Su Williams's Blog, page 9
December 31, 2012
DONE! Again...
I know I've said this like, a billion times...but I'm done. Again. There was just the little matter of changing my present tense verbs with 'ing' into past tense verbs with 'ed'. Duh. I mean, geez, the book is written in past tense, for heaven's sake. But there are past tense occasions where you can and have to use an 'ing' verb. I know...blah, blah, blah.
I've uploaded my updated file to CreateSpace and await answers to some graphic design questions. Then, I can order another proof. I'm looking forward to reading Dream Weaver as a book rather than a manuscript. Of course, that's a laugh. Like I'll ever be done editing.
So here's the plan: (in no logical or coherent order)
Establish an 'Author's Page' on Good Reads.
Pay Shawn for his artwork
Begin selling e-books of Dream Weaver
Print 100 hard copies for book signing and conference
Promote Dream Weaver Novels Facebook page
Connect with other self-pubbers
Yeahno. I got nothin' to do.
So Happy New Year to all of you. May your heart clearly see your dreams and may your soul have strength to chase them! Happy and prosperous 2013!
I've uploaded my updated file to CreateSpace and await answers to some graphic design questions. Then, I can order another proof. I'm looking forward to reading Dream Weaver as a book rather than a manuscript. Of course, that's a laugh. Like I'll ever be done editing.
So here's the plan: (in no logical or coherent order)
Establish an 'Author's Page' on Good Reads.
Pay Shawn for his artwork
Begin selling e-books of Dream Weaver
Print 100 hard copies for book signing and conference
Promote Dream Weaver Novels Facebook page
Connect with other self-pubbers
Yeahno. I got nothin' to do.
So Happy New Year to all of you. May your heart clearly see your dreams and may your soul have strength to chase them! Happy and prosperous 2013!
December 14, 2012
2 ARC's from CreateSpace
It's been an exciting week. After at least 8 upload attempts and an issue with embedding my fonts, I finally got Dream Weaver uploaded and approved by
CreateSpace
. I ordered 2 ARCs and started reviewing the digital copy. I'm wishing now I had reviewed the digital and then ordered, but there's just something about me that makes me follow directions. Just once, I should step out of line, throw caution to the wind and say 'what the hell?' and do things my own way. Oh well. Still so excited to see my hard work in print.
The cover looks great, but I'm commissioning a friend from PNWA to do a piece for me. His name is Shawn Foote and he is an amazing artist who uses multi-media in his work. And besides, he's an awful sweet guy.
Happy Christmas to all...yes a nod to Harry Potter there. The magic lives on!
The cover looks great, but I'm commissioning a friend from PNWA to do a piece for me. His name is Shawn Foote and he is an amazing artist who uses multi-media in his work. And besides, he's an awful sweet guy.
Happy Christmas to all...yes a nod to Harry Potter there. The magic lives on!
December 10, 2012
5 Copies of Dream Weaver from NaNo and CreateSpace
As a winner of NaNoWriMo I received a list of prizes I could claim. One of those prizes was 5 free printed copies of my manuscript from CreateSpace. How cool is that?
So, I did a final spit and polish on Dream Weaver and submitted it to the CreateSpace website. After no less than 8 uploads, I finally managed to embed my fonts and got my manuscript layout and cover design approved. And today I ordered 2 copies of the ARCs (Author's Review Copy) that should arrive by Friday, Dec. 14.
I hadn't actually planned on self-publishing for another few months. I planned on continuing my campaign of submitting partials and query letters to agents and editors. But how could I pass this up? There's no law that says you can't self-publish AND take the traditional route to publishing your book. As a matter of fact, if you can drum up enough sales, it makes your story all the more appealing to those AEs out there.
So now there's a billion more things I'll need to do, like create an author page on Good Reads...Who knew so much goes into the publishing of a book besides actually writing the book? Despite having spent the last 4 years learning all I can about the trade, I still feel very much like the tyro writer I was before. There is so much to learn, so much to do. Many thanks to all of you who have helped me along the way in more ways than I can describe.
