Jen Barton's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
Stacks
Last night I spent a few hours at Next Move, a local homeless shelter in Sacramento. I visit every other week and either read to the kids or help them with stories they've been wanting to write.
Last night was a writing night.
We had one story in verse where the sun was blue (loved that—if only I'd thought of it for If Chocolate Were Purple), an alien abduction to Smurfville, and a cleverly written horror piece that left our skin tingling.
It was a ton of fun, and the imaginations were in full gear. Never more, though, than at the end of the night, when the kids found out I was an author.
"A real author?" one boy, around nine, asked.
I hesitated, daunted by the club I'd be joining if I said yes. Stephen King is a real author, Shakespeare is a real author. Kingsolver, Rowling, Martin, Penman, Robin Hobb, Steinbeck. These are authors.
"You famous? You got mad stacks?" a tall girl shouted from the back, saving me from my insecurities.
"No," I laughed, "no stacks. And seriously not famous." I told you their imaginations were in full gear.
"But all authors are famous!" she shot back, challenging me. "Why you ain't got stacks?"
It was a good question. In my mind it hadn't ever been phrased that way, but still, being an author was different than I'd expected as a kid. Less Hemingway and Frazier, more making it up as I go along. And certainly no money, or "stacks."
To be honest, it can sometimes make me feel alone and not-so-legitimate, like my job is to stand in a room talking to myself about all my make believe friends. Just a guess, but I doubt John Irving or Jonathan Franzen has this problem.
But then I remembered all the notes on my phone and all the ideas for stories that are there, how I can't pass a street sign without wondering if it might make a good name, or hear two old women argue in Kohls without imagining and plotting for the rest of the day what might have brought them to that moment.
These threads may never become anything or go anywhere, but like all the unwritten scenes and characters in my head, they're there, waiting. They're part of me and what I love.
I thought proudly of the books and stories I have finished and of that silly, surprised smile I get when I'm writing and a character does something completely unexpected, even to me. I thought of all the hours in that damned uncomfortable wooden chair at my desk, about all the tears and revisions.
"Yep," I said, nodding. "I'm an author."
Glamorous, it ain't. But it sure is real. And recently it's come with a fabulous new nickname. My husband has started calling me Stacks. :)
Last night was a writing night.
We had one story in verse where the sun was blue (loved that—if only I'd thought of it for If Chocolate Were Purple), an alien abduction to Smurfville, and a cleverly written horror piece that left our skin tingling.
It was a ton of fun, and the imaginations were in full gear. Never more, though, than at the end of the night, when the kids found out I was an author.
"A real author?" one boy, around nine, asked.
I hesitated, daunted by the club I'd be joining if I said yes. Stephen King is a real author, Shakespeare is a real author. Kingsolver, Rowling, Martin, Penman, Robin Hobb, Steinbeck. These are authors.
"You famous? You got mad stacks?" a tall girl shouted from the back, saving me from my insecurities.
"No," I laughed, "no stacks. And seriously not famous." I told you their imaginations were in full gear.
"But all authors are famous!" she shot back, challenging me. "Why you ain't got stacks?"
It was a good question. In my mind it hadn't ever been phrased that way, but still, being an author was different than I'd expected as a kid. Less Hemingway and Frazier, more making it up as I go along. And certainly no money, or "stacks."
To be honest, it can sometimes make me feel alone and not-so-legitimate, like my job is to stand in a room talking to myself about all my make believe friends. Just a guess, but I doubt John Irving or Jonathan Franzen has this problem.
But then I remembered all the notes on my phone and all the ideas for stories that are there, how I can't pass a street sign without wondering if it might make a good name, or hear two old women argue in Kohls without imagining and plotting for the rest of the day what might have brought them to that moment.
These threads may never become anything or go anywhere, but like all the unwritten scenes and characters in my head, they're there, waiting. They're part of me and what I love.
