Kill Me, My Darlings

Today is Guest Post Day, and who better to have come over and guest than Bruce Blake, a most entertaining gentleman who has graced these pages before.  So sit back and listen closely while he gives us a little bit of his writing knowledge.

Take it away, Bruce.

 

 

On Murder and Deletions

 

Kill your darlings.

That darling little piece of writing advice is attributed to William Faulkner, author of Absalom, Absalom!, As I Lay Dying, The Sound and the Fury, and many others. It may be derivative from some other writer’s advice, and it has certainly been adopted by Stephen King, who tends to beat it to death (though why hands that out as advice in the midst of writing 1000+ page novels is a mystery). What it refers to, for those who may be uninitiated into our little band of serial killers, is not letting your own love of your writing stop you from cutting a word, sentence, scene, chapter, etc, which is not necessary to your novel.

Our assignment this week for the blog tour is to share with you a deletion. When I first began thinking about this, I was concerned. It is not often I delete whole chunks of a manuscript. Words, sentences, sometimes paragraphs, to be sure, but rarely more than that. How was I going to find a few sentences here and there to cobble together for my post? And then I remembered my current work in progress.

You forgot your work in progress, Bruce? Well, no, not exactly. The first book that makes up my four part epic fantasy, Khirro’s Journey, was the first novel I wrote and I finished the first draft about six years ago (don’t hold it against me; I’ve written and published two novels in the meantime and the first two books of the Journey have made it to draft number 11).

After I finished the first book, Blood of the King, I did a couple of edits, then passed it off to my beta readers. They wanted me to change the beginning. “The beginning?” I cried. “But that sets the stage. It introduces the characters! How can I cut the beginning?” The debate raged and, after much arguing, pouting and probably a few tears, I ended up chopping off the first thirty pages of the book.

You heard me…thirty pages.

I’m not going to reprint them all here, but I will give you a taste, and then I’ll let you in on why I ended up making the cut. Please bear in mind, these words never made it to the final edit, and I didn’t try to spruce them up for this post, so forgive any errors in spelling, grammar or good taste.

Without further ado, the never-to-be-seen-anywhere-but-here former opening of Blood of the King.

 

Men boiled over the land bridge, swarming onto the salt flats like so many maggots spilling from a burst corpse.  Wavering sheets of heat radiated from the sun hardened land, twisting and distorting the army into unearthly shapes.

“The heat is in our favor,” Braymon said leaning against a merlon.  Even the gentle sea breeze playing across his face gave no respite from the summer’s swelter.  “But the parched flats will make for an easy march.”

Neither of the men standing behind him said anything, allowing their king to ruminate aloud on the invaders who had been seeping into his kingdom for the better part of six hours.  If he wanted their input, he would ask for it.

“I played on these plains as a child,” Braymon said wistfully.  “I learned to swim in the Bay of Tears.  Back then, the fortress was a place to be explored, soldier was a game to be played.  How things have changed.” Sunlight flashed on shields and armor, melding the distant army into a blurred, shimmering mass.  “How many do you think, Rudric?”

“Thousands, my liege,” Rudric replied from his place at the king’s left. Braymon didn’t look at him as he spoke, instead keeping his eyes on the horde encroaching on his kingdom.

“Always trying to lift my spirits Rudric.  Thank you,” the king said with an unenthusiastic chuckle.  “But I should think they are more tens of thousands.  What do you think, Therrador?”

“At least, my king.  They are many, but the fortress is strong.”

Braymon looked to the sun in the east climbing higher into the sky.  Below, the Sea of Linghala sparkled, waves rolling gently shoreward, indifferently chasing the enemy onto the plains.  Would he ever dip a toe into its bracing waters again?  Only time would tell. He turned and put a hand on Rudric’s shoulder, bare flesh slapping against metal armor; it was hot to the touch.

“A day—maybe two, but no longer—and they will fall upon us; I’d wager it. Have the men ready by nightfall.  Our enemy doesn’t conceal their intent, so we best give them the courtesy of a fight they won’t soon forget.  There’s bloody work ahead of us.  Go and make ready, Rudric.”

The knight bowed shallowly at the waist before taking his leave. Braymon turned back to the plains stretching out from the foot of the Isthmus Fortress’s massive wall.  Therrador stepped up beside him.