So, I did a final spit and polish on Dream Weaver and submitted it to the CreateSpace website. After no less than 8 uploads, I finally managed to embed my fonts and got my manuscript layout and cover design approved. And today I ordered 2 copies of the ARCs (Author's Review Copy) that should arrive by Friday, Dec. 14.
I hadn't actually planned on self-publishing for another few months. I planned on continuing my campaign of submitting partials and query letters to agents and editors. But how could I pass this up? There's no law that says you can't self-publish AND take the traditional route to publishing your book. As a matter of fact, if you can drum up enough sales, it makes your story all the more appealing to those AEs out there.
So now there's a billion more things I'll need to do, like create an author page on Good Reads...Who knew so much goes into the publishing of a book besides actually writing the book? Despite having spent the last 4 years learning all I can about the trade, I still feel very much like the tyro writer I was before. There is so much to learn, so much to do. Many thanks to all of you who have helped me along the way in more ways than I can describe.
November 29, 2012
National Novel Writing Month 2012
This was my first attempt at NaNoWriMo. It's been an adventure, but I can't say I loved every minute of it. It was a comedy of pain and pleasure. Regardless, I did it. And just the feeling of the success totally makes up for the frustration and pain. I learned so much more about Nick, Emari, Sabre, Eddyson, and even Thomas and William. Emari's a tougher chick than she gives herself credit for, and Nick isn't as tough as he thought he was. Sabre finally concedes that he is indeed an ass.
Over the month, I wrote 54,945 words and have a solid foundation on which to continue building this world of mind benders and mind breakers.
Thank you to National Novel Writing Month, Spokane River Writers and Municipal Liaison, Samantha, as well as all my Writing Buddies. See ya next year when I work on the finale of the Dream Weaver Novel Series--Private Eye.
Over the month, I wrote 54,945 words and have a solid foundation on which to continue building this world of mind benders and mind breakers.
Thank you to National Novel Writing Month, Spokane River Writers and Municipal Liaison, Samantha, as well as all my Writing Buddies. See ya next year when I work on the finale of the Dream Weaver Novel Series--Private Eye.
November 14, 2012
NaNoWriMo Pains
NEARLY MIDWAY WITH NANOWRIMO
OK, so there's just today and tomorrow before the midway point of Nation Novel Writing Month. If I stay true to form so far, I will reach 25k words by the 15th. Yay! So, Rock Star is close to 39K words so far AND I know how it ends now.
I'm one of those writers that writes scenes as they come to me and puts them together later. So when the ending paragraphs came to my fingers, it was a very exciting thing.
Also, I sent a partial of Dream Weaver to a professional editor and the response was fantastic. They called it..."well written...a powerful read...atmospheric and dark...packs a punch...imagery is original and precise...very powerful...wow." Hey, gotta love words like that!
OK, so there's just today and tomorrow before the midway point of Nation Novel Writing Month. If I stay true to form so far, I will reach 25k words by the 15th. Yay! So, Rock Star is close to 39K words so far AND I know how it ends now.
I'm one of those writers that writes scenes as they come to me and puts them together later. So when the ending paragraphs came to my fingers, it was a very exciting thing.
Also, I sent a partial of Dream Weaver to a professional editor and the response was fantastic. They called it..."well written...a powerful read...atmospheric and dark...packs a punch...imagery is original and precise...very powerful...wow." Hey, gotta love words like that!
July 2, 2012
Skeleton’s SongBy Su Williams(Writer's Digest sponsors a ...
Skeleton’s Song
By Su Williams
(Writer's Digest sponsors a weekly writing prompt. This was my second post and it received some very complimentary comments. I have a fan!)
I couldn’t live without my childhood best friend; my teen romance; my soul mate…until he died. The newspapers should’ve read “Caleb Davis, 21, Dies of Unknown Causes.” But there wasn’t a single word in the news.
Heavy curtains submerge our home into dusky darkness. Children play outside in sweltering heat. The ice cream truck trumpets by. Life goes on out in the summer heat, but inside my darkened lair time has frozen despite the heat.
