Kacey Vanderkarr's Blog, page 11

THE FAULT IN OUR STARS – JOHN GREEN

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. (THERE ARE SPOILERS!! LOOK AWAY!)

If I could fill this page with stars—big, giant, hand drawn stars—I would.

This is the kind of book that crawls under your skin and becomes part of you. It’s beautiful—not in an ostentatious I’m Ruler of the Writing World way, (though you are, John Green, you ARE,) but in a gentle, raw, I Will Shove Your Face in this Shit and RIP YOUR HEART OUT until YOU FEEL EVERYTHING. You read correctly, I started that description with gentle.

Following, you will find my musings on The Fault in Our Stars. I can’t promise a review, I suspect it’ll vary between review/idolization/ranting/blubbering/blabbering. I love John Green. I knew this when I read Paper Towns. I knew it when I read Looking for Alaska, but John Green beat the ever-living life out of me with The Fault in Our Stars. (Pun intended.) This is the kind of book you have to walk away from just to get your head on straight again.

Okay?

Okay.

The first mistake I made after finishing was to hop on Goodreads to see the other reviews. People are idiots (see, here’s the ranting!). John Green’s characters are multi-faceted. They have depth and range and history and emotions that make them SO REAL. (Who cares if the characters in all his books are similar?) They’re quirky and precocious, and (IDIOT GOODREADS PEOPLE) they’re often wrong. That’s what makes it like crawling inside their bodies and viewing their trials and triumphs from their eyes. They’re not pretentious, they’re human. They’re teenagers, and the exploration of concepts they don’t fully understand is REALISTIC. People complained that they spoke as world-weary adults, but I disagree. You see, the people who bitched about them using concepts out of their (apparently too young, hormone addled, inferior) range, didn’t understand the concepts. Hazel and Augustus got so many things wrong. But you see, dear idiot readers, you didn’t understand the concepts to begin with, so you couldn’t see how Hazel and Augustus used them for comfort and to suit their own needs. Life isn’t about always being right, or always using “concepts” socially acceptable for a (apparently too young, hormone addled, inferior) teenager. It’s like reading a poem. Maybe you see a flower, maybe I see a grave. Neither one of us is wrong, but you’re definitely still an idiot.

Whoa. That was a confusing tangent that I hope at least one person followed.

The point of all that rage is to say that, just because they haven’t experienced (or taken the TIME to experience) intelligent, witty, and the downright authentic youth of today, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And they (the idiot readers who don’t get it) probably shouldn’t be reading John Green. Because teenagers really ARE like his characters. Maybe not all of them, but a lot.

Let’s start with Hazel. She’s terminal, you know this when you pick up the book. Stage IV thyroid cancer with mets to her lungs. She’s plodding along, not happy, not sad, just kind of there. She doesn’t have a lot of relationships because she knows she’s going to die. Which is both selfless and selfish, depending on who you ask. She’s 16, a part time college student with a GED, because normal school was just too much for her, especially since she carts around an exceptionally annoying third wheel, aka the oxygen tank. She attends a support group, physically, not mentally, and watches a lot of television with her two best friends—her parents.

Then we meet Augustus. He’s 17, a survivor of osteosarcoma, with an amputated leg and a prosthetic replacement. He’s cancer free, but attending support group with his friend, Isaac, who only has one eye and is about to lose the other.

At first, Hazel is very careful with Augustus, keeping their relationship strictly in the friendzone. She compares herself to a grenade, literally a ticking ball of shrapnel, just waiting to explode and maim everyone she cares about.

Hilarity ensues. Isaac goes blind, Hazel goes into ICU. Many cancer jokes are made—and not in the haha cancer is hilarious way (because it’s not hilarious), but Our Lives Suck And The Only Thing To Do Is Laugh. A lot of people were offended by this, I think. But I must refer back to my teenager sentiment. They’re TEENAGERS. And human. We often joke about things are not funny. Sometimes, you have only two choices, laughter or tears. Which would you rather have?

