a book about…”
It takes all your restraint to not constantly correct grammar/spelling errors.
If you correct you grandparent’s birthday card with a red pen.
Whenever you’re at the bookstore or library, you automatically look for the spot where your books will one day be shelved. Or if you’re published, you to go where you know your books are shelved to see if anyone has checked them out/bought them, because you know how many were there last time.
Poorly written novels make you bipolar—elated knowing that you’re a better writer, and depressed because that hack got published and you can’t get past the acquisitions editor.
It takes you forever to send a text message on your cell phone because it has to be properly spelled and punctuated. “Chatspeak” is totally incomprehensible (not to mention totally annoying) to you.
When given an essay/paper assignment in school with a ten-page length requirement, the professor turns and looks at you and says, “That means ONLY ten pages!” Your response is, “Is eight-point font okay?”
You knew you’d never make it as a journalist when you realized you’d rather make up the story than chase down witnesses or experts for quotes and details.
You live in a constant state of “What if?”
You do everything you can think of to procrastinate from writing, then turn the light on in the middle of the night and furtively write a few hundred words because you feel guilty for not writing.
You don’t meet “new friends”; you meet “potential characters.”
January 25, 2016
Useless Knowledge #thoughtiwouldshare
It is physically impossible to kill yourself by holding your breath. Well unless you’re underwater.
Autopsy: from the Greek word autopsia meaning “seeing with one’s own eyes.”
Taaphephobia: fear of being buried alive.
It takes 1 week to really shrink a head.
January 24, 2016
The Pretty #shortstory #horror
The Pretty
The knife’s tip sunk easily into the flesh like butter. Just bringing a trickle of blood, and easy enough to wipe off. Her cries muffled by the handmade muzzle fastened to her face. She was a newspaper reporter, and had stumbled on me through investigation. And, well, I couldn’t let her tattle on me and the pretties. It was an added bonus that she had a very pretty pretty on her belly. I ignored her as I pressed the blade in deeper. I was cutting a bit deeper then I needed, but I didn’t seem to care. It was her fault, and I was still a bit angry with her. That and I wanted the pretty in perfect condition.
My hand worked the knife easily; after all, I have been skinning animals since I was about seven. A good age to learn my father had told anyone asking. When I had finished, I gathered the edges of the pretty and gave it a small tug. Using the knife, I cut it loose. Blood and meat hung from it, dripping. I transferred it over to a small plate. I looked briefly into the crater I had formed. It was a bloody meat crater. The blood swished as the reporter moved her body. Like a red lake. The red meat reminded me of the animals dad used to bring home when I was younger.
I shook my head, snapping myself from the thoughts. I needed to finish. I had no time to drift off. I looked at the pretty, and all I saw was a mound of flesh. And then my eyes took in the pretty. I took it to the contraption I made that helped me make the pretty perfect. I fastened it in tight, clipped it under the UV light, and set the timer. I then went to the moaning creature on the table.
Skinning is much harder than people think it is. And there are certain areas you can’t get the skin off properly. The biggest lesson dear old dad taught me was always, ALWAYS, clean up your mess.
“Daddy always knew best,” I said out loud and laughed. The laughter hit hard, and I doubled over laughing until my face was drenched with tears.
When I was done, I wiped my eyes and went to my mess. What got me was that she was still alive. I put my hands on my hips and looked over the mess: bleach, check; fire, check.
I got passed an old house that used to belong to my great granddaddy, who supposedly built it with his own hands. I believe he actually killed the man who built it and took over. It just shows you how I think of my family. Each generation was to be born under the roof. But I’m the end, and I didn’t feel sad about it at all. There was no way in hell I was going to give birth. Too painful and way too fucking messy for me. I watched and helped my mother who was nothing but a baby maker with short, stubby legs. And each child gave her nothing but grief. I saw it and what they did. Each one born after me had horrible problems. Too anger, too crazy, too something. So I helped mommy. It’s a wonder what a knife can do during childbirth. There was so much blood. In the end, when it was time to grieve, daddy had us clean up the mess. Dad was a different story.