Atop the wall, they were more than a hundred feet above the plains and, on a clear day like today, could see for leagues upon leagues.  Built nearly a thousand years before, the fortress wall was some forty feet thick, its surface scarred by battles fought centuries ago. Braymon traced his finger along the jagged corner of the merlon where a piece had been knocked free by an enemy catapult the Gods alone knew how long ago.

“It’s been many seasons since this wall was last called upon to keep out the enemy,” the king said.  He pushed at a crack in the stone and a piece came away in his hand.  He turned it over in his fingers, examining it as though he were trying to learn its story.  “I had hoped many more would come and go before it was tested again.”

“As we all did, my king.  But the wall will hold; it need not prove its mettle often to repel those dogs.”

Braymon looked at the man—his friend of more than two decades.  All those years had changed his looks only little—a few strands of gray showed in the braid of his beard and his short black hair, his naturally dark complexion was showing more wear.  Still, his features gave way little of the ferocity with which Braymon had seen Therrador fight.  But for the scar over is right eye, one might mistakenly think he had held the role of statesman and adviser all his life, rather having grown into it alongside Braymon’s rule.  Many times had the king felt relieved and thankful Therrador was on his side.

“It’s not the strength of the wall which burdens my thoughts, Therrador,” Braymon said.  He tossed the piece of stone absently over the crenellations, sending it hurtling to the ground too far below for them to hear it land.  “It’s been nearly twenty summers since Erechania has seen anything more than skirmishes.  The warriors who fought beside us all those years ago are old and tired, or long since gone to the fields of the dead.  Too many of our soldiers have never loosed an arrow but at a target nor swung their swords for more than practice.”

Therrador nodded, meeting Braymon’s gaze.  “You’re right, your majesty, but they are well trained.  And the soldiers of Erechania couldn’t ask for a better leader.”

“Hmph.” Braymon returned to surveying the enemy as they continued to funnel from the land bridge, filling the distant flats like sand in an hourglass.

How appropriate, he thought.  For soon time will run out.

Waves on the Bay of Tears rolled on, mindless of human indulgences like war and greed, or of man himself.  No matter what came to pass, the sea would go on forever; blood would wash away, the dead would rot and decay and disappear, but the waves would roll ever on.  So many years had passed since Braymon had frolicked on those waves, equally as heedless to the follies of men.  So much death had happened since then, and there was still more to come.  Soon the plains would be stained red, waiting for the sea and the rains to wash them clean.  And the waves would continue.

 

 In the 28 pages that follow, we meet the main character, Khirro, and see him interact with others as the fortress is prepared for siege. He’s a farmer who makes an inept soldier (sorry for the cliche, but the truth is, in a medieval-style society, most of the citizens were farmers by necessity) who eventually finds himself fighting off invaders at the king’s side. At the end of the 30 pages, Khirro has been incapacitated and King Braymon is seemingly killed.

There is much I liked in these pages: the negative imagery of the men invading like maggots from a corpse; the powerful king’s wistful remembrances; and later, Khirro’s relationship with some of his fellow soldiers. So why cut it? Three reason:

  1. King Braymon dies on page 30 and does not appear anywhere in the book again, so why spend a bunch of time building his character? That can be done through other characters.
  2. Too much time spent on description, not enough action. If you’ve read  my other books, you know I like to keep description to a minimum. In my opinion, the reader should create the world with only a little direction from me.
  3. The characters Khirro interacts with never show up again in the book, so they also became wasted words. Other characters and situations later in the story are more than enough to reveal and build Khirro’s character.

So where does the book start? With Braymon’s death and Khirro almost immediately being dragged into a magical plot to save the kingdom. Instead of 30 pages of character building, the story begins in media res. And I think it has made a stronger book. Watch for book 1 of Khirro’s Journey to be released in September.

One of Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Good Writing is “try not to write the parts that people tend not to read”. Have you ever read a book and wondered why a scene was there? Do you skip parts of books? Did you skip to the bottom of this blog post?

I hope not.

 

Biography

Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don’t take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.

Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn’t really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the “u” out of words like “colour” and “neighbour” then he does shovelling. The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of burlesque diva Miss Rosie Bitts.

Bruce has been writing since grade school but it wasn’t until five years ago he set his sights on becoming a full-time writer. Since then, his first short story, “Another Man’s Shoes” was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon, another short, “Yardwork”, was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod and his first Icarus Fell novel, “On Unfaithful Wings”, was published to Kindle in Dec., 2011. The second Icarus Fell novel, “All Who Wander Are Lost”, was released in July, 2012, and the first book in the four-part “Khirro’s Journey” epic fantasy is due in September, 2012. He has plans for at least three more Icarus novels, several stand alones, and a possible YA fantasy co-written with his eleven-year-old daughter.

