Sasya Fox's Blog, page 5

Flotsam

A serial. Click here for the first entry

2156.09.19 // 03:10:31

[Anonymous entry]

[Transcription entry]

[[ Warning: Terminal requires maintenance ]]

Out for a while, but awake again. Weaker than before.

Breathing hurts. Transcribing hurts. Can’t move, too dizzy to see.

I’ll miss it.

2156.09.19 // 03:10:31[Anonymous entry][Transcriptio...

 

2156.09.19 // 03:10:31

[Anonymous entry]

[Transcription entry]

[[ Warning: Terminal requires maintenance ]]

Out for a while, but awake again. Weaker than before.

Breathing hurts. Transcribing hurts. Can’t move, too dizzy to see.

I’ll miss it.

Flotsam

A serial. Use the links above for navigation.

2156.09.19 // 02:21:02

[Anonymous entry]

[Transcription entry]

[[ Warning: Terminal requires maintenance ]]

I haven’t been able to hold down solid food for more than ten days, and I was starving before that.

I’m going to die soon.

It’s the dizziness that gets me, though. The vomiting’s left me sore but kinda numb, but the dizziness… sometimes I just scream into my pillow and try to make it stop, but it never does.

I used to scream in fear, but that’s mostly passed. I’ve come to the conclusion that life wasn’t meant for me…so to feel it slipping away doesn’t seem to hurt like it should anymore.

Now and again I pass out from exhaustion, but I don’t get restful sleep. In my delirious dreams I’m spinning and drowning, and I wake up after a few minutes to invariably vomit up what little water I’ve been able to sip.

Well, anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to read any of that. I’m transcribing this as a memoir, after all.

Ha. A memoir that nobody will read, written by someone with nothing to write about. It’s perfect.

Nothing else to do with my time but sit here and die—at least transcribing helps me pretend to ignore the vertigo and pretend someone will read this someday and care.

I grew up here. Not here, the city, but right here in my flat. Twenty two years I’ve managed to eke out some existence here among the rubble, and it looks like my life will have been as pointless and messy as my death is sure to be.

I’m the son of a coyote named Maraiki and some dumb vixen he knocked up. She snuck out shortly after I was born. I got his height, and her everything-else.

Meh.

My dad … I think he was a good sort, just trying to scrounge enough for two. He kept me alive, anyway, and I always got the better of what he found.

Pretty sure he died to a crazy or a robber. Maybe factory security, though I guess probably not. He just never came home one day in my sixth or seventh year, and that was that. I never scrounged with him, so I had to learn how on my own. Pretty simple, though, when you’re hungry.

Just had a bad dizzy spell. I’m really tired now. This could be it.

2156.09.19 // 02:21:02[Anonymous entry][Transcriptio...

 

2156.09.19 // 02:21:02

[Anonymous entry]

[Transcription entry]

[[ Warning: Terminal requires maintenance ]]

I haven’t been able to hold down solid food for more than ten days, and I was starving before that.

I’m going to die soon.

It’s the dizziness that gets me, though. The vomiting’s left me sore but kinda numb, but the dizziness… sometimes I just scream into my pillow and try to make it stop, but it never does.

I used to scream in fear, but that’s mostly passed. I’ve come to the conclusion that life wasn’t meant for me…so to feel it slipping away doesn’t seem to hurt like it should anymore.

Now and again I pass out from exhaustion, but I don’t get restful sleep. In my delirious dreams I’m spinning and drowning, and I wake up after a few minutes to invariably vomit up what little water I’ve been able to sip.

Well, anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to read any of that. I’m transcribing this as a memoir, after all.

Ha. A memoir that nobody will read, written by someone with nothing to write about. It’s perfect.

Nothing else to do with my time but sit here and die—at least transcribing helps me pretend to ignore the vertigo and pretend someone will read this someday and care.

I grew up here. Not here, the city, but right here in my flat. Twenty two years I’ve managed to eke out some existence here among the rubble, and it looks like my life will have been as pointless and messy as my death is sure to be.

I’m the son of a coyote named Maraiki and some dumb vixen he knocked up. She snuck out shortly after I was born. I got his height, and her everything-else.

Meh.

My dad … I think he was a good sort, just trying to scrounge enough for two. He kept me alive, anyway, and I always got the better of what he found.