They spend a good portion of the book tracking down the author of the Not a Cancer Book cancer book, An Imperial Affliction, which, according to the character’s descriptions, plays out pretty closely to Hazel’s life. My first clue that something is wrong with Augustus is when he tells Hazel about his Wish and she’s surprised that he still has it after all this time of being cancer free. Whoa. Red light. Not Augustus, please NOT AUGUSTUS.

You pick up a book about a terminal cancer patient, you EXPECT someone to die. (And you’re gonna cry, because you cry when awesome characters die. Also when they have sex…just me? We always knew I was fucked up.)

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NOT AUGUSTUS.

Anyways. They go to Amsterdam and meet the author. He’s an asshole, alcoholic loon. There’s a few small hints of Augustus saying his hip/leg hurts. NO. WHY? WHY AUGUSTUS? It’s in Amsterdam that Hazel realizes that she loves him, or at least admits it. Here is this beautiful boy, who allowed her to hijack his Wish, and complete her dream of meeting Van Houten and demanding the ending to An Imperial Infliction (which she doesn’t technically ever get, unless you count the hamster.).

After Van Houten berates them, insults them, and is generally an asshole, alcoholic loon, they kiss for the first time where Anne Frank hid from the Nazis. I really, REALLY enjoyed this scene. Especially after they both struggle up the stairs (Hazel, with her under-functioning lungs and Augustus with his prostetic leg). The other tourists clap for them. It’s sweet, heartbreaking, and for the characters, a little embarrassing. From here, they go back to Augustus’s hotel room and have sex. I’m not going to sugar coat this. It’s romantic and sweet, but also awkward and nerdy and filled with setbacks from the cancer. There’s the prosthetic, the oxygen tank, etc.

It’s perfect.

Also, Hazel’s love letter to him is priceless…am I right?

Then Augustus tells her that his cancer is back. With mets. Everywhere.

AUGUSTUS…WHY????

The boy who has been her rock, who was supposed to outlive her, has suddenly inverted fate. The real beauty of the story is from their role reversal. Augustus, who starts out strong and healthy, slowly declines, until Hazel realizes for the first time that she’s the healthier one. It’s a heartbreaking downward spiral. While John Green doesn’t smoosh your face in all the awful, he doesn’t shy from it, either. There’s piss and vomit and tubes and hopelessness.

There are so many things I want to talk about—why I loved this book as a reader and why I LOVED this book as a writer. How the author’s note at the beginning is SO TRUE, especially when you’re an author. How the story is SO REAL, brutally honest, while remaining respectful. It approaches the great questions we all have, Will I Be Remembered? Will I Leave A Mark? It’s humble. Humiliating.

When I say you have to read this book, I mean, YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON READING THIS BOOK. YOU MUST YOU MUST YOU MUST. I’ve learned so much from John Green, both for writing and life. The Fault in Our Stars kind of turns you sideways, forcing you to look at life from new angles. I kept a notebook next to me while I read so I could take notes.

It’s really that good.

Now, I will share some of my favorite quotes, though truthfully, I wish I could just quote the entire book RIGHT THIS SECOND VERBATIM. I plan on dog earring the pages.

“I was left on the shore with the waves washing over me, unable to drown.”

“I thought being an adult meant knowing what you believe, but that has not been my experience.”

“Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you.”

“My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into constellations.”

If there is one book you read this year, let it be this one.

John Green is a genius. Some kind of wizard, to be sure.

I love him.

THIS IS THAT BOOK.

All the best,

Kacey

WITHOUT ME- A POEM

There are things in life that words cannot heal.

broken smile

dusty veins

no man is an island

how to reach with

leaden hands

hollow arms

regret pulls in too close

can’t look away

sodden face

sightless eyes

without you, without me

too lost to stay

barren soul

hopeless breath

bring the heaviness high

no turning back

open head

empty heart

Regret (A poem)

I thought a lot

about regret

as the coffin lid lowered.