The reporter wiggled and squirmed. Pain pinched her face as she fought to get loose. If I had been a man, maybe the sight of her naked and squirming would have turned me on. But it didn’t. In fact, it affected me in a totally different way. I ran to the toilet in the corner, the bile rising. The toilet had been mistreated. You could tell by the green film that covered it. And as I looked into the cruddy water, eyes opened looking at me. My head tilted as I looked back at the eyes. A frog jumped out, startled. Well, it wasn’t the only one. Where the fuck did the frog come from? I found a mess I hadn’t noticed before.
I turned and stepped around the old lawn mower as I returned to the table. No falling apart I told myself. I went back to the reporter. She still struggled. It would only be a matter of time before she passed out from the blood loss. I didn’t have the patience to wait. I pondered the many ways I could kill her and put her out of her misery. I could take the same knife and slice her throat open. But then that would create a bigger mess than I already had to clean up. I guess I could just suffocate her.
She went still, and I went to work. I started to remove the homemade muzzle. I was the freaking Martha Stewart of the woods. Dad had always hated my tinkering. How many times had he found me making a mess was beyond my thinking tonight. All I do remember was lying in bed crying ‘cause of the whip marks he had given me, fearing when he would join me to finish my punishment.
I placed the homemade muzzle on my little work table. I placed my palm over her petite mouth and used my middle and pointer finger to pinch her nose. She was already unconscious so it would be fairly easy. Her eyes sprang open, startling me, and then the bitch bit me. My other hand smacked the side of her head, and her teeth released my palm.
I stepped away to look at the bite mark; she had drawn blood. Sick bitch! I examined the wound. The human mouth held so many germs. They were so dirty. I went to the sink and poured a whole bottle of rubbing alcohol over the bite. And then she started to scream, high and shrill. It hurt my ears, making my head feel like it was going to explode.
I grabbed the nearest thing I could, which was daddy’s sledgehammer. I hefted the head onto my shoulder and started walking toward the noise. My eyeballs throbbed in their sockets. I stopped at her head, and let the hammer fall on her face. I broke off the bottom of her jaw and shattered all her teeth. It sounded like glass. I thought that would be it, but she shrieked again. I picked up the sledgehammer, and in anger, lowered it onto her face again. I hammered away even after the screaming stopped, until her head was nothing but shattered bones, blood, and brain matter.
I let the sledgehammer fall to the gore covered ground and looked down at my apron. I was covered in blood and brain matter. I was drenched in crap, and it revolted me. Never had I ever been so fucking dirty. It took me most of the evening to clean up the mess I made.
When I was finished, I stepped back and took in my clean basement. Bleach hung heavily in the air, threatening to choke me and bringing tears to my eyes. There was nothing like surrounding yourself with cleanliness. Just then the timer went off. The pretty was done. All that mess and all that bleach, all worth it.
I unclipped it after switching off the light and turned it over. The skin had darkened to a mahogany, and the ink around the bellybutton was a nice black. The design itself was something I had never seen before. I trailed a finger over the soft, leather-like skin. To make it even more eye catching was a piercing. A pretty diamond. A mouse ran across my bare feet, and I barely noticed since I was too busy looking at the pretty. I carefully undid it from the contraption and made my way up the stairs with it.
I walked it into my neat work room where I had created a frame for it. A nice oak color would bring out the pretty a bit more. Of course it was only for me to see. I never show people into the house. Actually, they get a shotgun to the chin and a get the fuck off my property. I wasn’t a people person. I put it carefully into the picture frame and walked it to my living room. I had just the spot and put it up with the other pretties. The grandfather clock, which stood in the corner and was even older than the house, chimed twelve. I yawned. It was way past my bedtime.
The sun woke me from a dreamless sleep. I felt alive and refreshed. Good work usually did that to me. After my normal morning duties I went straight to the kitchen and made me some eggs, toast and milk. Breakfast. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’m a vegetarian. Two much animal killing when I was younger, I guess.
