Violet Hill - A story based off of Coldplay's music

The snow on those peaks were always said to be tinted violet on the first sunset of each summer,colored by the reflections of the sky. All I knew was that the snow was cold, my journey long, and my friends watching and waiting for my return. But I also knew that my troubles were well worth the reward.

The snow crunched below my too-large hiking boots, reminding me of that long winter, now behind me. But my dreams and nightmares still haunted me, and though my pain had lessened I still blamed myself. I could've stopped it from happening, I told myself.

"John, look at this; it's called Violet Hill, isn't it lovely?" Her voice, now only a memory, echoed in my head.

The wind beat down harder afainst my back, which was weighted down with a pack that contained only essentials: hiking gear, good, sleeping bag, flares in case I get lost, and her.

"Goodbye John," I heard. It seemed as if the wind carried her words from my memory and spit them back at me. "Keep safe."

I should've told her the same. Instead, when I returned home that Christmas, all that was left of her was a simple jar filled with ashes. All through those long, cold months, Violet Hill ran through my mind. "It's called Violet Hill, isn't it lovely?" the reminiscent wind whispered.

I crossed a short, trickling river of melted snow. Tomorrow is the first day of summer, I reminded myself. I need to be at the top by then.

But already the sun was setting. I couldn't hike up the slippery mountain at night, so I decided to set up. Slowly, I plodded on in search of a flat surface.

Spotting a small cliff jutting from the side of the mountain, I changed course, unbuckling my backpack. It was big enough for a bed and a fire, and sturdy enough to stand upon. I set off to work.

"We're great friends," aren't we?" the wind breathed into my ear. "So you'll bring me to Violet Hill, right?"

The snow beat down upon me every time I started a fire, eager to extinguish my only source of heart. I hated snow: snow reminded me of her in life, in death, in love. She loved snow, especially that atop Violet Hill.

I gave up on the fire and sat down by the pack. I swung my legs over the edge of the cliff, looking at the steep fall that would accompany my death if I tumbled over the edge. And I barely cared; the only thing keeping me going was the knowledge that she hated death and sorrow; she wouldn't want me to mourn her.

I carefully slipped her ashes, contained in a jar decorated with beads, out of the pack and by my side. Then I stared at the scene before me: the loping mountains, the snow-topped peaks. They say Violet Hill was the last snow-covered mountain to melt.

As I stared at the snow - snow surrounded me, falling down like rain, packed to the ground like sand, in my clothes and hair like I'd rolled in it - I wondered why she loved Violet Hill so much. Why she made me promise I'd take her once I returned from my travels at sea.

It was beautiful. The snow was like everything I loved and hated at one; it was a bittersweet taste in my mouth, a heart-wrenching pain in my soul. The snow wasn't violet, but it wasn't the first sunset of summer yet, it was the last sunset of Spring. And that sunset, the fading colors melting into the sky, made me want to cry. And the snow, looking almost blue in its pure color, made me want to cry.

***

Violet Hill Lyrics

Was a long and dark December
From the rooftops I remember
There was snow
White snow

Clearly I remember
From the windows they were watching
While we froze
Down below

When the future's architectured
By a carnival of idiots on show
You'd better lie low

If you love me
Won't you let me know?

Was a long and dark December
When the banks became cathedrals
And the fog
Became God

Priests clutched onto bibles
Hollowed out to fit their rifles
And the cross was held aloft

Bury me in armor
When I'm dead and hit the ground
A love back home unfolds

If you love me
Won't you let me know?

I don't want to be a soldier
Who the captain of some sinking ship
Would stow, far below

So if you love me
Why'd you let me go?

I took my love down to Violet Hill
There we sat in snow
All that time she was silent still

So if you love me
Won't you let me know?

If you love me,
Won't you let me know?

When I first listened to that song I kept imagining the girl, his lover, dead. At first he (in my mind) was a man driven insane by his sorrow, and he was at Violet Hill going delusional, imagining she was there and talking to her, though she was dead. But it grew into this story, and I rather like it. :)

A Dream, A Girl, A Letter Home

I'm stuck in a bush. Vines entwine my spine, branches claw my hair, thorns scratch my skin, sticks scrap my knees. But in a second I'm out, after something wraps around my wrist and tugs me out. A dragon tail, it was! The dragon sneers at me and licks its lips. "Now I eat you," it roars, grabbing ketchup. "Barbeque time!" Then my sister grabs me before I'm engulfed in flames.