Pretty sure he died to a crazy or a robber. Maybe factory security, though I guess probably not. He just never came home one day in my sixth or seventh year, and that was that. I never scrounged with him, so I had to learn how on my own. Pretty simple, though, when you’re hungry.

Just had a bad dizzy spell. I’m really tired now. This could be it.

Winter

The snow is falling just above my head these days, but melting before it reaches me. There’s a storm forecast to blow in over the next day or so, and that should make things interesting

Well, with the summer having wound down and fall draining away, I finally have time to breathe, and move into a smaller, cheaper place, and to take care of some of my little business functions that I’ve neglected for far too long.

And, thankfully, to write.

The sequel to Theta (Working title: Ephemeris) is coming along well, though it’s taken some twists and turns that surprised even me.  My original estimate has been Spring 2015 for a release, and I’m still hoping to hit that mark, but I think Summer 2015 might be a more realistic forecast.

Now, however, I’m starting to settle into the process of gathering reviews of Theta and doing a bit of advertising and marketing in advance of the release.  In that vein, I created a ‘landing page’ for advertising:

My landing page for Theta

… and a banner ad to lead people there:

I’d love to hear your opinions.

~Fox

 

On writing~

I am genuinely amazed when I read what people write about writing. The most amusingly ponderous rules that must be followed or else, the litany of “errors” and “mistakes” that fall like the shredded manuscripts of olde upon the fires of despair, and always, without fail, the invariable “In my book, Ostentatious Title, …” plug, all cast with abandon to the masses, who bobble their heads in agreement.

Write a thousand words a day!
Generally never use any adverbs!
For God’s sake, never, ever write a prologue!
Passive voice should be avoided!
Never have a character look into a mirror!

The list goes on ad nauseam, and the heads bobble sans surcease. Invariably all the participants of the discussion talk about the things they want to write, and how they know far better than to indulge in any of the horrendous mistakes being discussed (And sometimes venture into discussion about how authors of the classics were fairly terrible, and never followed the rules…).

Reading their comments, I’m struck by a simple fact: These people don’t read to enjoy, and it’s possible they never did once they began to dissect their own work and that of others. Likewise, they write with a scientific precision and planning, and each element is sculpted to fill its exact niche to grant the perfect proportion of every critical rule. There are millions of adequate authors writing (and often never finishing) adequately boring, derivative stories that they desperately hope will bring them fame and fortune.

They don’t lay awake at night and dream of telling stories.

Following the rules won’t save bad storytelling. I would rather read an inventive, interesting, poorly-crafted story than any number of technically precise, adverb-free, spare, unfinished pieces of (in my mind) trash.

Errors of writing occur on many levels, and the writing-club types only focus on the facets most able to be reduced to simple rules…but every layer is important!

Story.

If you don’t have a good story, don’t waste my time. Don’t ask about rules, because there are no templates for a good story. It either moves you—and will move me, the reader—or it doesn’t. If it moves you and doesn’t move me, then perhaps the failure is on the next layer…

Telling.

The way you go about telling a story is critical. Pace, flow, characterizations, consistency, narrative voice, rhythm, setting … this is where the true art of writing comes in, in my opinion… and it is where almost all authors fail. It’s not enough to just avoid common tropes (Many of which needn’t be avoided if their use is not simply a product of laziness that compromises the story!) and have a solid plot. This is the magic—the layer where you ensorcel the reader with your story, and make them believe.

Mechanics.

The flow and structure of sentences, dialog, and sequence flow dictates the way the reader perceives the scene. What works for some readers won’t work for others, and there are no absolutes here. This, along with ‘Telling’, is the biggest element in the ‘fingerprint’ of a writer, and the area where one has the most artistic freedom of method.

Vocabulary.

Only now do we get into the sections that people spend most of their time talking about! Vocabulary, while necessarily subordinate to mechanics, is critical to ensure the rhythmic flow remains strong. It takes a tremendous creative mind to craft an effective ballad with only eighth notes, and even then it wears on the listener after a time. Replacing adverbs, limiting adjective use, etc. all falls into this section… but really, how you write isn’t nearly as important as what you write, and if you sell the story to the reader, only the critics will care that Josephine muttered something darkly. Having an adequate vocabulary mostly aids in keeping the reader immersed in your story, as does proper…

Grammar.

