Work is starting up, and the goal for this summer amidst work is
finishing my book. It's not something like a chore, but it's more of a
push as to what will result in the end. Something will come out of the
rough draft, and something different will be made in the revision.
Beta-readers will look at this for what they see and each find something
different. The process is going strong, but I hope that along the way
my patience doesn't shrink thin.
A year ago, I started a novel project that had touched my imagination: what would someone do if they were being called by the dead and supposedly dying via his radio, in the middle of nowhere? EVP, or Electric Voice Phenomena, happens quite a bit in the paranormal community, with individuals finding clear voices telling them ghostly messages.
But this novel isn't about EVP, at least in my eye. I've worked with the novel for a year, and the focus has changed from a simple question to a character trying to relive a past that he never had through his son.
The result, as of right now, is a character lying, cheating, and even killing to get home and away from these demonic voices coming from technology. I've written over 48,000 words, and the end is coming sooner than expected, which is honestly more terrifying to me than what I'm writing about. It just can't end yet.
I've taken time away and back to the novel to help postpone the process. Some ideas come to me easily or feel they come out of the characters themselves, but in other case, pushing through has become a nuisance of what's crap and what's not (Shitty first drafts, Anne Lammott states). To get away from these thoughts, I've taken up archery, and I've learned that I'm okay at it. I hit the center several times this past Friday, one round being entirely of bullseyes.
Also, the sport relaxes me. For an hour, I can shoot arrows at a wall, sweating my shirt off in a building with no air-conditioning, yet I leave feeling great, maybe even energized.It's something I look forward to each week.
I miss the days when my novel really surprised and pushed me, much like archery is doing now. Things felt easier. I felt more accomplished after a good session, while now I feel accomplished but drained in some form. Is it the work load of my writing(1000 words)? Is it the time of day (Evenings before, afternoons now)? I'll have to take each day in front of the laptop and word processor as a new day, and if I don't get myself going on it, hope or not, no one will.
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Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Learning through Experiencing, Helping
I finished Stephen King's Cujo a week ago, which pushed me to start The Dead Zone, another novel written in his glory days before his freak accident, being hit while walking along a road. Another novel on my upcoming list is John Grisham's The Firm, which I am very excited to read. This past year has included the most novels that I have ever read, but it's all for good purpose.
Today, another author asked me to read a shorter piece of his. It was something different, an adult romance, and I gave it a good two hours of me commenting on it and making note of where conflict and scene goals are missing, something I myself have been missing through drafting and creating in revision.
And that's today's focus. Reading keeps the mind loose, the muse churning even when a writer closes up shop for the night. Like artists, we writers duplicate what we like from genres and writers we love. We throw out what he don't love, and that's that. Is this necessary for one to be a writer?
In a word: yes. Reading is just as important to writers as being bothersome is to a cuddling cat. The words we peel through in a novel, poem, or short work are what reload our own craft. Think of it like driving a car running purely on electricity, as cars these days tend to do.
You wouldn't fuel an electric car with water. Student writers try to do this by putting a piece off until the night before it's due. You wouldn't stare at the car and say you were driving it, yet young writers say they write when they actually only think of writing. Who does that?
A few friends and I had a good laugh, when one learned that a person he knew wrote in a genre he had never read.
Plain as the sun beating down on Death Valley, writers learn, grow, and feed in their craft by reading, writing, and assisting others through the process. Of course, meeting others and discussing writing can and should be a part of the work. Writing is solely not an activity for introverts. But the meat of what we do, repeated throughout the course of every writing reference you'll pick up, is gained by being a writer and reader.
Go and find yourself a good book, and start learning.
Today, another author asked me to read a shorter piece of his. It was something different, an adult romance, and I gave it a good two hours of me commenting on it and making note of where conflict and scene goals are missing, something I myself have been missing through drafting and creating in revision.
And that's today's focus. Reading keeps the mind loose, the muse churning even when a writer closes up shop for the night. Like artists, we writers duplicate what we like from genres and writers we love. We throw out what he don't love, and that's that. Is this necessary for one to be a writer?
In a word: yes. Reading is just as important to writers as being bothersome is to a cuddling cat. The words we peel through in a novel, poem, or short work are what reload our own craft. Think of it like driving a car running purely on electricity, as cars these days tend to do.
You wouldn't fuel an electric car with water. Student writers try to do this by putting a piece off until the night before it's due. You wouldn't stare at the car and say you were driving it, yet young writers say they write when they actually only think of writing. Who does that?
A few friends and I had a good laugh, when one learned that a person he knew wrote in a genre he had never read.
Plain as the sun beating down on Death Valley, writers learn, grow, and feed in their craft by reading, writing, and assisting others through the process. Of course, meeting others and discussing writing can and should be a part of the work. Writing is solely not an activity for introverts. But the meat of what we do, repeated throughout the course of every writing reference you'll pick up, is gained by being a writer and reader.
Go and find yourself a good book, and start learning.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Traveling in the Mind and on the Page
The map of California stands in front of me. I drew it, so half of the
state looks bent, and crackles of marker roads lead from one blob, San
Francisco, to an X, Los Angeles. I stare at the marker trail and hum to
myself.
At the end of the room sits the professor and one student. She's asking for help on her essay, and while privacy is asked, I hear muffles of thoughts over from the white board in the center of the room. In front me, scribbles of thoughts, ideas and musings create noise in my brain.
I've driven the road, Frisco to LA, many times. On my trips up north, I enjoy the desolation such a drive creates. There's nothing for miles; then highways become loops and drops. After thirty minutes, it's back to driving on a plain for hours it seems. I call it living-in-limbo.
In a work-in-progess novel I have, one character is driving from the bay to southern California, and the landmarks are just as important as the scenarios the character faces. He's taking the Grapevine, a road that leads up and down slopes steeper than most get to drive in their lives. Half of the time, the Grapevine is closed. Weather conditions are so adverse that travelers must listen to the radio and news just to know what will happen.
My eyes follow the trail I've scribbled, and I think of the small curio stores, the repetitive McDonald's and diner locations. My family's stopped at most, so I try to smell the grease hanging in the air, the sun beating down on our necks. At night, the hubbles are the only source of light for miles.