Things I hadn’t

done. More that I

had.

Life was a beautiful

mystery.

An understatement.

I didn’t get it then

still don’t.

Everyone wore black

because

isn’t that what people do?

I wore black too.

Conformist.

I longed for pink

or green

or yellow.

Yellow would be

nice.

The faces around me

were smudged

teardrops like rain.

Gray

and more gray

just like black.

Umbrellas everywhere.

I wondered

if they were really

alive.

It seemed fitting

the sun didn’t shine.

It was yellow

after all.

Too nice.

The satin felt cold or

maybe that was

me.

I thought a lot about

regret

as the coffin

lid

lowered.

A Short Story Excerpt

I haven’t posted much fiction lately, mostly because I’ve been in a writing stupor, blind to everything except the absolute horrors going on in my manuscript. Don’t be alarmed – these things are AMAZING.

A while back I was taking a writing class, but then work came between the two of us and we had to part ways. I started writing a short story for said class, it’s pretty good, if I may say so, but it’s also unfinished. So I’m going to post the couples pages, get some comments and some encouragement to finish. It doesn’t have a title yet…so yeah.

            Cord crushed the cigarette in his fist, watching as the flecks of tobacco spilled from his fingers. He’d promised himself he’d quit, hell, he’d promised a lot of things over the past few years. With a sigh, he fished the crumpled pack out of his pocket. The first drag brought everything into focus. Reaching once again into his pocket, he retrieved the business card and train ticket.

“Hey, you can’t smoke here,” a passing man said, face contorted with righteous disgust.

Cord looked up, catching the signs changing, informing him that his train was running on time. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but the man was already out of earshot. Cord dropped his cigarette anyway, smashed the embers with his boot and headed for the platform, hitching his backpack on his shoulder. The woman there stamped his ticket without looking at him. She didn’t ask for ID, probably didn’t care that the name on the little stub wasn’t his. He didn’t thank her, just snatched up the ticket and strode into the belly of the station, pulling his leather jacket tight around his shoulders. That was New York for you; nobody really gave a shit anyway.

The train ride was long and boring and Cord found himself dozing against the window as the train rumbled past cities and long stretches of what passed for countryside. The woman in the next seat roused him when they reached the last stop. He felt like shit when he couldn’t muster a smile of thanks. He supposed he’d spent too long in the city, watching his life slide by in a steel-colored lull.

Cord palmed the business card as he stepped into the snap of brisk autumn air. It was colder here without the long fingers of buildings to block the wind. Good, he thought, scanning the station, which was much smaller and dingier than the one in the city. He read the tiny words printed on the card for the millionth time.

Congratulations, you have been chosen to attend a weekend of secret festivities.

            Secret festivities, he scoffed. It was the quote that caught his attention.

“If you don’t get lost, there’s a chance you may never be found.”

            He’d found the card and train ticket on his brother’s dresser while stealing money for cigarettes. It was probably some self-help seminar that would leave him cross-eyed with boredom, but he figured, what the hell? Couldn’t be any worse than spending the weekend at home while Mom drank herself into a pathetic stupor. So he’d pocketed the card, ticket, and thirty dollars, and left his cellphone in their place.

Anger burned hot inside of him as though he’d swallowed the flame of the devil himself. He didn’t give a fuck about his family. They could rot in the tiny shithole apartment for all he cared. Besides, if the “secret festivities” sucked, he figured he’d just escape and spend the weekend lost in the unfamiliar town.

He hailed a cab out front and gave the driver the address from the back of the card. Thirty minutes later, they arrived in front of a lonely gated driveway that disappeared into a dark thick of woods. He paid the driver, skimping on the tip, and watched as the taxi pulled away.

Cord looked around, tamping down a frisson fear. He was from fucking New York City; a house in the woods was nothing. He crossed to the intercom next to the gate and depressed the button.

A tinny, disembodied voice answered. “Name?”

“Co—Aaron Adams.” He almost forgot to give his brother’s name.