Obviously grammar is important. If we think of a written work as a tapestry, grammar would be the thread. All but the most brilliant work will fall flat if the reader can’t read through the errors. Proper grammar is critical to maintaining immersion, because while we can read past a surprising number of errors, misspellings, improper homophones, grocers’ apostrophes, and use of words that don’t actually mean quite what the author intended*, the cumulative effect is that the reader is reading at a lower depth of immersion … and immersion is critical!

Now that I’ve made a short story long, here’s my summation: As fiction authors, we’re not journalists trying to maintain style. We’re not in academia. We’re not writing a section of a technical manual and working toward uniformity. We’re trying to lure people in, steal their consciousness away and drown them in our dream until they’re reborn to live in our world, alongside our characters.

Not everyone will be able do that…but almost everyone has the capacity. To build the skills, however, one must read. Hotly devour! Not to study and analyze, but read and enjoy. And then, when they have a story to tell, one that consumes them, one that they want to bring others into…they must write what they’d want to read, take risks, weigh the opinions of others and then ultimately follow their heart.

The “rules” of writing don’t exist to be broken—they exist to be ignored.

~Fox

* Sidebar: If you’re going to use a $10 word where a $5 word will do, AT LEAST USE IT CORRECTLY.

Streams

False outer point, North Douglas~

 

Well, here I am.

I am in Juneau, and I have no trips back planned at this point. I have furniture on order and en-route, with which I can complete my room’s setup. I’ve been nosing around my new job and hanging out a bit with my awesome new boss, and I’ve had the chance to ride around to all the normal destinations we fly to.

In short, I’m at the beginning of something new and incredible, and I’m very excited to see where it goes.

And for the first time in a long time, I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.

With any luck, much writing, as well.

~Fox

Moving day!

It’s moving day! I feel like Mrs. Brisby…

I have all my stuff packed—I hope—and ready to load into the truck. I’m going to depart after the evening rush, or perhaps take a nap and depart around midnight.

Alaska Marine Highway System ferry “Matanuska”, here I come. ^.^

In other news, “Theta” is now available on the iTunes bookstore! Please feel free to drop by and rate or review if you feel it appropriate.

It’s also available on Google Play and Google Books, though I’m still trying to work out the kinks over there.

So long, for now.

~Fox

Rambles

My friends,

I’m currently up to my neck in last-minute loose ends and paperwork as I prepare my ship of self for a northwesterly voyage to the northlands of southeast Alaska; though my sailing date is Tuesday or Wednesday, my plans are fluid and I am, as yet, still taking on cargo.

And yet tonight, after hockey games and flying and general lounging about, my mind is bent on writing. Stories haunt me, you see, lurking silent shapeless shadows behind the eyes with beauty and depth akin to “caverns measureless to man”, challenging me to reach in and find the loose ends. Each thread in the lives of characters and stories and worlds sits alone, unconnected to its destiny but ever awaiting enweavement.

I am ever reminded of my lost love and the cut threads of stories that none shall ever know, those which formed the tapestry of a life cut short and, with nothing left to bind them, fell into chaos as their momentum was lost. Time weighs but lightly on the well of emotion that ripples below the surface of my thoughts, ebbing and flowing with its tidal calm, lipping and lapping at the feet of my characters and inspiring me to keep the looms of mind at full stretch.

And yet the stories I write are nothing, and the characters nothing, and the worlds nothing, and they could sing and dance and laugh and die beneath a cruel and open, loving sky, and give their lives to save each other and nothing would matter, and galaxies and universes could be born and die without the slightest care… if not for the readers.

Readers and their canvas-sailed imaginations, painted with the lives and thoughts of people and places who would never exist without them. Readers gliding through the waters of my emotions, rejoicing with my characters and crying for my loss. All media are one in the mind, and even as we sail our lonely voyages on unrelenting and unforgiving seas we can rest contented that somewhere, someone is reading our story, seeing through our eyes and hoping we make it through.

Every hero dies alone; make your story worth reading and the threads of your life will remain in a tapestry larger than your own. Make your story worth reading, and you’ll never be truly forgotten.

And don’t forget to read.

~Fox