Or maybe it was daddy. The sick fuck. I had finally killed him one night as he was “punishing” me. Letting my siblings go. He was in baby making mode, and after mom died, he needed new hosts. All my sisters were coming of age to bear children. The boys were taught to hunt and defend the home.
My bloodline was tainted. It was a comfort to me that I would be the end. One of my brothers ate a cop. He liked meat a little too much. One of my sisters is a prostitute with AIDS. She doesn’t have long. About six are already dead. Shot down, death sentence, suicide. One is on death row and two others are serving life sentences. Me, I’m the only sane one in the bunch.
I sat down in the living room with my breakfast, surrounded by my pretties. There were about fifty give or take. I loved sitting here in the early morning looking at them, thinking of all the hard work it had taken to create them. By my chair sat a pretty, little pink phonebook. I had found the treasure in the bitch’s purse. There were a lot of names. I couldn’t risk that she might have told someone about me. And they might have pretties too. For now I was sated. I ate and looked at the pretties. But my eyes kept wondering to the book.
January 20, 2016
A Book Bible #writingwends
For each book I create a book bible. Which is usually a notepad or binder depending on the story or if it’s a series.
The first part has the blurb, synopsis and plot lines and notes I would like to see in the next chapter. I usually mark them out as I write it. Or if I come up with a cool little scene while I am away from my computer I can add it for later.
The next part is character sheets. Main characters in the front all the way to characters who are just there. In there I like to describe them, relations, jobs and ambitions in the story. As the story moves along I note their changes. I usually break it up in good guys bad guys if there are some, and I always give them all a few extra pages. Like the growing story your characters change. If it’s a series it is certainly a helper.
The third part is places and things. In the book bible for Space Rebels I have the description and different rooms of the Marigold, the moon, mars, moons, and asteroid belts. In The Unicorn and The Serpent I have medieval jobs, words, and of course the kingdom mapped out. So pretty much part three is the world building section.
Part 4 is usually a writing diary. Date and word counts and things to remember for editing. Everyone has their little thing.
So tell me do you have a niche to help you start a story?
January 19, 2016
Tuesday Top Ten #tuesdaytopten
Today’s top 10 is Shows I like to Binge Watch, in no real order.
Z Nation (Syfy)
Orange is the New Black (Netflix)
Deadbeat (Hulu)
Archer (FX) We are weird, that is all.
Venture Brothers (Adult Swim) Hubby and I can rewatch this.
The Flash (CW)
iZombie (CW)
Arrow (CW)
Trailer Park Boys (Netflix)
Pretty much any sci-fi, fantasy, super hero show we can watch.
We liked Dark Matter, and will watch season 2. Also there is the 100 which is awesome but we haven’t caught up on. And then there are the shows which we attempt to try to keep up with, but I’m saving that for another list for another Tuesday.
What are your favorite binge worthy shows?
January 18, 2016
How about a Short Story… #shortstory #monday
The Job
May you walk through the raining pools of blood and dance on the guts of your victims.
The words floated to the top of her head. She had been given a job, a good job, a job she knew she could really do. A job she had been dreaming for since she could remember. Remember since when? Lucifer had explained her duties, and she planned on doing her very best. To show not only Lucifer, but his other head-honchos, that he chose well.
Raining pools of blood.
She shivered as his words caressed down her spine, building the anticipation. She smiled as she thought of all the possibilities. She opted to stay here in Hell. Oh, she could have done this on the top-side, but her life on there had been full of dull, painful memories and feelings. All so close to the surface, but yet her mind could not grasp them. Her hand ran over the small scar on her forehead.
She entered the room and looked at all the frightened souls; her toys, her victims, her vices. She would do as she pleased with them. They were there to be tortured, to fulfill their heavy, dirty souls. Would the doctors who touched her come soon? Would the guards who held her down come too? She remembered some of them, but where had she been? Would Lucifer let her have them? She would have to ask.