The black gate swung inward, creaking. Without looking back, Cord slung his bag over his shoulder and went inside.

There it is! Now I’m off to manuscript land once again.

All the best,

Kacey

WHAT? DECEMBER ALREADY?

November has come and gone. There’s something about that month that’s always crazy busy for me. Sure, it contains my birthday. Hello, twenty-seven, you’re looking lovely. This age is ironic to me. A long, long time ago (which to people my age means about ten years,) I made a pact with a then-friend that if we reached 27 and weren’t married, we would marry each other. Well, as you can see, I hurried and got myself married at 20 so I avoided that disaster. Said friend went on to things I don’t particularly agree with (can we say porn?). Friendship dissolved anyway. Can’t imagine what would’ve happened if we’d kept that pact.

So yes, I had a birthday that involved a birthday bash that ended eventfully in a way I hope to never experience again. I expect you’re already plotting out the lecture in your head. No, no, I don’t need a lecture. I wasn’t the eventful one. That award goes to a drunken friend.

November was Nano. I didn’t participate, couldn’t bring myself to devote the time and energy needed to get to 50,000. Knew I couldn’t. I clocked in at just fewer than 25,000 words, which is a respectable number for me to write in a month. I’m more than satisfied. The first draft of Shade of the Poison Tree should be finished within the next month or two. I’m at 54,000 dark and delicious words. Where Through the Reflection Pond was light, Shade of the Poison Tree is dark. I’m having a lot of fun creating giant messes and killing characters. Taking chances, exploring things that used to be off-limits.

I saw Breaking Dawn Part 2. Judge me. Go ahead. I liked it. I was a little sad that it’s over. But there are bigger and better things around the corner!! City of Bones, for one. Did you all see the trailer? No? Here it is! I’m unbelievably excited for this movie. It’s like crack.

City of Bones Trailer

There’s a celebration in order for my friend, Stephanie Diaz, who not only got agented this year, but sold a three book deal to St. Martin’s. Congrats, Steph, you deserve it! Read all about her deal HERE.

I’m elbows deep in winterguard. That explains where all my time has gone. I have 23 awesome kids on my high school team this year. We’re all working really hard and some of us are losing sleep (read: me) over it. Things are running smoothly, for now. The show is coming along, we have uniforms and flags and rifles, and a mix of attitudes that sometimes gets in the way. But I’ve put on my big girl panties that say COACH across the back and handled it all. It’s epic season or bust around here.

Reflection Pond is still out to betas. Not too worried, got enough on my plate writing Poison Tree. Once that’s done I’ll probably start nagging them to send it back. I’m starting to get behind on my timeline, but that’s okay. Shit happens.

Sadly, because of work, I can’t go to writing group anymore. Seriously breaks my heart. Those people helped my writing SO MUCH and now I CAN’T GO!! Ahh…it kills me. Oh to be a fulltime writer and not conform to the constraints of society (hello, tattoos). One day, one day.

Last on the list of news is vacation. Yes, you read correctly, I’m actually going on vacation. I have no idea what that word even means! Drum roll please…Las Vegas!! One month from today and the time can’t go fast enough. I’m already ready for Christmas to be over! I’m counting on some relaxation, writing, and visiting the Hoover Dam (Oh, so scared of this.). At least it’s not a cruise ship.

Well friends, that’s all the updates I have.

All the best,

Kacey

10 REASONS YOU NEED BETA READERS

Wow. Feels like it’s been forever since I last blogged. You’re not mistaken, it has been. I haven’t been wasting the days, however. I finished the initial edits on Through the Reflection Pond and sent it out to betas, hence, this blog post. I have some friends who don’t believe in betas. I’m not entirely sure if that’s because they’re AFRAID to have someone critique their work, if they’re too PROUD, or they just don’t understand the absolute beauty of a beta. That’s right, my wonderful betas, you are beautiful to me.

Here’s the list, in no particular order.