I’m alone in the darkness that has nothing to do with light. If Caleb were alive he’d throw the curtains open, saying, “Athena! Let the sun in for God’s sake!” He’d open the windows to air out the mustiness. But he’s not. And he won’t. So I bask in the musty air.
Night and the temperatures fall, but the heat is captured in our house. I sprawl on the bed in sweat-drenched cami and Caleb’s boxers. Whiskey numbs my lips, but not the pain in my heart, only befuddles my head with softness. A few more shots and my heart will stop. I can join the one I love. I jettison the shot glass, swig from the bottle. Then guzzle. I empty it, then stagger across the room for another.
Then I hear it. The soft strains of the love song Caleb sang about his sweet Athena. I crumple to the floor. Blackness envelopes me.
I awaken to muted daylight, my mouth thick and fuzzy as sun-warmed air. I will try again when I can move again.
I suffer the sweltering day away, stewing in grief. I peruse old year books. We’re always side by side--Davis, Athena; Davis, Caleb.
When the sun falls I slither onto the bed, another bottle of whiskey and our sharpest knife in hand. Shallow cuts slice my thumb as I test the blade. I press the steel to the tender flesh of my forearm--vertically, not horizontally. A bead of blood erupts at the point, then begins to trickle in hot sticky streams, thudding like a drum on the bedspread. I shift my grip to drive the blade home.
Ka-thump!
I drop the knife and drag my quaking body to the closet door, dribbling a trail of blood behind me. Cooling drops straggle down my thigh, soak between my toes. The door opens of its own accord though the knob is in my hand.
He’s there. My Caleb. Shriveled to nothing but stark white bone, a shadow of his former glory. I curl up at his side, tucked safely beneath his skeletal arm, my head on his boney chest. He doesn’t want me to join him. He wants me to stay--just as I want him to stay. Forever.
I called no one when I found him laying lifeless in our bed. I hid him in our closet where he would never leave me. So now, I cuddle up to his boney frame knowing today no one will come and take him from me.
Someday they will come. But not today.
“All of us have skeletons in our closet…some of us just have better locks.” Author Unknown
Special thanks to Sevendust, Skeleton Song for the inspiration.
By Su Williams
(Writer's Digest sponsors a weekly writing prompt. This was my second post and it received some very complimentary comments. I have a fan!)
I couldn’t live without my childhood best friend; my teen romance; my soul mate…until he died. The newspapers should’ve read “Caleb Davis, 21, Dies of Unknown Causes.” But there wasn’t a single word in the news.
Heavy curtains submerge our home into dusky darkness. Children play outside in sweltering heat. The ice cream truck trumpets by. Life goes on out in the summer heat, but inside my darkened lair time has frozen despite the heat.
I’m alone in the darkness that has nothing to do with light. If Caleb were alive he’d throw the curtains open, saying, “Athena! Let the sun in for God’s sake!” He’d open the windows to air out the mustiness. But he’s not. And he won’t. So I bask in the musty air.
Night and the temperatures fall, but the heat is captured in our house. I sprawl on the bed in sweat-drenched cami and Caleb’s boxers. Whiskey numbs my lips, but not the pain in my heart, only befuddles my head with softness. A few more shots and my heart will stop. I can join the one I love. I jettison the shot glass, swig from the bottle. Then guzzle. I empty it, then stagger across the room for another.
Then I hear it. The soft strains of the love song Caleb sang about his sweet Athena. I crumple to the floor. Blackness envelopes me.
I awaken to muted daylight, my mouth thick and fuzzy as sun-warmed air. I will try again when I can move again.
I suffer the sweltering day away, stewing in grief. I peruse old year books. We’re always side by side--Davis, Athena; Davis, Caleb.
When the sun falls I slither onto the bed, another bottle of whiskey and our sharpest knife in hand. Shallow cuts slice my thumb as I test the blade. I press the steel to the tender flesh of my forearm--vertically, not horizontally. A bead of blood erupts at the point, then begins to trickle in hot sticky streams, thudding like a drum on the bedspread. I shift my grip to drive the blade home.