And I wake up.

Okay, let's be honest here; this was just me goofing off. But at the same time I let myself goof off because I wanted this to be like the dream of a little kid, kinda chaotic, kinda laughable, kinda "what?"

***

Kerli is always in a daze. She walks across the air and whenever she jumps she imagines she could touch the earth. She wanders the air, always in her old blue hat, always with her bat flying at her side.

Does she have a house? Does she play with dolls? Maybe. Imagine a house in the sky, spacious enough so she could walk on the air within it. Little creepy dolls would be her toys, hidden in a floating toy chest in her creepy castle.

Kerli walks on air.

This story was rushed and strange, and horribly done, but it was based off of Kerli Kovi's 'Walking on Air'. It's a very strange song.

Did you notice in both of the stories above I accidentally rhymed within a sentence? :P

***

To Robert.
I miss you so much and pray for your quick - and safe - return. Your nephew was born last Tuesday; he's healthy, thank God, and looks just like your brother, Out little Melanie tried to climb a tree yesterday but fell and ripped her skirt. After asking her what happened, she told me the tree tried to eat her. She's got your imagination, that's for sure.

You've been gone for two months, Robert. Your brother has been helping me with the hard work around the house. But I have to tell you something. I'm... with child.

It's your child, Robert, and I just hope your back by its birth. Seven months - I suppose the war will keep you longer than that. But I'll tell our child everything about you in your absence, until you can meet him for yourself.

We're holding up back at home, but everything will be better with your return. Godspeed, my love.

-Charlotte.

Talk about a cheesy farewell! I just decided, if I ever fall in love with a guy who has to leave for an extended period of time, I'm going to send him letters that end with, "Godspeed, my love."

Sorry for that tangent! Anyway, I imagined this story to be about a mother of two (and a half) writing to her husband, who was drafted and forced to join the war. I imagined them Irish, maybe just because I wrote the story in a green pen, but I know that their names aren't Irish. (What's funny, though, is that I read through it I gave her an accent. Or at least as much as an accent as I can give her...)

Well, that's all for now kids! Next up: Violet Hill! A story based off of Coldplay's song, Violet Hill!

Blood-bot

Red-Five felt electricity running through his veins, shooting up his spine, spitting from his punctured heart. It hurt. The water in the basement reached his thighs; he could barely see his arm through the dirty liquid, sparking and zapping as it sunk to the floor. Red-Five looked at the wires sticking out where his arm should’ve been. Then he turned to look at the android that’d ripped off his arm.

Slowly, Red-Five turned completely around to face six androids, all shaking. All violently lusting the blood that powered him, running through the wires that made up his ‘veins’. Red-Five cracked his neck, then lashed out an arm. He gripped an androids neck and swiftly ripped it apart from its body.

The android stood for a moment, decapitated, then collapsed into the thick water. Drops of water splashed onto the remaining androids, and slowly the dead robot’s oil seeped into the liquid to dirty it further.

And then the rest of them jumped into action, spurred on as they realized their companions death. Wires tore, oil spurted, automatons fell, havoc reigned—Red-Five, the fifth blood-bot in existence, dominated.

***

Isn't that creepy? A robot powered by blood... I kinda like the idea, though. In a freaky sort of way.

I actually just really like this story. Maybe because it's based off of this awesome piece of artwork by Udon Nodu? (Click to enlarge)

Forever, Safe, and The Fibber

Sorry I haven't posted in a couple days! Summer has really begun :)

Here are three scenes I've written recently (and a poem).

***

"Remember that time when I told you tea was leaf-water and you spewed across the whole room?"

"Ugh, that was horrible!" Keko cried. "Don't remind me, you jerk!"

"And then my mom made you stand in the corner?" Landon continued, laughing.

"I hate you," she grumbled. "You're so mean."

"You taught me well," he joked. Keko huffed, folding her arms as they walked across the street. "Oh, come on," Landon said pleadingly. "I'm just teasing. You're actually my nicest friend."

"You have friends?" she said sarcastically.

"Why are you only mean to me?" he asked.

"Because I know you don't take me seriously," Keko said, shrugging. "I've just known you for so long, I guess it doesn't matter anymore."