10. Repetition – We all do it. There are words and phrases that are our “go to” items. YOU know what yours are, just as I know mine. For Through the Reflection Pond, I used “heaving” (Seriously? Heaving. What an awful word.) and “yank” in every other sentence. I went back and edited those annoying little buggers out, but what about the words and phrases I missed because the writing seemed otherwise smooth? Enter, the beta.

9. Repetition, revisited – see what I did there? We like to say things twice, mostly because we write like we talk, ESPECIALLY if you’re writing in first person. Especially, then. I don’t catch every one of these because it sounds like a flowing conversation in my head. Thank you, thank you betas, for catching my rambling.

8. World building – Inside our heads we know exactly what everything and everyone looks like. Our readers don’t. So when we say he had green hair, we know that we really meant, his curling locks fell to his waist in a tumbling cascade if shimmering emerald. The reader, who only read, his hair is green, quite possibly believes that he has a Marge Simpson fro the color of strained peas. Betas read, betas get lost, betas comment on the confusion, problem solved.

7. He said, she said – If you’re like me (now) you try to cut out as many dialogue tags as possible. They’re nothing words used only to direct the reader. Sometimes in our merciless hacking, we remove too many tags and end up with pages and pages of back and forth dialogue that leaves the reader reeling. Dialogue should flow smoothly, the tags lending direction when scenes grow long. Betas can help identify not only too many, but also too few tags.

6. What do you mean I have no plot? – It’s happened to all of us. We’re reading along happily and all of a sudden, bam! We’ve stumbled right into a gaping plot hole and broken 37 bones. Wait, what? And this is an edited and published work? WHOA. How did the author, editor, and publisher miss this? Answer: We’re not perfect. We make mistakes. The more eyes you have on a manuscript, the more likely it is that plot holes will be found.

5. New ideas – Each of us is unique and views the world based on the experiences we’ve had. The reaction we have to words affects us differently, and so, we will have different ideas, questions, and input. So when we read a dramatic scene, our questions as to where the story is headed will be different. Often times betas will ask me questions that I hadn’t even considered, which leads to new scenes and chapters.

4. Fact checking – In light of the election tomorrow, let’s talk about the facts. We are not all-knowing. I know Google is great, but sometimes we get it wrong. Having a variety of betas helps us identify factual errors. A young person may be able to fix teenage dialogue, and older person may pick up on an era faux pas. Like I said before, we’re not perfect. Maybe you’re terrible at history and think WWI happened in 2001. Maybe you don’t know when the iPod was created. Little facts like that can make you look hugely idiotic if you get them wrong. Let me emphasize HUGELY.

3. Because you aren’t alone – Writing is a very solitary job. We sit at our computers and bang out novels, visit worlds richer than our own, filled with interesting people and concepts, yet most of us are socially inept. Recluses. But I want you to ask yourself, WHY do you write? Is it because you want people to read it? Because you want to share? Because you can’t stand the thought of your stories going unheeded inside of you? Then, may I also ask, why the heck can’t you share it with a beta?

2. YOU ARE NOT PERFECT!!!!! – I decided this needed its own number, because it’s so important for writers, especially those that are new, to realize. Writers often have huge egos. We write, and it feels great. We read it, it sounds amazing. But what sounds awesome to us may be awful to someone else. Maybe you’re a rambler, and you go on and on about stuff no one cares about. Maybe you use stilted dialogue that makes no sense. Maybe you have no clue how to world build. If you decide to indie publish, let me encourage you to find a beta reader and an editor. Your work needs it and your readers will thank you. After all, you’re not perfect. I’m not perfect. Authors who have dozens of books published are not perfect. FAMOUS AUTHORS USE BETAS. You are not famous. You are not published. You are not perfect. Get help. PLEASE. Indie is the new black, but because the writing is usually unedited and unbetaed, it’s HORRENDOUS to read. I can’t stress this enough. Please. Please. Please. There are great stories out there buried in junky words.