Ka-thump!
I drop the knife and drag my quaking body to the closet door, dribbling a trail of blood behind me. Cooling drops straggle down my thigh, soak between my toes. The door opens of its own accord though the knob is in my hand.
He’s there. My Caleb. Shriveled to nothing but stark white bone, a shadow of his former glory. I curl up at his side, tucked safely beneath his skeletal arm, my head on his boney chest. He doesn’t want me to join him. He wants me to stay--just as I want him to stay. Forever.
I called no one when I found him laying lifeless in our bed. I hid him in our closet where he would never leave me. So now, I cuddle up to his boney frame knowing today no one will come and take him from me.
Someday they will come. But not today.
“All of us have skeletons in our closet…some of us just have better locks.” Author Unknown
Special thanks to Sevendust, Skeleton Song for the inspiration.
Summer GirlsBy Su Williams(This story was originally mean...
Summer Girls
By Su Williams
(This story was originally meant as an entry into a writing contest about summer. I missed the deadline but posted it on Facebook. It was inspired by my friend Heather.)
Summer was finally here. Finally hot enough to go to the lake and enjoy the solar waves and watch sunrays scatter across the water like a million shooting stars. Winter lasted forever this year. I thought it’d never go away. So now, I lay basking in the sun like lizard, thawing my insides from the long winter’s chill. My fingers probe the cubes of ice in my cup, bringing one to my lips every few minutes as the last melts on my tongue. I scan the beach for familiar faces, regulars who come to this lake every year, some who live here year round in quaint little cottages within walking distance to the shore.
Some faces are familiar. A year older, a little less bronzed at the beginning of the season. I watch from a distance, sequestered behind my sunglasses, watching the pretty, thin girls with unnaturally blonde hair talking and laughing together. But I don’t call out or join them. They’re not really my type, not that I really know what my type is, now that I know myself a little better. And I’d really just prefer to keep to myself for now.
Yes. That’s what I’ve decided--but then she walks by. Already golden, as though she spent the summer in the South Pacific. Her hair is coppery brown, with streaks of gold like the rays of the sun itself. Her suit, a tankini I think they call it, is modest and hugs the curves of her slight frame. She is beautiful. In that natural homespun kind of way.
But I only watch her from a distance, as she smears suntan lotion on her long thin arms and legs. I wonder if she might need some help with her back, but I’m not brave enough to ask. Someone else is though. A wanna-be golden boy with platinum hair squats beside her lounger, grinning with pearly teeth. She scowls back at him and shakes her head. Shunned. She’s sent him away with a frown. Would she send me away as well?
I watch her until the sun begins to slide behind the mountains. Watch her as she reads a book, sips on a soda, takes an elegant dive into the water. She emerges, sparkling with the diamonds of water droplets clinging to skin. Another boy offers her a towel, but he, too is shunned and walks away dejected as she shakes her head and retrieves her own towel. And again I wonder if she would turn me away as easily as she did these others.
I pack up my towel and folding lounger and trudge back to the cabin up a windy dirt road that my parents rented for the summer. They’re too busy drinking cocktails and playing volleyball in the backyard with their friends to notice that I’m home. So I climb the steps to the yard, then the steps to the porch, then higher still to the loft that is my home for the next nine weeks.
The loft overlooks the lake, but I can’t see the resort from here. Though the girl is no longer there, I gaze that direction, remembering the breeze that tug at her hair and brought the smell of her lotion enticingly to my nose. Tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow, I will be brave enough to say hello, to introduce myself to her.
But what if she rejects me like she did the others? What then? And even if she doesn’t will she accept me for who I am? I wonder if she’ll think I’m cute; cute enough to spend her time with. Or maybe she’ll just want to be friends. But what is it I really want from her? Maybe all I really need is a friend. Someone who won’t pass judgments. But how do I know I can trust her not to? What if I’m not cute enough, smart enough? What if I’m not her type?