Traveling is something that I love, for it gives me a chance to see new worlds, even if they're only an hour or more away. Family vacations have turned into horrifying, lonely settings for my characters, and desolate locations themselves have turned into themes of hope, promise.
Americans, I argue, don't do it enough. Vacations are spent at Disneyland, New York, or somewhere so tourist filled one can taste the churros or street hotdogs. But real, American road trips have fallen out of peoples' repertoire.
I wipe my hand over the scribbled road and destroy half of California. It's ten. I walk to my professor and pass him what I have. We talk, and we leave the room to head downstairs, where his dog and wife wait. We leave, and I'm back on a lamp-lit road, heading home.
At the end of the room sits the professor and one student. She's asking for help on her essay, and while privacy is asked, I hear muffles of thoughts over from the white board in the center of the room. In front me, scribbles of thoughts, ideas and musings create noise in my brain.
I've driven the road, Frisco to LA, many times. On my trips up north, I enjoy the desolation such a drive creates. There's nothing for miles; then highways become loops and drops. After thirty minutes, it's back to driving on a plain for hours it seems. I call it living-in-limbo.
In a work-in-progess novel I have, one character is driving from the bay to southern California, and the landmarks are just as important as the scenarios the character faces. He's taking the Grapevine, a road that leads up and down slopes steeper than most get to drive in their lives. Half of the time, the Grapevine is closed. Weather conditions are so adverse that travelers must listen to the radio and news just to know what will happen.My eyes follow the trail I've scribbled, and I think of the small curio stores, the repetitive McDonald's and diner locations. My family's stopped at most, so I try to smell the grease hanging in the air, the sun beating down on our necks. At night, the hubbles are the only source of light for miles.
Traveling is something that I love, for it gives me a chance to see new worlds, even if they're only an hour or more away. Family vacations have turned into horrifying, lonely settings for my characters, and desolate locations themselves have turned into themes of hope, promise.
Americans, I argue, don't do it enough. Vacations are spent at Disneyland, New York, or somewhere so tourist filled one can taste the churros or street hotdogs. But real, American road trips have fallen out of peoples' repertoire.
I wipe my hand over the scribbled road and destroy half of California. It's ten. I walk to my professor and pass him what I have. We talk, and we leave the room to head downstairs, where his dog and wife wait. We leave, and I'm back on a lamp-lit road, heading home.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Speedbumps: A Writer's Nightmare
The last thing I remember was the plastic mask slipping over my face and the slipping of what felt like a scorpion's tail in my arm. They had asked me to sign one last waiver, and in the reclined chair, one arm hooked to a machine measuring my heart rate, everything went black as they pulled the clipboard away.
When I woke up, I was sitting in the passenger seat of my mother's Honda Fit, holding a strawberry shake from In n Out with the lid and straw missing, blood on the cup's lip. My head throbbed. Even worse, my cheeks felt punched by the same IV that had been stapled to my arm. I felt happy. I leaned to my driver and told her thanks, that I loved her, and that In n Out was the shit.
For the next few days, I stayed in bed with pain medicine and antibiotics at the ready. Books were thrown on the floor. I had no interest in Watership Down outside of wanting to hold a rabbit and squeeze it between jaw spasms. My mind was entirely on sleeping off the pain and medicating myself back to sleep. I still wonder if I need a slip of pills just to fall asleep.
Everything I've worked on until this point has stopped. I have one piece moving around with my beta-readers, but it's due for submission before March. My novel hit 30,000 words a week ago. I posted on Facebook in joy, for it's an achievement I've never thought I would ever reach. Now, it feels like a past vacation that had too many good memories.
Wisdom teeth or not, there are many reasons why writers pull away from their workload. For me, I can't handle the mix of pain and creation. Creation is birth, and while some argue that birth is pain, this birth is not. For others, the loss of a home or loved one might draw him out of his creative world. It really depends on the person; however, it's not something we surely want to explore.
My jaws feel tender, but I can sit in a chair and read, now. The words pepper into my mind better than before. I know I should have my glasses on. The steam of a bowl of soup keeps me focused, because my mind is keeping me working for the next spoonful of noodles.
Work will return next week, and writing will fall back into my life on weekends, days off from homework or studies, maybe. It's hard to say when those days are, but I plan to let them come, and when they do, I'll feel healthy once again.
When I woke up, I was sitting in the passenger seat of my mother's Honda Fit, holding a strawberry shake from In n Out with the lid and straw missing, blood on the cup's lip. My head throbbed. Even worse, my cheeks felt punched by the same IV that had been stapled to my arm. I felt happy. I leaned to my driver and told her thanks, that I loved her, and that In n Out was the shit.
For the next few days, I stayed in bed with pain medicine and antibiotics at the ready. Books were thrown on the floor. I had no interest in Watership Down outside of wanting to hold a rabbit and squeeze it between jaw spasms. My mind was entirely on sleeping off the pain and medicating myself back to sleep. I still wonder if I need a slip of pills just to fall asleep.
Everything I've worked on until this point has stopped. I have one piece moving around with my beta-readers, but it's due for submission before March. My novel hit 30,000 words a week ago. I posted on Facebook in joy, for it's an achievement I've never thought I would ever reach. Now, it feels like a past vacation that had too many good memories.
Wisdom teeth or not, there are many reasons why writers pull away from their workload. For me, I can't handle the mix of pain and creation. Creation is birth, and while some argue that birth is pain, this birth is not. For others, the loss of a home or loved one might draw him out of his creative world. It really depends on the person; however, it's not something we surely want to explore.
My jaws feel tender, but I can sit in a chair and read, now. The words pepper into my mind better than before. I know I should have my glasses on. The steam of a bowl of soup keeps me focused, because my mind is keeping me working for the next spoonful of noodles.
Work will return next week, and writing will fall back into my life on weekends, days off from homework or studies, maybe. It's hard to say when those days are, but I plan to let them come, and when they do, I'll feel healthy once again.
Friday, February 7, 2014
A Hobbit and Several Spiders
The bathroom is one of the only places in my home where I can escape to read another chapter or sentence without being disturbed. I pick the parent's bathroom, because there's a heater, and even if I've never felt a mid-western freeze, a cold seat is a cold seat with jeans or without. Sometimes, I get through a couple chapters. It really depends on the book.