Landon's pace slowed, and he was silent until they reached their destination; The Golden Egg. As they walked inside the breakfast house, Landon caught up with Keko.

"Well you matter to me," he muttered.

"Huh?" Keko questioned.

"Table for two?" the waiter interupted. Landon nodded and the two quietly followed him to their table.

"What are you getting this time?" Keko said, pushing away the menu already placed at her seat. She always got the same thing when they came to The Golden Egg; bacon, biscuits, and lots of butter. Landon had sworn to her exactly two years ago that he would, eventually, try every meal on the menu. That had been Keko's 19th birthday, and Landon saved this meal for the last - the last meal on the menu and the last meal he would eat with Keko for a very long time.

"Biscuits and bacon," he answered, and Keko beamed. "In celebration of your birthday, and your moving away."

"I'm gunna miss you," Keko said, smiling.

"I'll miss you more," Landon laughed, reaching into his pocket. "Happy birthday, Keko." He pulled out a necklace: a pendant hung on a silver chain, with the image of a tree in the center of a ring. The tree had four major branches, each colored differently to represent the four seasons.

Keko gasped, taking the necklace. "Landon! Thanks you so much, its gorgeous!"

Landon leaned back in his chair, hand behind head. "Yeah, I'm pretty awesome."

"No doubt about that," Keko laughed, putting the necklace around her head.

"Landon broke his posture in surprise. "You just complimented me!" he cried.

"Don't know why," she scoffed. "You're a jerk."

Landon smiled, then leaned across the table until his face was only centimeters away from hers. "Guess what?" he whispered. "I love you."

"Uh, have you guys decided what to order?" the waiter said, interrupting them again.

Landon slumped in his chair, a big grin on his face. Keko was frozen in place, completely and utterly shocked. "Two plates of biscuits and bacon please."

***

I really love the characters of this story, just because they're so familiar with each other; Keko is freakishly nice to everyone but Landon, and (though I couldn't exemplify it in this scene) Landon is pretty mean to everyone but Keko (most of the time). Keko is an innocent little girl and never imagined that Landon would love her. Ha-ha :)

***

Safe - a poem (well, technically two haikus)

Keep me here with you
I want to stay in your arms
Now I know I'm safe

Thank God for you, God
For your unfailing
Love, your saving love.

***

That poem was simply me being God-happy. 'Nuff said :)

***

"Mom says I'm not s'posed to talk to you cause you're a big liar."

"Oh? Well yes, I always lie. And that's the truth, little child."

"But... you said you always lie."

"You're right. By honestly saying I always lie I tell the truth, which makes my claim a lie, which makes it true."

"You're crazy."

"Why of course. I lost my mind years ago; dropped it ion the African plains."

"You went to Africa?"

"Only to stop my pirate friends from pillaging the city of God's breath."

"You're friends with pirates? Real, sea pirates?

"No, air pirates."

"You really are crazy!"

"Maybe you should follow your mom's instructions and stay away from me. After all, I'm just a dirty fibber."

"Well... a few minutes can't hurt."

***

Wondering why it's just straight conversation? Okay, here's an explanation; I occasionally listen to this podcast called "Writing Excuses". It's basically advice that three authors give to new writers. On one of the podcasts they talked about dialogue, and how your characters should all have separate speech patterns. So the writing prompt, a writing exercise they give you at the end of the podcast, was to write a conversation that is ONLY dialogue. No tags, no description. And I really liked this little conversation, just because I can envision it happening very clearly in my head, and I can imagine what happens next.

Well, that's all for now kids. :)

Sappy Scene

Sam stared blankly at the mergin garden of blue and red flowers, the colors split where the neighbors property started. Her hair, swept over one shoulder, blew gently in front of her face. She listened to the subtle sound of swooshing leaves, and the occasional creak of the board she was perched upon. From her seat high up in the tree, she could see her parents room where they argued about what college she should go to, and her cats grace by the bird-fountain. The noise of anger, the noise of sorrow - or the lack of noise.

Across the street death metal bled out the neighbors' windows. What an annoying noise.

Behind Sam, her little brother grunted as he unloaded mom's groceries from her beat-up car. The noise of work. Sam's mind flashed back to her childhood uncalled, in all its joyful ease. Her giggles and laughter - the noise of happiness.

Everything has its own noise, she realized. Music is a noise, and music carries feeling. So even feelings have a noise.