It seems to take hours for the chirping crickets and croaking frogs to lull my mind to sleep. I sleep in fits and starts. First dreaming that the beautiful bronzed girl shares my affections, sending my heart into overdrive and a flush of warmth through my veins. Then the images morph and she scowls bitterly at me, rejecting even my hand of friendship, and slaps my stricken face leaving my cheek stinging with fire.
I remember all of this the next day, as I’m watching her set up her things. One moment I feel the courage to speak to her and the next I’m shivering with fear like the summer heat will never be hot enough to thaw me. More boys make advances and each is turned away, especially the guy who is obviously in his thirties and way too old to be hooking up with a teenage girl. I want to leap up and attack him, the perv, but she handles him and sends him packing like the rest. The other girls on the beach are smug, snubbing her in envy because all the boys want the golden girl with sunlight in her hair.
Again the sun dives behind the mountain, and I’m no closer to meeting her than I was before. Although, when I walked past her on my way home she gave me a tantalizing coy smile. My heart skipped a beat and my mouth fell open in shock. I’m sure I made a lasting impression: as the biggest dork that ever walked the face of the earth.
And again my sleep comes in fits, and I dream the same dreams as before. When I awaken at dawn with a starling chattering at my window, I can’t sleep any longer. I feel sick. Summer sick. Or maybe just sick from the nervousness that has sent my body reeling too often. I shamble to the resort after breakfast, sure I look every bit the zombie I feel like. Oh well, it was a nice fantasy while it lasted.
After a refreshing swim, I towel off and plop unceremoniously into my chair. The sun bakes my skin and leaves me drowsy. Soon I succumb to the draw of sleep.
Some time later, I’m not sure how long, but the sun has moved several degrees across the sky, a shadow falls over my face and awakens me. All I can see is a thin silhouette towering over me like a giant. I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the penumbra of light that’s blinding me, but it doesn’t help. I flail in my chair and am only stilled be a quiet sound.
“Oh!” a golden voice exclaims, and then the figure drops to my side and I can see her more clearly. Though I wonder if maybe I’m still asleep and dreaming. This can’t possibly be. The golden girl is kneeling by my side in the gritty sand, staring at me. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice like honey. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just, I think you fell asleep in the sun and I was afraid you would get burned.”
“Uh. Thanks.” It’s all I can manage to say.
“Sure thing,” she says.
A zillion thoughts race through my head like an Indy race at the finish line. She’s here. She’s talking to me. How can she talk to me? She’s this perfect creature who could have any guy she wanted. But she’s talking to me. What if I open my mouth and say something stupid? What if I do manage to say something intelligent but she still rejects me? I know who I am and what I want, but what if that scares her away?
“I just--I don’t know anybody here and I noticed you’ve been alone all week,” her voice stroked my heart and calmed the raging beast clawing at my insides.
“Uh, yeah. The girls around here are not really very friendly. But the boys seem to like you,” I say, then feel stupid for pointing out that I’ve been watching her.
“There is that. But I’m not really interested.”
I watch her eyes, find the gleam of honesty in them. Something like hope thrums in my chest. She wasn’t interested in the boys. Where does that leave me? Well, at least she talking to me. I imagine the summer sharing the sand with her, absorbing the sun into our skin, plunging into the cold lake water that leaves our skin cool and slippery.
“By the way,” she holds her hand out to me, “my name is Celeste.”
I can’t imagine a more perfect name for this girl, the golden girl that rules the sky.
I take her hand in mine and give it a gentle squeeze. Her hand lingers in mine, her thumb strokes my wrist. I shiver at her touch and hope she doesn’t notice.
“Hello Celeste. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Amy.”
Her eyes twinkle in the sun, bright and coy, she cups my hand in both of hers, and suddenly this long dull summer at the beach seems rife with possibilities.
By Su Williams
(This story was originally meant as an entry into a writing contest about summer. I missed the deadline but posted it on Facebook. It was inspired by my friend Heather.)