 

On Unfaithful Wings

I was alive, then I was dead, now I’m stuck somewhere in between.

My name is Icarus Fell. I am a harvester.

The archangel Michael brought me back to collect souls and help them on their way to Heaven–that’s what a harvester does. If I get enough of them before the bad guys do–if I do a good job–I can have my life back. Now people I knew in life are dying, killed by a murderer’s knife, their bodies defiled, and the cops think I’m the killer.

I’m not, but I think I know who is.

But how does a dead man, a man who no longer exists, stop a psycho? I’m not sure, but I’m going to stop him before everyone I know is dead.

I have to stop him before he gets to my son.

 

 

On Unfaithful Wings

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The Torture Muse

Last year, this was a time of wonder for me.

I’d finished the story that would become Kuntilanak (still for sale, still good, still a good slice of horror from across the seas), and was in the process of doing the first edit on it before giving it to the public via the self-publishing route–and learning a hell of a lot of things about self publishing alone the way.  I was working on another story that would eventually become Captivate And Control (also for sale, if you like a neat little slice of adults having a bit of a go with each other, say what?), and would finish that up in the months of September and October.

I was spending time reading, role playing online with sweet Annie, talking about ideas we had about gaming and our characters, and where they were headed.

To paraphrase a line from Goodfellas, it was a glorious time to be an up and coming writer who has the world ahead of them.

A year later, I’m a lot wiser, a little better with my writing, and a whole bunch of more tired.

I am getting more sleep these days, and I’m dealing with my personal issues a great deal better.  The panic I felt the last few months has pretty much gone away, and I’m discovering a better balance throughout each day.  Still not happy with the job, and I do wish The Undisclosed Location would just up and piss away for good.  That’s not happening yet, and it may not happen any time in the near future, so right now it’s deal, deal, deal.

As for the writing . . .

It seems as if the moment I finish one story, and decide to step back so I could recharge my mind, spirit, and need to do something creative, I get hit with ideas.  I have an idea for my NaNoWriMo 2012 novel.  I have ideas for a new novel based on a character design I did for a writing class two years ago.  I have an idea for a Halloween story a friend suggested I write. And I’m getting hit with images of an old story I started some twenty years ago, a trilogy about a ship, a mission, and a group of people who have to made a very hard decision about their duty . . .

I won’t lie:  I struggled writing Diners at the Memory’s End.  It was hard.  It was hard trying to write while feeling as if you were going to fall asleep at any moment.  It was hard writing with tension and anxiety from the moment I got up to the moment I finally crawled off to bed.  It was hard writing when the words were in my mind, but my fingers just wouldn’t work the way I needed.

The story took a long time to write because I couldn’t write.  It was shear will that allowed me to finish the story.

Now that it’s out of the way, is my Muse now saying, “You’ve cleared out all the crap while doing that last sucker, but lookie here, dude, I got somethin’ sweet for ya . . .”  It’s strange that I was so totally blocked up with a story that I wanted to do, and now that it’s out of the way–everything is dumping on me creatively-wise.

I swear, my Muse is one jacked up creature.  She whispers that I need to do things, that I need to write even when my heart isn’t in it, because . . . who the hell knows?

If I didn’t love her so much, I’d kick her ass outta my head.

Pick Up the Projects

Yes, it’s that time again, kiddies.  This is the point where I find myself taking on way too much stuff, and spending my weekends writing like a madperson.

Allow me to explain.

My story Replacements—which I’m writing on another blog, but you can see the latest entry here—is going well.  It’s one of the few I’ve tried where I sit down and just write.  Well, for me, “just write” is a bit of a misnomer, because I’m thinking about where I’m going with it, and I’ve already figured out the ending.  I think.  We’ll see.

It’s actually fun to write, because I don’t feel any pressure to get this done—other than the deadlines I’ve had imposed upon getting each chapter posted.  Other than that, there’s no pressure, because I don’t know if I’ll ever publish this.  Oh, well:  who am I kidding?  This would be a good one for a quick self publishing book.  It might even be short enough to be considered a—gasp!—short story.  I don’t know; I haven’t checked the word count.  That’s how little I’m worrying.  I’m only writing here, folks.