Her tight black corset made her already snow white skin glow under the florescent lights. Her very long black hair fell around her shoulders in a black cloak. She saw that her appearance made the souls quiver in fear. She could almost taste the heavy copper on her tongue, anticipating what would soon happen.
But what scared them were her eyes. Oh sure, she had a cute little nose and perfect pink, pouty lips. It was the eyes. The doctors had talked about them; the eyes of a psychopath.
Her eyes seemed to scare everyone around her, including some of her new colleagues. They hid it, but she could sense their nervousness. Like her parents, until they had just stopped visiting her. The nurses too, although they felt nervous and pitied her. What had she done to deserve what had happened to her? The thought made her stop briefly, head tilted, as she tried to remember something, a fleeting memory. Shaking her head, she thought of Lucifer; he did not fear her dark brown orbs as she looked at him with childish curiosity.
There she had stood in front of the very man her parents had said would meet her with pain and torture. But he had accepted her with a hug and a job. There was no fright, nervousness, or pity in him. He knew what she wanted deep down, and the job had fit.
She walked along the wall holding her instruments. Her toys. They looked sharp, deadly and damn fun. Her hand ran lightly over knives of all different shapes and sizes. Her favorites were the serrated blades. Their victims felt the bites. Again, that memory that was so close came back like a small nagging pain. She tried to grab at it, but it escaped through her hands like liquid, like blood.
She grabbed the cat o’ nine tails. Nine strong cords with her own twist at the ends. Small razor blades were added to the tips. Why torture them with whipping? She wanted to pass the foreplay and get straight to the blood.
She turned to her scared victims, her wrist already snapping the cat o’ nines, hitting their marks. The souls cried out and screamed for mercy. The blood flowed from small cuts. She moved and circled, humming a favorite childhood song, as her wrist snapped over and over. And the screams spiraled louder, echoing on themselves. They could not pass out, so they would stay awake for everything she threw at them.
She went to pick another torture item from the wall. Something bigger, something that would get the blood flying. Homemade devices she had no name for, but they worked. She turned to the red eyed, snotty, sniffling souls. Fear and pleading in their eyes. Her body heated with something close to lust. She released her new toy on them. The blood flew, coating her like new velvety wet skin. She licked her lips, rolling the thick copper taste on her tongue.
She sang and twisted. The blood ran, splattering the walls and coating the ground. But still the souls screamed; there was no escape for them. No unconsciousness for them. In her blood raged with glee, and that nagging thought finally came close enough to grasp. She stopped as the memories flooded her.
Her first kill. The feel of life leaving the small animal, its lifeless eyes staring at nothing. How it made her feel. And then the evil, older boy who had tried to make her take off her dress, and when that didn’t work, he tried to rip it off her body. How it had felt to shove the garden shears into his stomach. How his small whimpers of pain thrilled her as she straddled his body and used the blades to make the cut big enough to place her hands inside. How she explored the inside of his warm body, the bloody tissue and organs slippery to the touch. She had discovered worm-like thing and started to pull out the thick cord. Later she would discover it had been the intestines.
They had locked her up. She had been punished, she had been beaten, she had been electrocuted, and finally she had been lobotomized. She had lived a horrible life of nothingness, stuck inside her head, while the world went on around her. She was nothing but a drooling, feeble body. She lost her will to live, and when her life went out, she was glad for the darkness. And when she awoke, she had found herself now able to function, sitting in the reception room in Hell. The secretary, bitch she was, actually offered her a magazine to read. The man next to her, shocked, said the cold hearted bitch offered him nothing, just an evil look.
That little memory had done nothing to her and nothing to change her feelings about the task at hand. Instead, it fueled a spark for the job and the anticipation that her religious-go-happy parents would soon be there to enjoy the pain she would inflict. She would torture them until they confessed to their own evil. She would torture all who had done wrong to her. Maybe Lucifer could find the boy who had tried to rip her dress off. Maybe she could gut him again. Oh, yes, she would dance on the guts of her victims.