A black car sped into the neighbors driveway. The sound of success, she thought, compared to the sputter of our Honda.

Jackson slammed the door of his car and spotted Sam. "Hey," he said with a smile and a wave.

"I can hear it now," she mumbled.

"Huh?" Jackson asked.

"There are so many noises, so it took me a while," she yelled to him. "But I can hear it now."

The sound of love.

***

Aww, sweet love.

Okay, so this scene is sappy and undeveloped. I got lazy. But whatever, at least Sam has finally realized her love for Jackson.

But Jackson probably thinks she's nuts.

My Chains Are Gone

Though its Sunday, I decided to write a scene this day. I was inspired for it during Worship at Church. This story is based off of Amazing Grace... and I like it... a lot. :)

***

I had never known fear. The word itself, I could scribe easily. But the feeling; I never felt its intense pain.

But at that point I held fear enough to cut my breath short. My hair stood on end, I shivered to warm my cold soul. My head hung low, heavy on my shoulders. I was lost, knowing not what the future held, and blind, a rag tied 'round my eyes.

The click of a door opening increased my fear, as I knew my captor was entering the dark room. I shrunk away from the door, where, through my blindfold, I could see a beam of light. And then he spoke. It was not the gruff voice I expected, but the soft tenor of a familiar man that I then heard. "I'm here, Anne. It's all going to be okay."

I didn't believe it. "You found me," I breathed, a question in my voice. It couldn't be him; it shouldn't. I didn't deserve him. Not after what I did.

"Anne, it's all going to be okay," he said again, kneeling at my side. He gently took off my blindfold, then cut the ropes around my wrists and ankles. I shivered in a frozen fear, staring past him. He was there. My captor. Holding a large sack of clinking metal.

"Anne," my savior said firmly, grabbing my chin and turning my gaze to him. "It's okay. You don't need to worry about him anymore." He picked my up like a little child and carried me out of the room, brushing past the villain wordlessly.

"Why?" I whispered as he brought me through the dark, empty, unknown building. "I... I killed you son. Why would you still save me, wretched me?"

I may hate your mistakes," he answered quietly, "but I still love you."

I stayed quiet. We finally exited the building and I realized, I always knew he would forgive me, like I knew there was a river a mile from my home: not until it flooded did I really understand and accept its presence. "Will you talk?" I asked in a small voice. I just wanted to hear his precious, sweet voice.

"I promised good for you, Anne," he told me. "And I won't break that promise. I'll be your shield, even if the world ends. I will be forever yours."

***

I love this song! Amazing Grace is so true and so gorgeous. Here are the lyrics; read through them and reread the story, this time with a critical eye squinting to catch the comparisons. (Does that sound weird or what?)

Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see
'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear
And grace my fears relieved
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed
My chains are gone
I've been set free
My God, my Savior has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy rains
Unending love, Amazing grace

The Lord has promised good to me
His word my hope secures
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures

[2x]
My chains are gone
I've been set free
My God, my Savior has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy rains
Unending love, Amazing grace

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow
The sun forbear to shine
But God, Who called me here below
Will be forever mine
Will be forever mine
You are forever mine

Big Words

He paused, gazing at her for a moment. "Are you a ailurophile?"

She stared back at him. "A... what? Um, I'm a Christian..."

"Airluophile means 'cat-lover'," John said with a smile.

"Oh. Well, it's an awful long word." Kailey frowned to hide her embarrassment.

"Like labyrinthine?" John gazed at her knotted, wavy hair. "Or chatoyant." He met her eyes with his unwavering stare.

"Sure..." Kailey looked past him, where a dozen cats bantered playfully in there small glass cage.

***

Well, I never guaranteed the scene would be long! In this story, Kailey was a young girl trying to purchase a cat but was interrupted by John, who is a robot! I wanted to use these words, but no normal human would use them....

Airlouphile - cat-lover
Labyrinthine - twisting and turning
Chatoyant - like a cat's eye

A War for the Avian

Her long, auburn hair waved gently with the wind as she stood at the edge of the cliff-side, staring at the scene in the valley below. Ghastly shrieks reached her ears, cries of the dying humans fighting her war. She sucked in a sharp breath and leaned forward. Clumps of dirt broke off the cliff and tumbled down to land in the battlefield. Feathers intermingled with her pin-straight hair as the wings jutted from her skin and tore through the back of her shirt. The mottled brown color of the winds flashed in the clear sky. She jumped in mid-transformation, while only half of her hair had taken it's brown hue before slowly morphing into feathers. She breathed in the sharp, dry, air, claws replacing nails as she plummeted. The ground came nearer, and the tiny human warriors came into focus. She could see them individually....