1. It will make you a better writer – Writing is dynamic. The more we do it, the better we get. Now think seriously about this, in order to learn and become better, we need someone to tell us what we are doing wrong. (Please refer back the #2 if you’ve already forgotten.) Betas are not all-knowing, but if you find good ones, they want to help you become a better writer. That’s what I want when I beta. It’s not about tearing someone apart, it’s about helping, enriching, encouraging. We never stop learning and if you don’t see a huge improvement in your writing every time you finish a work, you’re doing something wrong.

Now for the disclaimer – Betas do not know everything, and the best part is, you’re still the author. You still own the work. You can take or leave their advice, it’s completely up to  you. Some people are afraid they’ll lose their “voice” in all the beta suggestions. But why would that ever happen? Here’s an example.

The original work: Mark hated bees.

The beta suggestion: Bees were the bane of Mark’s existence. He’d never gotten over the awful allergic reaction he’d had.

Your change: Ever since the terrible allergic reaction, Mark hated bees.

You don’t have to accept everything. You can take a suggestion you like and work it into your own, but I can guarantee the right beta will make your manuscript shine.

All the best,

Kacey

I LOVE CASSANDRA CLARE

I’m sure most of you have realized this before, as I talk about her ALL THE TIME. First, I loved her for her writing, then I loved her because of how she interacts with her fans, and then it was because she tweeted my blog, and then because of how she’s just so down to earth…and now it’s because she’s just plain awesome. For those of you that don’t follow her blog and updates, she’s been the victim of hate bloggers, but that’s not really why I’m blogging. In her response to the hate bloggers which I encourage all of you to read HERE, she says something about writing and writers that I think needs to be repeated and splashed all over for us to see. She’s one smart lady, after all. I think as writers we tend to be very critical of ourselves and our work. That’s fine. We all do it. But what resonates with me is when someone with as much success as Cassie posts about insecurity in her own work. See? Famous authors are just like us. They were right here, struggling to make it in a big, scary world full of amazing authors. Truthfully, and don’t make fun of me, I teared up a little reading this because it gave me SO MUCH HOPE. I’m not really someone who gives up, but we all struggle through the ups and downs as writers. One week I’m on a roll and the next I feel like I couldn’t write something decent if someone handed me a million dollars. Anyways, I’m just going on and not really saying anything important. So here’s the snippet that I loved from Cassie’s blog:

“There is no book out there that someone doesn’t think is bad. I try to write good books, to make them the best they can be, but (like almost all other writers I know) I am sure I suck a lot of the time.You write books, you put them out in the world, and the world forms opinions about them. We all have to remind ourselves that we are works in progress, our writing isn’t perfect, and there is something to be learned even from the harshest criticism. I don’t mind being called racist/sexist, either: I am sure that I am, in the sense that we are all products of our conditioning, and we are conditioned by a racist/sexist society that works on us from the day we’re born. I try to be aware, and fight that conditioning, to remember my privilege, to tell fair and truthful stories but that doesn’t mean I’m not a work in progress myself, that I’m not going to screw up.”

I just love her.

That is all.

Kacey

THE ALLURE OF NONEXISTENCE

I want to get out, run away, go away, escape.

I don’t.

I go home, cook dinner, watch children’s shows, and fake smiles. The ache is there, today it’s my chest, my gut. It’s everywhere and nowhere and I wish I could just hide. If only I was smaller and paper thin. I would fold myself into little squares, tinier and tinier so that my surface space was so inconsequential that you could walk right past me and never know I was there. I could hide between the couch cushions or underneath the refrigerator. I could be a speck of lint you pick off your sweater and toss into the trash.

Forgotten.

All that would hurt less than this.

Exploding would hurt less.

WEDNESDAY’S WORDS

Truth be told, these are Tuesday’s words, but I adore applying alliteration abundantly.

This is from a 10 minute timed writing and is a little insight into the short story I’m working on, which I was just recently informed I will have to read in front of an audience. What?! Wish I’d known that before I started. Reading in front of my writing group is one thing, but reading my stuff in front of strangers? Eeehh…I don’t know about all that. I suppose it’s good for me, and I’m not one to turn down a challenge easily.