Summer was finally here. Finally hot enough to go to the lake and enjoy the solar waves and watch sunrays scatter across the water like a million shooting stars. Winter lasted forever this year. I thought it’d never go away. So now, I lay basking in the sun like lizard, thawing my insides from the long winter’s chill. My fingers probe the cubes of ice in my cup, bringing one to my lips every few minutes as the last melts on my tongue. I scan the beach for familiar faces, regulars who come to this lake every year, some who live here year round in quaint little cottages within walking distance to the shore.
Some faces are familiar. A year older, a little less bronzed at the beginning of the season. I watch from a distance, sequestered behind my sunglasses, watching the pretty, thin girls with unnaturally blonde hair talking and laughing together. But I don’t call out or join them. They’re not really my type, not that I really know what my type is, now that I know myself a little better. And I’d really just prefer to keep to myself for now.
Yes. That’s what I’ve decided--but then she walks by. Already golden, as though she spent the summer in the South Pacific. Her hair is coppery brown, with streaks of gold like the rays of the sun itself. Her suit, a tankini I think they call it, is modest and hugs the curves of her slight frame. She is beautiful. In that natural homespun kind of way.
But I only watch her from a distance, as she smears suntan lotion on her long thin arms and legs. I wonder if she might need some help with her back, but I’m not brave enough to ask. Someone else is though. A wanna-be golden boy with platinum hair squats beside her lounger, grinning with pearly teeth. She scowls back at him and shakes her head. Shunned. She’s sent him away with a frown. Would she send me away as well?
I watch her until the sun begins to slide behind the mountains. Watch her as she reads a book, sips on a soda, takes an elegant dive into the water. She emerges, sparkling with the diamonds of water droplets clinging to skin. Another boy offers her a towel, but he, too is shunned and walks away dejected as she shakes her head and retrieves her own towel. And again I wonder if she would turn me away as easily as she did these others.
I pack up my towel and folding lounger and trudge back to the cabin up a windy dirt road that my parents rented for the summer. They’re too busy drinking cocktails and playing volleyball in the backyard with their friends to notice that I’m home. So I climb the steps to the yard, then the steps to the porch, then higher still to the loft that is my home for the next nine weeks.
The loft overlooks the lake, but I can’t see the resort from here. Though the girl is no longer there, I gaze that direction, remembering the breeze that tug at her hair and brought the smell of her lotion enticingly to my nose. Tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow, I will be brave enough to say hello, to introduce myself to her.
But what if she rejects me like she did the others? What then? And even if she doesn’t will she accept me for who I am? I wonder if she’ll think I’m cute; cute enough to spend her time with. Or maybe she’ll just want to be friends. But what is it I really want from her? Maybe all I really need is a friend. Someone who won’t pass judgments. But how do I know I can trust her not to? What if I’m not cute enough, smart enough? What if I’m not her type?
It seems to take hours for the chirping crickets and croaking frogs to lull my mind to sleep. I sleep in fits and starts. First dreaming that the beautiful bronzed girl shares my affections, sending my heart into overdrive and a flush of warmth through my veins. Then the images morph and she scowls bitterly at me, rejecting even my hand of friendship, and slaps my stricken face leaving my cheek stinging with fire.
I remember all of this the next day, as I’m watching her set up her things. One moment I feel the courage to speak to her and the next I’m shivering with fear like the summer heat will never be hot enough to thaw me. More boys make advances and each is turned away, especially the guy who is obviously in his thirties and way too old to be hooking up with a teenage girl. I want to leap up and attack him, the perv, but she handles him and sends him packing like the rest. The other girls on the beach are smug, snubbing her in envy because all the boys want the golden girl with sunlight in her hair.
Again the sun dives behind the mountain, and I’m no closer to meeting her than I was before. Although, when I walked past her on my way home she gave me a tantalizing coy smile. My heart skipped a beat and my mouth fell open in shock. I’m sure I made a lasting impression: as the biggest dork that ever walked the face of the earth.