Reading allows me to escape. Like many, I find that some books pull stress away better than others. Just recently, I finished J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. This was one book I actually was able to finish in bed. It wasn't because of my family, however.
Above the toilet in my parent's restroom looms a web that stretches from the window to the towel racks, and changing his place every visit, the spider is a bulb with matchsticks for legs. Flies hang, and dust weighs the web down further.
In The Hobbit, Bilbo handles giant, menacing spiders with the power of his one ring (which we all know without even having to read the damn thing). The spiders have his friends hang from cocoons, and their noses and toes poke out, letting Bilbo know who's who.
I didn't even realize this bug of mine was watching me until something fell and rolled down my bare-back one morning. I jumped from the seat, clothed (no, I wasn't doing anything, just reading). Standing, I hit the web. More touches me. Thankfully, the only person awake was my father, and he spends his time in the back, so he didn't hear me yelp like a wounded Old Yeller.
In comparison, the spiders in Tolkien's novel aren't that scary. They talk and plan, something we don't see from spiders. To me, this humanizes them and makes them no more scarier than the hairy guy in the Big Bird suit on TV. Real spiders, things, terrorize us because we as readers or viewers don't see the mind behind the creature, demon, or spirit. In literature, we see the effect it brings on the protagonists or unlucky side characters, but not once are we told why something does what it does. Worst of all, if our characters are weak or injured, our hearts begin to pound at these things.
My spider is still hanging over the toilet, but I duck my head as to not disturb him. He's gained some new trophies, and had I caught them, I wouldn't want someone to knock them into a bowl. It turns out this is a new spider, with even thinner legs and larger eyes. My spider, who I knocked and hollered at during those early morning hours, hangs in one corner, bundled up into a sack.
Reading allows me to escape. Like many, I find that some books pull stress away better than others. Just recently, I finished J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. This was one book I actually was able to finish in bed. It wasn't because of my family, however.
Above the toilet in my parent's restroom looms a web that stretches from the window to the towel racks, and changing his place every visit, the spider is a bulb with matchsticks for legs. Flies hang, and dust weighs the web down further.
In The Hobbit, Bilbo handles giant, menacing spiders with the power of his one ring (which we all know without even having to read the damn thing). The spiders have his friends hang from cocoons, and their noses and toes poke out, letting Bilbo know who's who.
I didn't even realize this bug of mine was watching me until something fell and rolled down my bare-back one morning. I jumped from the seat, clothed (no, I wasn't doing anything, just reading). Standing, I hit the web. More touches me. Thankfully, the only person awake was my father, and he spends his time in the back, so he didn't hear me yelp like a wounded Old Yeller.
In comparison, the spiders in Tolkien's novel aren't that scary. They talk and plan, something we don't see from spiders. To me, this humanizes them and makes them no more scarier than the hairy guy in the Big Bird suit on TV. Real spiders, things, terrorize us because we as readers or viewers don't see the mind behind the creature, demon, or spirit. In literature, we see the effect it brings on the protagonists or unlucky side characters, but not once are we told why something does what it does. Worst of all, if our characters are weak or injured, our hearts begin to pound at these things.
My spider is still hanging over the toilet, but I duck my head as to not disturb him. He's gained some new trophies, and had I caught them, I wouldn't want someone to knock them into a bowl. It turns out this is a new spider, with even thinner legs and larger eyes. My spider, who I knocked and hollered at during those early morning hours, hangs in one corner, bundled up into a sack.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Writing Horror and Leaping from Chairs
When I was five, or some age around then, my father showed my brother and me one of our first movies, Steven King's IT, starring Tim Curry. I screamed and hid my face, but I also watched in curious fascination. No, I didn't want to become some murderous clown. I like clowns, but I don't like those clowns. What interested me was how such a simple idea could tug on my fears and leave me shaking.
Writing eerie, spine-chilling prose brings its own excitement, which is just as good as reading or watching horror. Watching IT, I had no idea what the characters were going to do or what Pennnywise was going to do. I was victim to the director's finished product. In writing, I find myself getting just as scared. Why?
As a writer, one experiences some things for the first time much like the reader. We feel the startles and lures before the reader. We see what it's like to be in the situation the characters are in, deciding whether to take the stairs up or to jump out the suddenly unbreakable window and be dragged into the closet. Readers only experience the end result, which only takes one direction.
We also experience nightmares like our readers, but ours are much more real: failure. There is not one author out there who does not worry whether his or her work will be the best he/she can do. We are writers because we have a certain amount of OCD in our DNA, but we embrace it with our editing and revising skills. We basically clean a closet until it's perfect for the eyes of others before moving to the next cluttered nook.
My friend made me leap out of my chair when I was finishing my most recent piece. I had begun to pull out of the climax point, and the character is on her bed, crying. She hears the spiritual force knocking around the house then run down the hall, out the door, and possibly take her SO with it. This ending was one I didn't see coming, and I was worried if it was even the right ending to take.
A pinging sounded screeched through my ear-bud headphones and into my ears.
With a quick breath, my body rose from the chair and shuddered, and I cried out. I clicked the Facebook tab (which shouldn't have been open in the first place).
Christine had sent me a photo of her cats with Santa. He couldn't hold them, so the jolly-man held their small paws. She laughed after a good scolding from me, and she told me to get back into my story.
Writing eerie, spine-chilling prose brings its own excitement, which is just as good as reading or watching horror. Watching IT, I had no idea what the characters were going to do or what Pennnywise was going to do. I was victim to the director's finished product. In writing, I find myself getting just as scared. Why?
As a writer, one experiences some things for the first time much like the reader. We feel the startles and lures before the reader. We see what it's like to be in the situation the characters are in, deciding whether to take the stairs up or to jump out the suddenly unbreakable window and be dragged into the closet. Readers only experience the end result, which only takes one direction.
We also experience nightmares like our readers, but ours are much more real: failure. There is not one author out there who does not worry whether his or her work will be the best he/she can do. We are writers because we have a certain amount of OCD in our DNA, but we embrace it with our editing and revising skills. We basically clean a closet until it's perfect for the eyes of others before moving to the next cluttered nook.