There is an issue, however:  I did say I’d have my normal Monday entry in on time, which means I gotta boogie this weekend to get it written.

Then there’s the blog.  I’ve been getting the entries out a little late these days.  Not late as in, “I’m doing Monday’s on Wednesday,” but late as in, “Rather than write at five in the morning, I’d working at one in the afternoon.”  This was how I used to do it, last year, when I started blogging.  Then I decided I’d write first thing in the morning.  Why?  Because I was up, and I’m a bit crazy.

These days I’m mucho tired in the mornings.  I’m trying to catch up on my sleep, and while that is happening slowly, and I’m starting to feel less worn out during the day, it does mean I’m not rising and shining early enough to whip out my posts as I have done most of this year.

It feels as if I have more energy in the afternoon, and that means I can write with a bit more speed than I was showing during my early morning sojourns.  There is always the matter of what I’m going to write, but that’s an issue every write faces, and the time of day plays a small part of what you want to say.

Unless you’re brain dead; then it’s a problem.

Also . . . article time!  Not only am I on a blog tour, and writing a blog, and writing a story, but I promised someone I’d get them an article this week.  What on?  Hummm.  I had an idea a few weeks ago, but now I’m thinking of something else that ties in with something I was dreaming up last night . . .

What will I write?  There’s a third option that I came up with this morning, and I might give that a shot, but—

Hell, I don’t know.  I’ll figure it out tomorrow, once I’ve had a chance to get out of work, and drive home, and relax, and sleep.

You know:  when I get to my writing.

Super Questions From the Lounge

Today I’ve opened the Interview Lounge, and today I have author Allison Bruning hanging with me today.  I’ve a few questions for her, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the conversation.

 

When did you begin writing?

I started writing when I was in Kindergarten. I was so excited when I wrote my first story that I showed it to my grandmother. She saw the potential I had and encouraged me throughout my schooling to create books then read them to her.

What was the first story you wrote?

I can’t recall. I started writing poetry, moved into prose then into short stories. By the time I was in High School I was writing screenplays. In college, I went back to poetry and short stories. I began my first novel six years ago.

When did you first think, “Whoa, I’m really a writer”?  Or have you not yet had that epiphany?

I’m staring to realize the talent I have. I’ve had people tell me that I am but it has been hard to believe it myself because I am too hard on myself. Recently, since I began Graduate School, I have had the epiphany that I am a writer. Not only a writer but one that can straddle the fine line between the entertainment business and literary sides.

Why did you start blogging?

Last year.

Tell me something interesting about your blog that you’ve never made public before.

My first few posts are all over the place because I never quite understood what blogging was all about. It wasn’t until I hired Tasha Turner and she explained it to me that I was able to comprehend what blogging was supposed to do.

Tell us about your current project.

I am currently in the process of writing a short ghost story that takes place outside of Fort Davis, Texas. It’s loosely based on a local legend from the area.

Who is your favorite character in (name of your current story here), and why is that?

I just love Doctor Alexander James McGillpatrick Turner of Calico. He was so fun to write. Although he’s a secondary character he is a very complex man with inner demons of his past that he has to work out.

Where is your favorite place to write?

My dining room. I have a nice round table in a small room with a window. I love to look out the window periodically when I write.

Have you ever fallen in love with a fictional character, and if so, whom?

If I could I would marry Little Owl from Calico in a heart beat.

What is the best story you’ve ever read?

The inheritance cycle – all of the books

I’m in the  middle of the Hunger Games. Usually I don’t read 1st person stories but these are really sticking to me.

What is the worst story you’ve ever read?

War of the Worlds by HG Wells

When your story gets made into a movie, (1) who do you want to play the main character?  (2)  Who do you think will actually play that part?

I would love to see Taylor Swift as Calico

And Michael Spears as Little Owl.

What story do you really want to write, and why?

I have so many! Where can I begin? I like to write the untold stories from history, especially ones that have strong female leads.

What does your muse look like?

Depends on the story I am writing on. She tends to change form based on the time period. I’m really attracted to the Grecian era and Native Americans.

What is your favorite word?

I tend to write really a lot, really I do.

Lastly, if you could, for one day, live anywhere as anyone, where and whom would that be?

I would want to be Pocahontas. She was such a strong woman and she showed the Europeans that not all native people are bad.