I thought proudly of the books and stories I have finished and of that silly, surprised smile I get when I'm writing and a character does something completely unexpected, even to me. I thought of all the hours in that damned uncomfortable wooden chair at my desk, about all the tears and revisions.
"Yep," I said, nodding. "I'm an author."
Glamorous, it ain't. But it sure is real. And recently it's come with a fabulous new nickname. My husband has started calling me Stacks. :)
A Ghost Named Sue
In celebration of Halloween I've started a story; just something quick and fun about a ghost who is, unfortunately, named Sue.
Below is what I've written. There's about a page or so, just enough to get you going. It's got a voice, a few good characters and a dilemma. But I want to see where all of you would take Sue.
Your Halloween challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to finish the story. Post your endings (and middles, too) as comments here, or in the Note called A Ghost Named Sue on JenBartonWrites on Facebook, or just email me at jen@jbartonbooks.com.
The deadline is at the stroke of midnight on Halloween (nice, huh?) and the prize for the winner is something terrific and terribly secret.
Now ladle up something steaming from your cauldron (or just make a cup of tea) and get in the spirit (I know, right?) of things.
Read on, lovelies...then get to work. Sue needs you.
A Ghost Named Sue
Sue was a ghost. He was supposed to be scary. His mother was scary. His father was scary. In fact, Sue came from a very distinguished line of horrifyingly hair-raisingly scary ghosts, goblins and ghouls.
Suchibald Aliscare Mandible Tentacules had been the scariest, and his mother's great, great, great uncle's cousin, twice removed. She'd always admired his work as a first rate fiend—it was rumored that Suchibald once frightened the Man in the Moon so badly it stayed completely dark (only at night, of course) for over a month. His mother was determined that Suchibald's first rate ghosting would never be forgotten. So she'd passed the name to her son.
Sue wondered sometimes, as he was flossing his fangs, why they didn't call him Al or Uchi. But no. He was Sue.
If that wasn't bad enough, it was beginning to look like he wasn't cut out for ghosting at all. No one was afraid of him. And for a ghost, especially a descendent of Suchibald Aliscare Mandible Tentacules, that was a problem.
To start with, his fangs hadn't grown in all the way (Sue secretly wondered if they ever would). And besides that, they never stayed sharp anyway. No matter how much he filed them, mostly they just looked like two dull pieces of upside down candy corn stuck in his mouth. Not very scary.
Halloween, the best day of the year for a ghost, was the worst.
Every year his mom had a party. All her scary fiends and family came, expecting him to be spooky, of course, as soon as they floated through the door. But he wasn't. He was just same old Sue. Last year he'd been so upset he'd sunk to the bottom of the punch bowl and spent the whole night imagining he was his best friend Gus, a seven and three-quarter foot tarantula. Gus scared everyone.
As bad as his mom's parties were, the hauntings on the other side of the borderlands with his friends were even worse. Every Halloween they crossed over, through the big, misted keyhole, into neighborhoods full of human kids, looking for the perfect scare.
Vlad was a natural. The way his head hung, almost all the way off, scared anyone who saw him, even the adults. Screams and wails, shrieks and hollers, every single time. One time a lady fainted, just crumpled like a bag of bones right there on the sidewalk. It made Sue a little jealous.
Sue and his friends weren't scared of Vlad, of course. They knew he hacked his head almost off just as a gag for Halloween. They spent the whole week leading up to the big night listening to him brag about how the saw he used got more and more jagged and rusty each year. Which Sue thought made him kind of a show off. Some guys had all the luck though. Cutting his head almost off every year had given Vlad big, ugly scars across his neck, but all the ghouls at school said it made him look cute, whatever that meant. Anyway, most of the year Vlad's head was on straight like everyone else. Except Ichabod. He never had a head.
Gus was always a star on the other side of the borderlands, too. After all, what's not scary about a seven and three-quarter foot tarantula dropping from the trees? Sometimes he even made Sue jump.