With a quick beat of her wings, she soared above the heads of the sparring men. As the enemies began to notice her, projectiles were aimed and thrust at her.

But she cut through the air elegantly, searching for a head of feathers to match her own. The straw-colored feathers of a man like her who chose to fight with humanity. She had broken his wing, but it wasn't too late to save him.

There. Spiked feathers that looked like straw set afire with all the blood in it. He sliced his sword through men without a pause. A single wing broke the skin of his back, acting like a shield to protect a child clinging to him.

She narrowed her eyes and plunged forward, clawed hands outstretched.

***

In this story I imagine our heroine as a half-human, half-bird creature with hair that changes into feathers when she releases her wings. Her race is 'rare', but powerful. They use humans as animals, as slaves, and in this story the humans are fighting a war for her, for an unknown reason. I added in the male half-bird creation to add purpose to her flight, and the child clinging to him I imagined as the key to saving the lost race of the Avian creatures.

I liked writing this scene with the knowledge that my character didn't have a name. At first I was lazy and just didn't want to pick one, but it ended up being kinda cool, trying to capture the image of an unnamed heroine

First day of summer, first scene for my "A scene a day" challenge. How'd it go?

Summer Challenge?

As I have recently finished a book (sequel to 'Astronym', titled 'Insomnia'), I have decided I need a project for the summer. I also have to cope with my sad lack of inspiration and my inability to work with word-limits. So I've decided on something simple, yet still exciting (or at least to me.)

My challenge for Summer 2011 is this: A SCENE A DAY!

Sounds a bit pathetic, but that's my plan. I write one random scene, inspired maybe by a dream, something I did that day, or possibly something I read. Just one scene, not necessarily connected to each other, though I might decide to string a few together. I'm hoping it will work out. (By the way, I won't make myself write on Sunday. I can if I want, but I'm not challenging myself to write on Sunday.)

Another portion of my plan is that I'll post these scenes to this blog. (I reserve the right to actually post the stories a few days late, but hopefully I'll be able to post them as frequently as I write them.) I'll also include my thoughts about the story, and what inspired it.

That's about it! I'll start posting on Monday; see you then!

At My Finest

I realized a few things recently.

One - I'm good enough. If you read my last post, you know I submitted a manuscript to Tate Publishing. They accept less than 4% of the submissions they receive, and my unbelieving eyes could hardly accept the word Congratulations! when I got that fat folder full of contract and certificates. (I even got it like five days before I the estimated date of response!) But due to the fact I don't have 4000 dollars to spend, I was unable to publish my story. It feels kinda weird to say I rejected a company that wanted to publish my story, but I can truthfully say that now! I don't feel bad about it, though, because to be honest, I realized I didn't want to publish that story. It was the first of three, but I wasn't inspired to write the second. And imagining certain people I know reading that book... he-he, let's just call it embarrassing.

Two - I have problems! For some reason, this occurred to me late last night: I have trouble writing my stories if I don't have a scene planned out that will make me laugh/giggle (something funny or romantic.) There are some exceptions, like when there's just a really intense scene, in which I get to reveal my characters and help them grow.

Third - (This is a real obvious one, but I guess it took me a while to realize.) God is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
good! He created this majestic world, which I have the privilege to enjoy and describe in my writing. And he created this world to perfectly exemplify situations that can help us understand his glory and our folly. For example, he had everything planned out perfectly so he could use a certain parable so the farmer's would understand his lessons. He didn't make seeds unable to grow in rocks for fun, it was so he could use it as an analogy. And though you've heard some of these analogies a million times (the world is blind, God will open our eyes; we need to spread our roots; you will never thirst) they are so perfect! Just think of the incredible thought God put into our world, and it'll blow your mind up. Not really. But it's really cool.

Maybe you're wondering what that last paragraph has to do with writing - well, God inspires me. He's my number one inspiration, because he leads the orchestra of my life. He's my number one role model, because he was the first and the best author - he was the author of creation, and think of the foreshadowing, the hidden meanings, the love he put into his characters! Ah, I love just reveling in God's gloriousness.