 

About Allison Bruning:

The Executive Director of the Kentucky Young Writers Connection, a non-profit agency of writers who promote young authors throughout the state of Kentucky. Allison originally hails from Marion, Ohio. Her father, Roland Irving Bruning, was the son of German immigrants who came to the United States at the turn of the 20th century. Her mother’s family had been in the United States since the 17th century. Allison is a member of the Peter Foree Chapter of the Daughters of American Revolution. Her linage traces to Private Reuben Messenger of Connecticut. Her educational background includes a BA in Theater Arts with a minor in Anthropology and a Texas Elementary Teaching certificate. Both acquired at Sul Ross State University in Alpine, Texas. Allison received National Honor Society memberships in both Theater Arts and Communication. Allison was also honored her sophomore year with admission into the All American Scholars register. She holds graduate hours in Cultural Anthropology and Education. In 2007 she was named Who’s Who Among America’s Educators. She is also the recipient of the Girl Scout Silver and Gold Awards.

Allison lives with her husband in Kentucky.  Calico is book one from the series, Children of the Shawnee. She is currently working on the sequel, Rose.  She is also working on another series, The Secret Heritage, which traces the life of her great great grandmother at the turn of the 20th century in Ohio. Allison’s interest includes Ohio Valley history, anthropology, travel, culture, history, camping, hiking, backpacking, spending time with her family and genealogy. Her genres include historical fiction, paranormal, romance, and suspense.

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Lament of the Lolita

What brings me here today?  Good question.  Because I think my mind is stuck in a number of places today.

I’ve had this idea on my mind for so long now, the one about the story idea I had almost two years ago that never went beyond a five hundred word scene.  Right now it’s in need of a good outlining, as well as some time lining and some technical specs on different things.

Though I’m tempted to say, “I need to work on this right now,” and do it, I know I’m not ready with it.  More thought needs to go into it, more work on the first story outline is required.  There’s nothing wrong with having ideas; there is something wrong if you shoot off half-cocked on a story, and find, halfway through, you have no idea where you’re going.  Good Doctor Asimov said to know your ending before you begin, and I’m getting the ending set up.

I don’t want to start off without an idea of where the journey ends.

I’m somewhat conflicted this day.  I slept very well last night:  I would even go so far as to say I received a great night’s sleep.  But here, at The Hole, I’m spinning my wheels.  I know I’m getting things done, but it doesn’t feel that way.  It feels like I’m off on a race, and I’m going nowhere very quickly.

There are things I want to do, rather than what I should do, and therein lies the conundrum.  Yes, I know the arguments:  you have a job that pays, as opposed to this writing thing that has so far paid you enough to buy you lunch once.

But, hey:  starving artists, you know?  Someone’s gotta do it.

Then there were the strange-ass dreams from last night . . . with this exhaustion starting to go away, the dreams are becoming vivid once more, and the latest was vivid and weird—

The plot seemed to be this:  I was being followed by people I didn’t know, who didn’t want me to do the things I wanted to do.  I wanted to study science; they said I needed to study English.  I wanted to study creative writing; they said I had to study cooking.  I wanted to go to the museum; they said I had to go shopping.

The “me” who was getting all this grief from the unknown “they” was the Cassidy me, the cute redhead who started out as a role playing character.  She/I was dressed in some gothic Lolita outfit the whole way through the dream, which had some black in it, but also some cream and some white, and some pink.  In fact, the gloves were pink, but I’m sure my boots were white . . . hey, it was a dream, you know?

I seemed to be pouty most of the time.  Not because of the outfit—no, I was spectacular.  It was because I was being thwarted from following my chosen path every time I was ready to begin walking.  It pissed me off, because I’m ready, I’ve been ready, to move forward, and I was being held back all the time.

The writer in me is ready to move on:  I’m ready for the one true path.  It seems like there are so many things holding me back—

Not the least of which is probably me.

A Life Less Hackneyed

Speaking of the above title, how does it look like . . . that –>  

Did you ever wonder what A Life Less Hackneyed looks like in Gallifreyan?  Well, now you do.  The crazy-ass things I find on the Internet, huh?  What’s next?  We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?

Anywhere, where was I?  Oh, yeah:  stories and ideas.  They are still there, rumbling about in my head.  That’s not always a good idea, because, before you know it, I’m trying to do something with it.

The last couple of days I’ve run the story idea I wrote about yesterday around again and again.  I’m about this close to getting it into Scrivener, because there are things I need to keep straight about how one gets from place to place in the galaxy of the 28th Century.