Which was kind of the problem. It was one thing to not be scary, to be cursed as a billowing, adorable apparition (his Aunt Patrixia's words), to be just same old Sue year after year, his candy corn fangs never holding their sharp edge, but to be afraid of things, or startle easily like he did, was too embarrassing.
The truth was he was afraid of the kids on the other side. He'd never told another soul, living or dead. It made him feel ashamed. They looked so terrifying every time he'd been through the keyhole. Real bats and ghouls and vampires weren't scary to him. He knew loads of them. He'd even partnered with a flesh-eating goblin two weeks ago for a project in Fanglish. Boring. All she wanted to do was comb her ear hair.
But when humans stalked the night on Halloween, disguising themselves as witches, warlocks, demons and zombies, it was more than Sue could bear. Even the ghosts were scary for him. Think of that! Two years ago he'd swooped from behind a parked car, going in for a scare, and found himself staring at a giant bloody eyeball, with thin stick-like legs covered in glow-in-the-dark polka dot green tights. He'd screamed, a howling, pitiful sound, and quickly wisped under the car.
His heart, if he had one, would have been racing. His blood, if he had any, would've been pounding in his ears. As it was, his vapor felt like it was on fire. He'd almost turned red. He'd had to stay under the car, hiding from everyone, until he'd relaxed and went white.
Vlad had almost seen, too. Which would've been bad. Vlad was okay, most of the time, but Sue never wanted a guy like that to see him go pink. Only Gus understood. As soon as he'd heard Sue scream, he'd skittered down Primrose Lane, flying on those long hairy legs of his, and sent that big bloody eyeball running for its life.
Before long, Primrose Lane was quiet as could be. As you can imagine.
Gus then lifted the car, a station wagon with wood panels on the side, and saw Sue, still calming his way through a light cotton candy shade of pink, and had stood in front, blocking everyone else's view. Especially Vlad's.
Gus was the best. But he was in the bitter Mountains, visiting his northern relations. And tomorrow was Halloween. Sue didn't know what he would do without him. He looked at his mom, saw her washing out her favorite party punch bowl (the one with the live bat wings for handles) in the big soap-filled cauldron, and wondered if he should just start out in the bottom of it this year.
Below is what I've written. There's about a page or so, just enough to get you going. It's got a voice, a few good characters and a dilemma. But I want to see where all of you would take Sue.
Your Halloween challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to finish the story. Post your endings (and middles, too) as comments here, or in the Note called A Ghost Named Sue on JenBartonWrites on Facebook, or just email me at jen@jbartonbooks.com.
The deadline is at the stroke of midnight on Halloween (nice, huh?) and the prize for the winner is something terrific and terribly secret.
Now ladle up something steaming from your cauldron (or just make a cup of tea) and get in the spirit (I know, right?) of things.
Read on, lovelies...then get to work. Sue needs you.
A Ghost Named Sue
Sue was a ghost. He was supposed to be scary. His mother was scary. His father was scary. In fact, Sue came from a very distinguished line of horrifyingly hair-raisingly scary ghosts, goblins and ghouls.
Suchibald Aliscare Mandible Tentacules had been the scariest, and his mother's great, great, great uncle's cousin, twice removed. She'd always admired his work as a first rate fiend—it was rumored that Suchibald once frightened the Man in the Moon so badly it stayed completely dark (only at night, of course) for over a month. His mother was determined that Suchibald's first rate ghosting would never be forgotten. So she'd passed the name to her son.
Sue wondered sometimes, as he was flossing his fangs, why they didn't call him Al or Uchi. But no. He was Sue.
If that wasn't bad enough, it was beginning to look like he wasn't cut out for ghosting at all. No one was afraid of him. And for a ghost, especially a descendent of Suchibald Aliscare Mandible Tentacules, that was a problem.