My friend made me leap out of my chair when I was finishing my most recent piece. I had begun to pull out of the climax point, and the character is on her bed, crying. She hears the spiritual force knocking around the house then run down the hall, out the door, and possibly take her SO with it. This ending was one I didn't see coming, and I was worried if it was even the right ending to take.
A pinging sounded screeched through my ear-bud headphones and into my ears.
With a quick breath, my body rose from the chair and shuddered, and I cried out. I clicked the Facebook tab (which shouldn't have been open in the first place).
Christine had sent me a photo of her cats with Santa. He couldn't hold them, so the jolly-man held their small paws. She laughed after a good scolding from me, and she told me to get back into my story.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Nanowrimo and the Invasion of the Body Snatchers
On November 1st, precisely at twelve A.M. when everyone is to be asleep, select individuals are wiped clean of their existence. They are not the same person anymore; their name is a vague look back to the previous person who used to control the body. When they wake up, several hours later, they will get up, wash, and be changed forever.
It sounds like a thrilling Science Fiction film, but it's Nanowrimo, the latest craze to hit the literary world since hardcover books. Nanowrimo is an annual event where writers promise to finish fifty-thousand words of a working novel draft within a month, and each day is a contest to complete the much needed word count goal. It illustrates the ongoing challenges authors go through while expressing that anyone can write if they sit down, silence everything, and write.
But writing this much in a day is inhuman, alien even. Students, hobbyist, parents, and others take this challenge and become someone new. Their minds become driven to find the next plot point, the next story direction. Their fingers wriggle out in a flurry of typing. Even when away from a keyboard, the victim cannot control his or her hands as they wait to cling to a writing device. The host becomes, dare I say it, an author.
Nanowrimo is great because it sets a goal for these new authors. Its no weaker than a manuscript deadline an editor might give, nor is it weaker than one an author would put on himself alone. Individuals can finish fifteen-hundred words in an afternoon and say, hey, I'm really doing this.
Being an author is very difficult. While society might dictate that writing is simply play, it's not. We are paid little money, with little hope, to play the lottery with ourselves. Will this turn out as great as I thought? Who knows. Will I make it big? Why is this even a question? We writers write because we enjoy it, love it even. The rush of words coming from what feels like nowhere is cathartic, and we have to constantly fight ourselves for free time, something that is a luxury.
That's what Nanowrimo gives us: a helping hand. You must get through your first draft without looking back, you must write this within thirty days, and you must enjoy yourself. That's it. It will not make you an award-winning author, nor will it make you the next Stephenie Meyers. However, it will change you, make you into a new being that's determined, creative, inspired, and perhaps even a future author.
If you start talking about a spaceship or next big invasion, however, you're on your own.
It sounds like a thrilling Science Fiction film, but it's Nanowrimo, the latest craze to hit the literary world since hardcover books. Nanowrimo is an annual event where writers promise to finish fifty-thousand words of a working novel draft within a month, and each day is a contest to complete the much needed word count goal. It illustrates the ongoing challenges authors go through while expressing that anyone can write if they sit down, silence everything, and write.
But writing this much in a day is inhuman, alien even. Students, hobbyist, parents, and others take this challenge and become someone new. Their minds become driven to find the next plot point, the next story direction. Their fingers wriggle out in a flurry of typing. Even when away from a keyboard, the victim cannot control his or her hands as they wait to cling to a writing device. The host becomes, dare I say it, an author.
Nanowrimo is great because it sets a goal for these new authors. Its no weaker than a manuscript deadline an editor might give, nor is it weaker than one an author would put on himself alone. Individuals can finish fifteen-hundred words in an afternoon and say, hey, I'm really doing this.
Being an author is very difficult. While society might dictate that writing is simply play, it's not. We are paid little money, with little hope, to play the lottery with ourselves. Will this turn out as great as I thought? Who knows. Will I make it big? Why is this even a question? We writers write because we enjoy it, love it even. The rush of words coming from what feels like nowhere is cathartic, and we have to constantly fight ourselves for free time, something that is a luxury.
That's what Nanowrimo gives us: a helping hand. You must get through your first draft without looking back, you must write this within thirty days, and you must enjoy yourself. That's it. It will not make you an award-winning author, nor will it make you the next Stephenie Meyers. However, it will change you, make you into a new being that's determined, creative, inspired, and perhaps even a future author.
If you start talking about a spaceship or next big invasion, however, you're on your own.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Summer Travels
Napa, California, was something more than what I expected it to be. At first, I had heard it was where tourists visited to taste wine, get drunk, then regret it and move on back towards their work schedules and lives. My friends made it sound as though it was a location filled with older people three-times my age and up taking photos to show their grandchildren. My grandmother had planned it, and while she is older, I didn't take what my friends had said and applied it to her. Instead, I went with an open mind, a legal pad, and a plan.
My brother decided not to come with us, but that didn't stop the rest of us from enjoying ourselves. Of course, there's the wine, which starts at downtown Napa and leads up north past where he had stopped, a winery built within a renaissance-esque castle.
But I wasn't there for wine. Instead, I was there with the opportunity to tell others I had been there, something much like the idea that it's more fun to have written than to actually write. I did taste wine, but it was too dry for me, and when I did find the wines I enjoyed, the one slipping my glasses gave me two bottles and a wave of the hand (I think my grandma bought three).
Wine is not the only taste of Napa, we learned, as I had spotted a diner filled with people out the front and down near the curb. Stopping, we had lunch and the burgers, much to my expectations, were amazing. As a write, I would make up some excuse to return and draft a novel, or an article such as this. But I would return in actuality to this very stand, and I would have another of their delicious bacon-cheeseburgers.
Throughout the trip, my legal-pad sat in my Mickey Mouse labled backpack, and stories bled out of me unlike anything I had experienced before. Driving up the 5 at the start, I thought of a man driving home from a business conference to a static-filled radio; however, in the static, he hears the world ending and his loved ones dying. While trying to find our hotel, I illustrated the conflicts faced within five pages and thought of a gas-station attendant too bored out of her mind that she helped us. I sit here now remembering these incidents and tales, and it feels as though I could push them out as one reads this.