This is world building time, and though I don’t want to get distracted from other things I’m doing–I have one story I need to finish, and I was given an idea for one to write in October, and there’s that looming hell-bound train known as NaNoWriMo to tackle . . .

But this is one of those ideas that’s just hanging with me.  I can’t say why, but it’s there.  Probably because the story is a bit challenging.  It’s one of those science fiction ideas that’s been done before, but I like the idea of bringing it into my world, into something that could be real.

I love world building, and getting everything done for this one is nice.  I will admit, I’m nicking a few ideas here and there from other sources, but it’s not so much the tech and the sci-fiey things (is “sci-fiey” a word?  It is now), as it is the characters and the story.

However . . .

As I’ve stated from time to time, I like to have most everything thought out before I start writing.  I’m rarely one for sitting down and just going for it, because the characters don’t tell me jack.  I’m thinking through the plot, such as it is, and there’s a point where something just doesn’t make that much sense.

Now, I think is have the situation worked out; I feel that I have a reason for why one of the people in the story does what they do, but there was a moment when I was thinking out the story that I thought, “Wait . . . hasn’t this been done already?  And better?”

I won’t say what the “has been done already” was, because to do so will give something away.  It would also have geeks going, “You loser!  You’re doing that?”  So I had to change things around.  Just a little, but enough that it worried me.

Over lunch I figured it out.  I actually had it figured out before that, but lunch finalized it.  That’s me rolling like a writer again; I can finalize something over a cup of coffee and a burrito.  All hail my writing coolness–said phrase which I’ve also translated into Gallifreyan right over there . . .  –>

It’s easy to do something that’s been done before, and not realize you’re treading over worn ground until you’re half-way through the muck.  I guess I’m used to the way Australians used to clear minefields during WWI:  they’d drive a flock of sheep into the area, let them blow up, and follow the cleared path.

A story line can be as treacherous as a minefield, and you want to clear that sucker as much as possible before you head across.  Face it:  it’s either you or the sheep–

Wouldn’t you rather you not be the one getting blown to hell when you’re half way across?

Fifty Light Years On

I haven’t said much about writing during the last week, because I haven’t been doing a lot of writing.  After finishing Diners last Monday, I needed a break.  I needed a breather, because I was getting into a lot of burnout.  Not just from writing, but a lot of personal issues as well.

Doesn’t mean I’m nothing thinking, or even half-doing, however.  I do have Replacements, that I’m writing on another site, but I was a bad boy over the weekend, and just couldn’t find the time to get to it.  My fault, I know.  I shouldn’t have been such a slacker, but the moment got to me, over and over, and I couldn’t get to writing.

So I added a few hundred words last night, and I should add a few hundred more tonight, and by Thursday I should have that section to add, and another to go next Monday.  See?  Better already.

I started editing Echoes on Sunday.  I didn’t realize it, but I’d edited it once already.  I don’t remember doing that, but there it is.  I must have run an edit once . . . move on.

The edit this time around–already kicked about one hundred words out, and tightened up the story just a little.  I’m going to do a little every night, get it into final edit form.  It’s a good story, but for some reason I get strange when I’m reading.

But beyond that, there’s been another idea rolling about in my head.  That’s usually dangerous, because these little ideas tend to get sorta big.

The funny thing is, this idea originally started out as a five hundred word scene that I did for a creative writing class.  The teacher hated it; no, really.  She more or less ripped it apart, going on about how I wasn’t explaining why some things happened, why I was using foreign words in a sentence without giving a translation, why I wasn’t doing a set up that told the reader why they were here, and who this main character of mine was.

The funny thing was, a few people who read the scene thought it rocked; they thought it was a great little intro that set up a story, without giving anything away.  Which, as I explained to the instructor, was what I was doing.  Not that she cared, but hey, that’s the breaks.  I wasn’t writing for her; I was writing for me.

This story is coming back to me.  Why?  Because it is.  I’m thinking of things to do, and it’s coming up more and more.  Maybe it’s something I want to write.  Or at least develop.  Because there is a world there to build.  It’s based off of other things, but it’s still my world.  It’s also, I feel, an interesting world, and since I’m so good at world building . . . maybe when I have some time, I’ll pull up a Scrivener file and start putting this one together.

Having notes never hurts.

Before you know it, those notes will actually means something . . .