And again my sleep comes in fits, and I dream the same dreams as before. When I awaken at dawn with a starling chattering at my window, I can’t sleep any longer. I feel sick. Summer sick. Or maybe just sick from the nervousness that has sent my body reeling too often. I shamble to the resort after breakfast, sure I look every bit the zombie I feel like. Oh well, it was a nice fantasy while it lasted.
After a refreshing swim, I towel off and plop unceremoniously into my chair. The sun bakes my skin and leaves me drowsy. Soon I succumb to the draw of sleep.
Some time later, I’m not sure how long, but the sun has moved several degrees across the sky, a shadow falls over my face and awakens me. All I can see is a thin silhouette towering over me like a giant. I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the penumbra of light that’s blinding me, but it doesn’t help. I flail in my chair and am only stilled be a quiet sound.
“Oh!” a golden voice exclaims, and then the figure drops to my side and I can see her more clearly. Though I wonder if maybe I’m still asleep and dreaming. This can’t possibly be. The golden girl is kneeling by my side in the gritty sand, staring at me. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice like honey. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just, I think you fell asleep in the sun and I was afraid you would get burned.”
“Uh. Thanks.” It’s all I can manage to say.
“Sure thing,” she says.
A zillion thoughts race through my head like an Indy race at the finish line. She’s here. She’s talking to me. How can she talk to me? She’s this perfect creature who could have any guy she wanted. But she’s talking to me. What if I open my mouth and say something stupid? What if I do manage to say something intelligent but she still rejects me? I know who I am and what I want, but what if that scares her away?
“I just--I don’t know anybody here and I noticed you’ve been alone all week,” her voice stroked my heart and calmed the raging beast clawing at my insides.
“Uh, yeah. The girls around here are not really very friendly. But the boys seem to like you,” I say, then feel stupid for pointing out that I’ve been watching her.
“There is that. But I’m not really interested.”
I watch her eyes, find the gleam of honesty in them. Something like hope thrums in my chest. She wasn’t interested in the boys. Where does that leave me? Well, at least she talking to me. I imagine the summer sharing the sand with her, absorbing the sun into our skin, plunging into the cold lake water that leaves our skin cool and slippery.
“By the way,” she holds her hand out to me, “my name is Celeste.”
I can’t imagine a more perfect name for this girl, the golden girl that rules the sky.
I take her hand in mine and give it a gentle squeeze. Her hand lingers in mine, her thumb strokes my wrist. I shiver at her touch and hope she doesn’t notice.
“Hello Celeste. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Amy.”
Her eyes twinkle in the sun, bright and coy, she cups my hand in both of hers, and suddenly this long dull summer at the beach seems rife with possibilities.
June 20, 2012
Why You Should Copy Others by Joe Bunting
As well as 15 Habits of Great Writers, I've been practicing my writing with a group of people on Joe Bunting's blog The Write Practice. Today we learned about copying the style of other writers to enhance our own by actually copying text from authors we like.
http://thewritepractice.com/why-you-should-copy-other-writers/
I love this exercise. Firstly, I learned I need to cut my nails because I made so many typos. But that's beside the point. I wrote an excerpt from Maggie Stiefvater's Shiver. Maggie has a beautifully simple and poetic voice. I noticed in her dialogue she uses basic text like, she said, he asked...instead of something more elaborate like, she sighed or he groaned. I think I do that a lot in my writing and I've heard AEs don't really care for that too much. Any thoughts?
Another participant suggested using sentences from other authors and rewriting them in the same structure but with different words. Sounds interesting. Good practice.
http://thewritepractice.com/why-you-should-copy-other-writers/
I love this exercise. Firstly, I learned I need to cut my nails because I made so many typos. But that's beside the point. I wrote an excerpt from Maggie Stiefvater's Shiver. Maggie has a beautifully simple and poetic voice. I noticed in her dialogue she uses basic text like, she said, he asked...instead of something more elaborate like, she sighed or he groaned. I think I do that a lot in my writing and I've heard AEs don't really care for that too much. Any thoughts?
Another participant suggested using sentences from other authors and rewriting them in the same structure but with different words. Sounds interesting. Good practice.