God bless you all!

WOW!

Tate Publishing. A Christian publishing company that allows unsolicited authors to e-mail in their manuscripts. If your under 18, they make you give them, along with the manuscript, parental confirmation.

Well, according to my brother, Tate Publishing just called to talk to dad. He asked me if I'd submitted a manuscript and I answered as coolly as I could, "Yeah." (Then he asked me why. Well, why do you think I did it, Bro?)

And to think, ten minutes ago I was in my room, staring at my calendar where I have, written down, the aprox. date of their reply, wondering if I really wanted to be published. I still have so much to learn.

Wait a minute. Dad just called me. Tate publishing called him, asking if he'd given his confirmation. Lucky for me, he forgot! Well, apparently the Tate dude asked Why I wrote the story and Why I wanted it published. He'll read the story (after talking to my dad again later this afternoon) and then read the story. If he likes it and wants it published, he'll mail a contract to my dad. Uhhhg this is all so official and scary! *sigh* Well, I should probably get on my homework now. Goodbye imaginary readers!

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Yeah, well, a pen won't really help you if Zorro comes to get you. If you don't get this, please read the title of this post. If you still don't get it... I don't think I can help you.

Okay, so, despite the fact I've started out this blog-post with negative comments towards the time-old quote, "The pen is mightier than the sword", I actually really like it. (Well, if we get technical I don't really like it cause it's overused, but I still like the point it makes!) Words have so much power; they can change people, they can change meaning and warp opinions. It's truly fascinating if you over-think it like me....

This train of thought originated from my mind with a simple sentence: I have to go to school. Automatically, that sentence gives you a feel of begrudging obedience. I go to school, though I don't want to. Shortening it by saying, I'm going to school, can give you a feeling of indifference; I get to go to school makes you think the owner of the thought finds school a privilege. The sentences are so closely related, yet they can mean so many different things. (Don't even get me started on the incredible genius and differentiation of question marks, exclamation marks, and periods.)

Have you ever been moved by the lyrics of a song, or been to a touching church service, or comforted/encouraged by your friend? All that you might find there would be practically meaningless without words. Words. They can depress, burden, share, express, enlighten, encourage, strengthen, explain - they can do ANYTHING. All it takes is the right person to wield them.

Anxious

I didn't know this hope would rise in me! It's aggravating to feel it growing, and (as horrible as it seems) to crush it. I've submitted a manuscript (Scars) to a minor publishing company (Tate Publishing) and I'll get a reply in 5-7 weeks. I don't expect a yes, I submitted it mainly because I wanted to do something and it's just helpful to know how the process goes. But despite the fact I don't believe it'll be accepted, I still have that lingering what if in the back of my mind, and, to be honest, it's scary. Very scary. That's why I keep trying to kill it. *Sigh*.

For maybe a month now I've been listening to this podcast, Writing Excuses. (I highly suggest this to writers; it's basically three published author's giving advice to new writers; it's fifteen minutes, funny, and free.) The one I listened to last night was about 'Perseverance', and they went over the hardships of writing being your main career. How hard it is to get published, how right when you're career is at it's peek the rug could be tugged from underneath you. So I was scared, because I know that could easily happen to me if I become a professional author, but encouraged because I heard how these famous people started out with rejection after rejection. So while I'm scared for that rejection, I'm relatively confident I can take it. Just keep writing. Because that's what I love to do, so no ones gunna stop me.

Updated

Okay, so if you read my last post you know I'm really hyped about this story I wrote for my sister, called Astronym. Well, I'm writing the sequel now, (Insomnia) and it's CRAZY cool and super fun to write :) Right now I have to study the ancient Greek culture to better create this secret civilization. I can't wait to write the scene there!!! But I guess I'll have to wait until I understand it more and everything. :/

It's so exciting, writing and loving it and putting it out there with fear in your heart. I'm so invigorated every time I hear Haunted by Taylor Swift, a song VERY connected to Astronym, and when I hear Stronger (glee cast version, which my sister made a dance to btw) which is deeply connected to the sequel to my first major novelette, Scars. I guess that just goes to show how much I love music and writing.... but now we're getting off topic. (Have you noticed I do that a lot?)

Sank ya!