We left Napa only after a short stay and traveled to San Francisco, a city too close to my heart to forget. It's a different world in that several different cultures blend into one fondue of creativity, openness, and passion. Walking down the streets and seeing the filled cable cars demonstrates the passion these people hold while going to a Giants game. Visiting Milk Plaza and seeing a district built on rights and freedom is eye-opening to say the least. The music's not bad, either. In this way, traveling is an amazing way to see what's out there--artist, writer, student, or none.
I travel with my family every summer, and even though some rides can be rough, the ability to capture an entire destination in words and pictures is astounding. Growing up, I never had the chance to see outside the walls of my family's homes. Now, as I travel to conferences, conventions, and possibly haunted locations, my life is able to become something much grander than what I had ever dreamed. Writers, spend some time out in the world and see what's out there to inspire you. Artists, visit the oceans, mountains, and sunsets, and capture it all in paint, sketch, or photography.
Families, don't bring your six-year-old to Napa and ask him why he won't keep quiet. He won't, so just go with it, and write it down.
My brother decided not to come with us, but that didn't stop the rest of us from enjoying ourselves. Of course, there's the wine, which starts at downtown Napa and leads up north past where he had stopped, a winery built within a renaissance-esque castle.
Wine is not the only taste of Napa, we learned, as I had spotted a diner filled with people out the front and down near the curb. Stopping, we had lunch and the burgers, much to my expectations, were amazing. As a write, I would make up some excuse to return and draft a novel, or an article such as this. But I would return in actuality to this very stand, and I would have another of their delicious bacon-cheeseburgers.
We left Napa only after a short stay and traveled to San Francisco, a city too close to my heart to forget. It's a different world in that several different cultures blend into one fondue of creativity, openness, and passion. Walking down the streets and seeing the filled cable cars demonstrates the passion these people hold while going to a Giants game. Visiting Milk Plaza and seeing a district built on rights and freedom is eye-opening to say the least. The music's not bad, either. In this way, traveling is an amazing way to see what's out there--artist, writer, student, or none.
Families, don't bring your six-year-old to Napa and ask him why he won't keep quiet. He won't, so just go with it, and write it down.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Handling Rejection: Advice for the New Writer
When I first started writing, rejection was a weight in my stomach that never went away. Even today, it's still there, and with each story I send out, the weight grows stronger. But that's not what writing's about, I tell myself.
Yes, rejection is a natural part of the writing process. Some stories work with some magazines, and other stories need to be placed somewhere else--that's how the business works. However, we write because we have a story to tell, something that someone out there must know. For myself, it's the common struggle that minorities face every day as they work towards equality or a higher form of understanding. To others, it might be an action filled, horrifying tale of what happened during vacation. Now, in what part of these is there rejection?
It's crazy, but being a writer is all about, you guessed it, writing. Publishing is only a gold coin that adds flavor to our passion, so if one magazine doesn't accept our story, we can look at the story for what it is, maybe revise it a bit more, then move to the next magazine and see where it goes--that's it.
Writers carry such a burden with rejection, however, because it's their work--their children. To see our offspring be rejected is hard, and it does hurt. Writers need to remember, however, they are not being rejected as a person.
In Catch! A Fishmongers Guide to Greatness, Cyndi Crother and the World Famous Pike Place Fish crew discuss that when working, they carry a short motto that allows them to remember everything's not as bad as it seems. Their phrase is "it's all over here," meaning that whatever negative ideas that are thought are not from others, but from ourselves (16). When I first started writing, I felt that I would never get published. At the time, I felt that in order to be a writer, I needed to be published. Writing stories became difficult because I would want them perfect, and the pieces eventually just ended up in my laptop's recycle bin. However, once I let go that editors and publishers were out to destroy my work and mood, writing and submitting became easier.
And that's the most important thing: submitting and being rejected is easy. When someone asks if we would like a glass of water, and we say no, the other person hopefully is not hurt by our rejection. The same thing applies here, but editors feel that our work is not fit for their magazine. Well, what do we do after a rejection, then?
Send to another magazine and keep writing.
It takes courage to continue to send out stories, poems, and novels with the idea rejection could be there, but rejection is not a way to destroy us. Publishers and editors want our stories; they want someone to hear what we have to say. As writers, our job is to enjoy our passion and see who else possibly would like to tell our story.
It's been a year since my first story was accepted, and for twelve months I received a large amount of rejections. Instead of letting them burden me, I printed the first rejection I received and posted it on the wall, telling myself that it's just a piece of paper ("It's all over here"). As authors, our job is to tell a story, and someone out there wants to hear it. It might take time to find that person, but when we do find them, it's the best feeling ever.
Until then, we just keep writing.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Writing Tutoring and the Future
As a writing tutor, I get an experience of both being a student and a teacher. It's an odd mix as I have never thought of myself as a teacher, but I've been told by students that's how we--meaning tutors--are seen as. That's not the reason I tutor, however. For me, tutoring is a way to keep myself busy and talking and thinking about writing. Some would argue that's like doing homework every day, but I find it play-time.
This semester was different for me as I actually had a professor mentor over me while I tutored in her classroom. It was a new form of work I have never been given, and it brought many challenges along the way. But I ultimately learned a lot, such as how to handle the different types of learners further, how much planning goes into a lesson, how flexible a professor/instructor must be with the tasks at hand and how the students digest it, and how many ways writing can be looked at. Not only did this help me as a tutor, but this affected me in my writing.
The structures and tones I witnessed opened my eyes, and the stories some students told me gave me a further glance into human nature and the conflicts that can occur. One student, an older woman, told me large stories of her day-to-day concerns and accomplishments; then she proceeded to discuss how if something happens on a small scale, it can affect her and the day in its entirety. Story wise, this gave me the opportunity to apply ideas on character direction in impossible, stressful situations. Even in non-stressful situation, a character could react horribly, putting them into a new conflict (though, the student I speak of never did such a thing, I must add). The position didn't just affect my fiction, but it changed how I viewed my own future and direction.