I like this piece, mostly because I’m trying to figure out WHY the owner of the house is the way he is. Is he just strange? Is he creepy? Is he sinister? Is he just doing the wrong thing for the right reasons?

I just don’t know yet. But, writing stories would be boring if we always knew the outcome.

The night closed in around him as he switched off the lights. Silent, the air still and full of must, he stood in the great room, listening. And if he listened with his entire being he could hear them – a tinkle of laughter, a sharp gasp of pain, a cry as welcome as a summer day.

The house hunkered around him, patient, waiting. Pine from the banisters, the roses on the table, soon they would mix with the tang of alcohol and the sweetness of sighed breath.

This was the moment he liked best, with anticipation thrumming through his veins like a thunderstorm. They would come, like sheep to the slaughter, wide-eyed, with fears and dreams as equally dark. They were his to shape like clay molded by careful fingers.

The man sat on the marble floor and as the cold seeped into his skin, he remembered the first time, when recognition had flickered on their faces.

He always remembered the first time.

He lay back, letting the sounds of the old house settle around him. The creaks were his friends, his family, a lover. For once they came, they never truly left. There were pieces of each person scattered through the rooms like trophies of a time long forgotten. He wrapped his arms around his chest and pulled each one in, a blanket that would carry him to the possibility of morning.

That’s it! Hope you enjoyed. So tell me – were you creeped out? Curious? I just wish this dude would tell me what he’s all about.

All the best,

Kacey

Aww – you made it to the bottom of the page! You deserve a treat. Here’s a poem I wrote:

Hope is yellow

and citrus flavored

like the slant of sunshine

on a sloping roof.

It’s sweet

with a sharp surprise

of tart and sting.

It burns,

bitter flame

with a desire

to consume.

Hope is yellow

and citrus flavored.

MONDAY MORNING FICTION

It’s Monday, which means it’s a great opportunity to post a bit of fiction. Yesterday I almost posted another humdrum entry about how I’m stuck and frustrated. This happens about once a week, it’s not news. We’re writers, we have roadblocks, we overcome them (usually).

Recently I’ve come to the realization that writing is an extremely organic process. It can’t be forced. So I’ve been taking a lot more time to write in spurts, short exercises that have no direction or purpose other than to practice. I’ll be posting these on here in hopes of helping others and sharing. Sometimes I read other people’s short tidbits of fiction and find inspiration, so maybe I can share that with my readers. Or maybe it’ll just be a mess that doesn’t mean a thing. Such is the way of writing. Take it or leave it.

It’s impossibe- sitting here like this and knowing that I’m useless, shoved to the side, hopeless. You give everything, everyday, every ounce of yourself, all for nothing. There was a time, once or twice, perhaps long ago now, where I thought I meant something. That I was bigger than myself, someone with promise and a future, life laying before me like a colorful forest just waiting to be traversed. Yes, I used to have something called faith and dreams, as bloated as sponges. I would sit and daydream, forge a future of promise as those that are young and uninformed do. They allow themselves to hope, to aspire, to strive for the things they think they can do. For if you believe it, then it must be true.

Lies are the heart of life. It starts young, the untruths, they are small, harmless, mere rocks that impede us. As we age they become boulders and then mountains. And when an entire continent blocks our path we begin to question everything we’ve been taught. Because there is no open road, no path that will lead  us through this hell. There is only loss and grief and hopelessness and fear. Fear that we will never achieve greatness, never see our names splashed like colorful paint on black canvas. For we are the rocks, the boulders, the mountain. We are the very thing that sabotages our own existance. And we flail and flail and flail with no direction or purpose. We are blind. We are lost.

We are nothing.

There it is, a look into my head this morning. Additionally, here’s a photo of my manuscript I’m editing. It’s a glorious mess. I love it.

 

All the best!

Kacey