I started this week - which, by the way, I got off for 'ski week' - with a goal. 1,000 words each day for the whole week, to a total of 7,000 words. On impulse, I decided to work on a story I'd thought of the last night. It went freakishly well, and I discovery wrote my way through the whole thing. Then I discovered it needed to be a full on story. Cool, right? Now I've got something to think about for the next ten years... But basically, my story, Astronym, was started with the intention to give it to my sis for her birthday. I didn't think I'd finish it four months early! I completed the first book on it's eighth day. Y'know my thousand words a day goal? It turned into a 20,000 word story - I wrote forty-five pages in about eight days.

Get a life, BriBri! But seriously, it was great that God inspired me in a way that I barely knew I was setting up a gorgeous scene. I thank Him, don't you? God is great, and I really feel like I'm growing in my relationship with him.
Oops. This is my writing blog, right. So - about my story.

I really like this story, but I've decided not to think about it for a month-ish. Then I'm going back and doing major editing stuff. At least that's my plan :D
Though I think I could probably get this published officially, what I'm doing for now is I'm self-publishing it on Lulu, then I'll order a copy and present it to my sister as her birthday present. I may take it off right after I buy that copy, then try to get it officially published, but we'll see :D I'm really excited to see what will happen in the future concerning my books, and I know I've been thinking about improving my writing a lot more than I used to. I'm kind of taking this more seriously than I used to, and I'm at the same time building up courage.

TTYL! From your loving author-to-be, Bryna Starr :)

Take a Deep Breath

I just finished it! For real!! My first serious story has been finished, read through, and edited. Like serious editing. I don't think I've ever dedicated so much time to one thing EVER.

Let's see... I'll read you my numbers :D
82 pages
32,095 words (That makes it a novellete!)
23 chapters.
That's a hunk-a-junk!! I'm so proud of it.

First finishing it, I didn't really feel anything.... After all, the story is unfinished I have SO much more to write! So much depth, character, war, pain, torture, love, stress, and pain (did I say that already) to write! I think there's going to be two more books, and that's super exciting.
But now, as I share this with all my dedicated readers (ahahaha that's a good one Brina!) I can feel the anticipation rising. I finally finished. It's done. And it's so, so, so, so stupid :D I hate all my characters... Pretty much.

Take a deep breath, Brina. I close my eyes as I type this, listening to Clara C's cover of Clocks (originally sung by Coldplay) and the bittersweet melody of the music and my feelings and dreams are just so.... filling? I don't think the word does it justice.

Are you impressed with my closed-eye writing? hahaha :D

What will I do with my time now if I can't plan what to do next with Scars, the story that lies so close to my heart?
I'll think of the sequel. Call it our child ;P Never mind that's super weird...

Thanks for listening. I'm happy now. Yet, strangely, so incredibly calm. Here's my bet - I won't sleep tonight because I'll be thinking of the sequel all night. And I'll squeal. And keep Lily up all night.

Happy. happyhappyhappy

P.S.
Time for publishmentness.

Rewriting

Re-writing and re-constructing an entire story - an entire SERIES - it is definitely tiring. Yet amazing. Especially if you haven't read the story in a long time then realize its BRILLIANT..... Currently, I have rediscovered my passion for a certain, which pretty much shows my personality at age 12 to a T. I will NEVER throw away that story; it's like my first-born child! That's actually a pretty horrible analogy, considering I'm re-writing it. I'm redoing my child! That's just weird :)

On the topic of editing (kinda?) I would like to say that editing Scars is going along considerably well, as long as I don't have something distracting me. (Example: How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Currently VERY distracting.)

So I should probably start working on that right now :)

Raging Fire

A passion for writing is like a raging fire - it starts out small, but with help it grows and grows into a bonfire creating a light for those lost in the dark. In time, it gradually shrinks, though, until the time when a log of inspiration is added to fuel the passion and love, the flames.

This is a simile, not a metaphor or a analogy.

Right?

Eleanor Rigby

Wrote a little story :) It's based off of the Beatles' song 'Eleanor Rigby'... hope you enjoy!

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They lived in a small town of three people. They were insane. They were unholy. They were lonely.