Two years ago, I would have never thought of becoming a professor in anything, but I fin myself thinking towards the idea every day. Being payed to help others and push them to a new level with writing, something I'm passionate for, sounds amazing even there are those who are obviously less passionate. Furthermore, my own studies have revealed that I'm heavily interested in focusing on female literature and feminist arguments even more so than I had thought before. I plan to see a counselor next week and announce my major in English, so I'm excited, but as the semester wraps up, My plan is to dive heavily in fiction.
As a student, it's difficult to find free time that works with class, work, and fiction writing. The same can be argued for anything: being a professor, parent, business-person, police-officer, etc. But these next few months will allow me to tackle my writing skills at the same level I had previously, and I will be able to read as many books as I want to assist. The students laughed when I stated I would be writing all summer, but they didn't realize how much this is a passion for me. That, or maybe my thriller stories are really starting to affect me.
This semester was different for me as I actually had a professor mentor over me while I tutored in her classroom. It was a new form of work I have never been given, and it brought many challenges along the way. But I ultimately learned a lot, such as how to handle the different types of learners further, how much planning goes into a lesson, how flexible a professor/instructor must be with the tasks at hand and how the students digest it, and how many ways writing can be looked at. Not only did this help me as a tutor, but this affected me in my writing.
The structures and tones I witnessed opened my eyes, and the stories some students told me gave me a further glance into human nature and the conflicts that can occur. One student, an older woman, told me large stories of her day-to-day concerns and accomplishments; then she proceeded to discuss how if something happens on a small scale, it can affect her and the day in its entirety. Story wise, this gave me the opportunity to apply ideas on character direction in impossible, stressful situations. Even in non-stressful situation, a character could react horribly, putting them into a new conflict (though, the student I speak of never did such a thing, I must add). The position didn't just affect my fiction, but it changed how I viewed my own future and direction.
Two years ago, I would have never thought of becoming a professor in anything, but I fin myself thinking towards the idea every day. Being payed to help others and push them to a new level with writing, something I'm passionate for, sounds amazing even there are those who are obviously less passionate. Furthermore, my own studies have revealed that I'm heavily interested in focusing on female literature and feminist arguments even more so than I had thought before. I plan to see a counselor next week and announce my major in English, so I'm excited, but as the semester wraps up, My plan is to dive heavily in fiction.
As a student, it's difficult to find free time that works with class, work, and fiction writing. The same can be argued for anything: being a professor, parent, business-person, police-officer, etc. But these next few months will allow me to tackle my writing skills at the same level I had previously, and I will be able to read as many books as I want to assist. The students laughed when I stated I would be writing all summer, but they didn't realize how much this is a passion for me. That, or maybe my thriller stories are really starting to affect me.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Open Arms and Manuscripts: Writers' Weekend and the Jitters
This past weekend in sunny Southern California, Mt. San Antonio College hosted its Writers' Weekend event, a three day conference consisting of students, professors, published writers, and professionals all following one passion: writing, of course! It started on Friday with opening ceremonies and pushed through to Sunday with hours of creativity and socialization. And as a writer with anxiety, this was an amazing experience.
At the beginning, I was a bit nervous on what would happen, but in an hour of that, every sign of worry went out the door. Yes, I hand the schedule in my hands, and I had planned which events were my go-to choices, but that didn't make things easier; even with a clear path and destination, my mind is working overtime to try and plot possible scenarios. However, I found myself enjoying the plan I had set forth, and each panel was educational and enjoyable. One of the highest points was having the chance to meet Bonnie Hearn Hill, an author and one of the friendliest persons I have ever met. Walking in, I didn't know what to expect, but the discussion, which progressed for fifteen minutes, was amazing. We discussed writing in its structure and even found ourselves on the topic of Virginia Woolf. I passed a story to her and was ecstatic to find it was taken well; being creative, I take my work as what it is, but hearing someone compliment it nearly gave me heart-palpitations. The session reminded me that everyone in the writing community is there for each other, regardless of level, and that was a special thing to experience. While meeting other writers was a special moment, the panels were just as eye-opening.
Sunny Frasier, an acquisitions editor and mystery author, hosted a panel on genre fiction, which presented the world of publishing in a realistic, understandable way. As artists, writers have multiple reasons for why they create, such as passion or hobbies. For me, writing is a form of release and meditation, communicating to the outside world what the darkness is and how to overcome it (Stephen King calls it telepathy in his memoir, On Writing [which you all should read!]). But, like everything, we writers need to make a living, and Sunny presented how it is possible to do so with publishing. Genre is a form of entertainment, like all forms of reading, but it's more commercial than literary fiction, text that is seen regularly in College. Sunny's words of encouragement and wisdom were entertaining on their, and I know that I'll be keeping these notes with me every time I write.
While not as big as major writing conferences, Writers' Weekend brought me further into the literary world; I engaged myself with people of similar interests, and the anxiety and fear washed away at how excited and friendly everyone was. Of course, that's the case for everything, but in an art form that relies heavily on solitude, it's nice to remember that there are others out there pulling their hair just as much as I am.
I highly recommend Writers' Weekend, whether handling anxiety, publishing, or not. It's a glorious event with educated, creative people, and they gave away free pizza (now, let's not make that the only reason it was great). Looking forward to returning, I plan to spread the word out, and use what I've learned for writing sessions to come. Kudos to John Brantingham, Llyod Aquino, Michelle Dougherty, and the volunteers who put it all together.
At the beginning, I was a bit nervous on what would happen, but in an hour of that, every sign of worry went out the door. Yes, I hand the schedule in my hands, and I had planned which events were my go-to choices, but that didn't make things easier; even with a clear path and destination, my mind is working overtime to try and plot possible scenarios. However, I found myself enjoying the plan I had set forth, and each panel was educational and enjoyable. One of the highest points was having the chance to meet Bonnie Hearn Hill, an author and one of the friendliest persons I have ever met. Walking in, I didn't know what to expect, but the discussion, which progressed for fifteen minutes, was amazing. We discussed writing in its structure and even found ourselves on the topic of Virginia Woolf. I passed a story to her and was ecstatic to find it was taken well; being creative, I take my work as what it is, but hearing someone compliment it nearly gave me heart-palpitations. The session reminded me that everyone in the writing community is there for each other, regardless of level, and that was a special thing to experience. While meeting other writers was a special moment, the panels were just as eye-opening.