To start with, his fangs hadn't grown in all the way (Sue secretly wondered if they ever would). And besides that, they never stayed sharp anyway. No matter how much he filed them, mostly they just looked like two dull pieces of upside down candy corn stuck in his mouth. Not very scary.
Halloween, the best day of the year for a ghost, was the worst.
Every year his mom had a party. All her scary fiends and family came, expecting him to be spooky, of course, as soon as they floated through the door. But he wasn't. He was just same old Sue. Last year he'd been so upset he'd sunk to the bottom of the punch bowl and spent the whole night imagining he was his best friend Gus, a seven and three-quarter foot tarantula. Gus scared everyone.
As bad as his mom's parties were, the hauntings on the other side of the borderlands with his friends were even worse. Every Halloween they crossed over, through the big, misted keyhole, into neighborhoods full of human kids, looking for the perfect scare.
Vlad was a natural. The way his head hung, almost all the way off, scared anyone who saw him, even the adults. Screams and wails, shrieks and hollers, every single time. One time a lady fainted, just crumpled like a bag of bones right there on the sidewalk. It made Sue a little jealous.
Sue and his friends weren't scared of Vlad, of course. They knew he hacked his head almost off just as a gag for Halloween. They spent the whole week leading up to the big night listening to him brag about how the saw he used got more and more jagged and rusty each year. Which Sue thought made him kind of a show off. Some guys had all the luck though. Cutting his head almost off every year had given Vlad big, ugly scars across his neck, but all the ghouls at school said it made him look cute, whatever that meant. Anyway, most of the year Vlad's head was on straight like everyone else. Except Ichabod. He never had a head.
Gus was always a star on the other side of the borderlands, too. After all, what's not scary about a seven and three-quarter foot tarantula dropping from the trees? Sometimes he even made Sue jump.
Which was kind of the problem. It was one thing to not be scary, to be cursed as a billowing, adorable apparition (his Aunt Patrixia's words), to be just same old Sue year after year, his candy corn fangs never holding their sharp edge, but to be afraid of things, or startle easily like he did, was too embarrassing.
The truth was he was afraid of the kids on the other side. He'd never told another soul, living or dead. It made him feel ashamed. They looked so terrifying every time he'd been through the keyhole. Real bats and ghouls and vampires weren't scary to him. He knew loads of them. He'd even partnered with a flesh-eating goblin two weeks ago for a project in Fanglish. Boring. All she wanted to do was comb her ear hair.
But when humans stalked the night on Halloween, disguising themselves as witches, warlocks, demons and zombies, it was more than Sue could bear. Even the ghosts were scary for him. Think of that! Two years ago he'd swooped from behind a parked car, going in for a scare, and found himself staring at a giant bloody eyeball, with thin stick-like legs covered in glow-in-the-dark polka dot green tights. He'd screamed, a howling, pitiful sound, and quickly wisped under the car.
His heart, if he had one, would have been racing. His blood, if he had any, would've been pounding in his ears. As it was, his vapor felt like it was on fire. He'd almost turned red. He'd had to stay under the car, hiding from everyone, until he'd relaxed and went white.
Vlad had almost seen, too. Which would've been bad. Vlad was okay, most of the time, but Sue never wanted a guy like that to see him go pink. Only Gus understood. As soon as he'd heard Sue scream, he'd skittered down Primrose Lane, flying on those long hairy legs of his, and sent that big bloody eyeball running for its life.
Before long, Primrose Lane was quiet as could be. As you can imagine.
Gus then lifted the car, a station wagon with wood panels on the side, and saw Sue, still calming his way through a light cotton candy shade of pink, and had stood in front, blocking everyone else's view. Especially Vlad's.
Gus was the best. But he was in the bitter Mountains, visiting his northern relations. And tomorrow was Halloween. Sue didn't know what he would do without him. He looked at his mom, saw her washing out her favorite party punch bowl (the one with the live bat wings for handles) in the big soap-filled cauldron, and wondered if he should just start out in the bottom of it this year.