Time moves so slowly as it passes, but once its gone everything was so fast. Every memory is precious, fleeting, wasted. Eleanor Rigby picked up the rice in the church courtyard, a bittersweet smile decorating her beautiful face as she reflected on the wedding that had taken place just four days ago. Each grain of rice she picked up individually in between her thumb and ring finger, which no longer wore the sparkling diamond ring. The sun drifted through the sky as time passed by unnoticed while Eleanor Rigby lived her dream of a life.
Under the setting sun, her face sparkled with youth and love and energy. She walked down the curving, unsteady road past the barn, the tree, and to her house, imagining her husband were waiting for her. Ignoring the jar sitting by the door, she settled herself into the small nook by the window. Eleanor Rigby waited there for a person she didn’t know.


Father McKenzie scribbled his notes for his sermon, occasionally peering up from his words to glance at the permanently empty church. Tomorrow it would be flooded with people ever-so-eager to hear what he had to say, and by mid-day once again Father McKenzie would say goodbye to the last man of his delusion. The body of his church was a monster of his own imagination, but he loved each and every one. Smiling as he remembered a small child named Marisa, Father McKenzie bent down over his work once more and the glinting gold ring on his finger caught his attention. The smile vanished, and he jerked it off with disgust. Eleanor Rigby… where did that beautiful monster come from?


Every time the jar caught her curiosity. Eleanor Rigby, sitting alone in her chair by the fire, staring at mystery. Who is it for? For her, but what was it? Hesitantly, the gorgeous girl rose, slowly walking to the black jar. Hands shaking, she opened it, peered inside—


The needle weaved under and over the thick yarn of Father McKenzie’s socks as he darned them with experienced care in the middle of the night. Alone to his thoughts, he let his mind wander. Eleanor Rigby… and her other side. Why did they always have to come into his mind? On the eve of their wedding, he had seen what she really was. The jar. He shuddered, letting his needle drop into his lap. The jar.
Clang!
Father McKenzie shot up, and before him was Eleanor Rigby. He looked at that lonely person, and she looked back.
Her scarlet lips, flawless skin, straight black hair, dainty nose—all beauty was replaced by the face of a horrid old lady with fiery eyes and wild, gray curly hair.
“Y-you’re back!”


In the past, that town thrived. Every Sunday, Father McKenzie preached to his people, and on Monday children gathered for school. But everything changed when the mysterious haunting murders occurred. No one ever found the killer, but a ghost-like woman was spotted after each gory, ghastly murder. Fear drove the town’s size down to a population of twenty people, and with so little inhabitants, the rest were forced to leave. Just one family was left, until Father McKenzie was hurt. A head hit too hard, a now delusional man in charge.
The beautiful Eleanor Rigby stayed with Father McKenzie; and in love they fell. The marriage didn’t take long to arrange; and so they were wed. But he watched her open the black jar, and she screamed, running outside. He chased after her, yet Eleanor Rigby was already gone. He searched for her and searched for her, and eventually she was found.
But Eleanor Rigby had changed.


Father McKenzie didn’t think; instead, he grabbed his darning needle, and jammed it into that woman’s heart. The scent of blood drifted to his nose. The woman collapsed. He just stared at her, and loneliness enveloped him.


Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved

Names

The first struggle I come up to as I start a book is names. What's my character's gender? Where do they come from? What time period do they live in? Should they have mystical names, or modern-day names? And I'm very picky about my main characters names. I want to put creativity in their names, some meaning behind the choosing. It shouldn't be too stiff, or too random, or too feminine (if it's a boy, that is).

I type this out as I flip through Latin names at babynamesworld.com - that's where I get most of my name ideas. *Sigh*. Maybe I'll just give him a weird name like Cassius (no offense to any Cassius's out there) and nick name him Spud. Spud's a good name. And I'm totally joking; I wouldn't do that to him.

Not knowing my characters personality really makes name-finding very difficult. I guess I'll just continue on with 'V', as I call him now, until I get to know him better.

This kind of thing makes me dread having a baby. :P

Hallo!

Welcome to Author's Sense! Here I will express my toils and struggles I pass through during my growth in writing, as well as my possible victories. If you care to, subscribe to the blog, comment on my posts. Just know while reading my author's life, that I am still new to this, but I want to become the best I can at what I love - poetry, criticism, and weaving a perfect picture and detailed story. I encourage you to castigate (good word, isn't it? means criticize) my writing and tell me how to make it better. I ensure I am good at taking criticism - my friends and family have made sure of that. :)

- Brina Brianna Bri