Sunny Frasier, an acquisitions editor and mystery author, hosted a panel on genre fiction, which presented the world of publishing in a realistic, understandable way. As artists, writers have multiple reasons for why they create, such as passion or hobbies. For me, writing is a form of release and meditation, communicating to the outside world what the darkness is and how to overcome it (Stephen King calls it telepathy in his memoir, On Writing [which you all should read!]). But, like everything, we writers need to make a living, and Sunny presented how it is possible to do so with publishing. Genre is a form of entertainment, like all forms of reading, but it's more commercial than literary fiction, text that is seen regularly in College. Sunny's words of encouragement and wisdom were entertaining on their, and I know that I'll be keeping these notes with me every time I write.
While not as big as major writing conferences, Writers' Weekend brought me further into the literary world; I engaged myself with people of similar interests, and the anxiety and fear washed away at how excited and friendly everyone was. Of course, that's the case for everything, but in an art form that relies heavily on solitude, it's nice to remember that there are others out there pulling their hair just as much as I am.
I highly recommend Writers' Weekend, whether handling anxiety, publishing, or not. It's a glorious event with educated, creative people, and they gave away free pizza (now, let's not make that the only reason it was great). Looking forward to returning, I plan to spread the word out, and use what I've learned for writing sessions to come. Kudos to John Brantingham, Llyod Aquino, Michelle Dougherty, and the volunteers who put it all together.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Writing from the Prompt
In college, one of the most important things when it comes to writing is being able to follow directions correctly by understanding what's asked. If a professor states they want a four page minimum and several sources prevalent throughout the piece, then it's best to give them what they ask for; however, essays and summaries are not the only forms of writing that can be prompted.
I visited the classroom of John Brantingham after work to visit the Creative-Writing Club, a group of writers I haven't worked with before. He wasn't there, taking some time off to recover, but the club was hosted by the president and other coordinators. Walking in late, I slipped into the back, but I found myself added to the activities of introducing ones self and, of course, writing under a timed, prompt restrained setting. We were asked to write creatively, though: fiction and poetry was up for grabs, and I decided on doing the fiction. For the short-story, we had a few restraints written on the board:
"Can you tell me why he's following you?" David wiped the sweat off his brow, staring out the bungalow's front window.
Amy held herself from an unseen breeze. "I'm not sure, but he's everywhere."
"He can't be everywhere."
"Yes, he can," she said.
David turned. The golden giraffe pin, something only given to experienced handlers throughout the year--from what he said--glinted in the young woman's eyes, burning her. It illuminated her split ends into hanging embers of ash.
"Listen, Amy, you're just tired. You've been working too much."
She sighed. "And what are you saying?"
"No one's chasing you out there, is what I mean; no one's hunting you."
"You don't know. You don't know what I've been through," she said. "The freak watches me sleep. And that makeup."
David turned to the window once more, palm on the glass with the other hand up.
"His makeup looks like he buck-fumbled through it."
"Does it frighten you?" he asked.
Amy opened her lips, glancing at the handler. She wanted to tell him yes. She wanted to say how she wished David would hold her, letting her cry in his arms, taking away the weeks of hiding in the restroom and tidying a knife beneath her pillow. But, when he turned, her eyes clenched at the reflection of his dulled, misshapen clown nose.
It isn't much, but it gave me a chance to just let a story come out, and allow the characters to breathe and become their own entities. Working with this novel, The Neptune, has pulled me from that very idea; I feel as though I need to plot so heavily, when I should let the work write itself instead.
For Mt. Sac students, the club is on Thursdays, 2:30 to 4:00 P.M. and is hosted in 3411 of 26A. I'm personally looking forward to returning. Stop by if you want to give writing a chance!
I visited the classroom of John Brantingham after work to visit the Creative-Writing Club, a group of writers I haven't worked with before. He wasn't there, taking some time off to recover, but the club was hosted by the president and other coordinators. Walking in late, I slipped into the back, but I found myself added to the activities of introducing ones self and, of course, writing under a timed, prompt restrained setting. We were asked to write creatively, though: fiction and poetry was up for grabs, and I decided on doing the fiction. For the short-story, we had a few restraints written on the board:
- The Protagonist's name was Amy.
- Amy worked in a clown store.
- She was deeply in love with a giraffe handler.
- Amy had an evil clown stalker.
- We must use the word "Buck-fumbling" within the literature.
"Can you tell me why he's following you?" David wiped the sweat off his brow, staring out the bungalow's front window.
Amy held herself from an unseen breeze. "I'm not sure, but he's everywhere."
"He can't be everywhere."
"Yes, he can," she said.
David turned. The golden giraffe pin, something only given to experienced handlers throughout the year--from what he said--glinted in the young woman's eyes, burning her. It illuminated her split ends into hanging embers of ash.
"Listen, Amy, you're just tired. You've been working too much."
She sighed. "And what are you saying?"
"No one's chasing you out there, is what I mean; no one's hunting you."
"You don't know. You don't know what I've been through," she said. "The freak watches me sleep. And that makeup."
David turned to the window once more, palm on the glass with the other hand up.
"His makeup looks like he buck-fumbled through it."
"Does it frighten you?" he asked.
Amy opened her lips, glancing at the handler. She wanted to tell him yes. She wanted to say how she wished David would hold her, letting her cry in his arms, taking away the weeks of hiding in the restroom and tidying a knife beneath her pillow. But, when he turned, her eyes clenched at the reflection of his dulled, misshapen clown nose.
It isn't much, but it gave me a chance to just let a story come out, and allow the characters to breathe and become their own entities. Working with this novel, The Neptune, has pulled me from that very idea; I feel as though I need to plot so heavily, when I should let the work write itself instead.
For Mt. Sac students, the club is on Thursdays, 2:30 to 4:00 P.M. and is hosted in 3411 of 26A. I'm personally looking forward to returning. Stop by if you want to give writing a chance!
Sunday, March 10, 2013
A New Chapter
With the last chapter written, I'm happy to say that my work-in-progress
horror novel, The Neptune, has its first "book" completed. Yes, this is
just the drafting stage, but it's a benchmark for me that I've never
felt would ever come.
One year ago, I had just came out of a dark, dark place in my life, and was working towards recovery in any way I could. School was a part of my life and I couldn't give that up, so I took extra classes to try and stay focused on something physical, rather than worry on something mental. I met an amazing professor who showed me I did have something to add to this world, and she allowed me to meet another professor, a great man who has become my mentor in creative writing.
Now, that's not to say I'm completely recovered; I still have times where depression kicks in, or I get lonely and afraid. But those are only bumps in the road in comparison to what I've been through; those are only pebbles in comparison to what I have in store for me.
I have a great job that keeps me on my feet, working hard, and while it can be stressful and draining, I love it so much and wouldn't trade it for anything. I have a plan to get my A.A. and transfer out of my school to CSUSB for their MFA and English program, and I--as of currently--want to become an editor; though, each and every day I find myself interested in becoming a professor at the community college level. And my writing craft keeps me going and knowing that I have a purpose, and I have a voice; I have a way to show the world I can add to it, rather than take, even if it bugs the heck out of me at occasional times.
The Neptune is at just a slice of the full pie, and I'm planning to add another sixty-five thousand words to it before I get into the revision process. With luck, it'll progress into a great first novel, something I can be really proud of.
Everything's been a roller-coaster the past two years, but I want to thank each and every one of you that have stood by me, guided me, assisted me, and been there for me when I need them. If this all works out, I dedicate The Neptune to you guys. Just, you know, please don't be turned off that it's a space infection horror story.
One year ago, I had just came out of a dark, dark place in my life, and was working towards recovery in any way I could. School was a part of my life and I couldn't give that up, so I took extra classes to try and stay focused on something physical, rather than worry on something mental. I met an amazing professor who showed me I did have something to add to this world, and she allowed me to meet another professor, a great man who has become my mentor in creative writing.
Now, that's not to say I'm completely recovered; I still have times where depression kicks in, or I get lonely and afraid. But those are only bumps in the road in comparison to what I've been through; those are only pebbles in comparison to what I have in store for me.
I have a great job that keeps me on my feet, working hard, and while it can be stressful and draining, I love it so much and wouldn't trade it for anything. I have a plan to get my A.A. and transfer out of my school to CSUSB for their MFA and English program, and I--as of currently--want to become an editor; though, each and every day I find myself interested in becoming a professor at the community college level. And my writing craft keeps me going and knowing that I have a purpose, and I have a voice; I have a way to show the world I can add to it, rather than take, even if it bugs the heck out of me at occasional times.
The Neptune is at just a slice of the full pie, and I'm planning to add another sixty-five thousand words to it before I get into the revision process. With luck, it'll progress into a great first novel, something I can be really proud of.
Everything's been a roller-coaster the past two years, but I want to thank each and every one of you that have stood by me, guided me, assisted me, and been there for me when I need them. If this all works out, I dedicate The Neptune to you guys. Just, you know, please don't be turned off that it's a space infection horror story.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Recovering
Currently, I'm sitting here on my laptop filling my stomach with glasses of orange-juice, listening to the soundtrack of Skyrim, Bethesda's hit video-game, swearing at my word processor for some miracle to plop on the page--me knowing it won't happen, but wishing--and waiting to see what the day will bring me. Colds are fun.
I see myself to live a healthy lifestyle. Oatmeal, toast, and hashbrowns always win over French-toast for breakfast, and if I get offered a soda, I kindly decline and ask for water. Fitness is my stress-burner. Swimming is something I do not only to keep fit and toned, but to help with my confidence and anxiety. When I'm sick, all of this goes out the window.
And mentally, I just feel like a brick; it's like my mind wants to work, and knows it's here for some reason, but the only thing it can do is perform simple tasks. Throw me an Algebra book during the flu and I'll look at you like a wet cat. A really wet cat. But not only do I suffer in arithmatic, but my writing seems to take a hit.
This whole week, I've only touched about 1400 words, something I would do a day and a half. That's such a blow. The character's in my novel have once again become just that: characters.In time, though, things will get better.
Rest and water have become my best friends, and while I'm disappointed I haven't worked out in over a week, it's for the best. The cold is going away, and once again work and writing will be something I can dive into rather than fear. If I'm lucky, my sickness won't pass to someone in the family and come back to me with open arms: "Hey, buddy, what's up?"
How do you recover from sickness not only in your body, but in the recovery of any skills or hobbies that have been left behind?
I see myself to live a healthy lifestyle. Oatmeal, toast, and hashbrowns always win over French-toast for breakfast, and if I get offered a soda, I kindly decline and ask for water. Fitness is my stress-burner. Swimming is something I do not only to keep fit and toned, but to help with my confidence and anxiety. When I'm sick, all of this goes out the window.
And mentally, I just feel like a brick; it's like my mind wants to work, and knows it's here for some reason, but the only thing it can do is perform simple tasks. Throw me an Algebra book during the flu and I'll look at you like a wet cat. A really wet cat. But not only do I suffer in arithmatic, but my writing seems to take a hit.
This whole week, I've only touched about 1400 words, something I would do a day and a half. That's such a blow. The character's in my novel have once again become just that: characters.In time, though, things will get better.
Rest and water have become my best friends, and while I'm disappointed I haven't worked out in over a week, it's for the best. The cold is going away, and once again work and writing will be something I can dive into rather than fear. If I'm lucky, my sickness won't pass to someone in the family and come back to me with open arms: "Hey, buddy, what's up?"
How do you recover from sickness not only in your body, but in the recovery of any skills or hobbies that have been left behind?
Monday, February 18, 2013
San Gabriel Valley LitFest & Semester Update
I've decided to come out of my cave for once. Over the weekend I went to the San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival, which is a new event located in West Covina. I dropped by on Saturday, after having my brakes clunk to junk on Thursday, so I wasn't able to make it to the Friday open-mic events. When I got there in the morning after some trouble, 12:15 to be precise--which I guess is noon--I started by going to a literary magazine's reading. The day continued with reading after reading, until finally I made my leave at three for errands. But it was all fantastic.
This would be my first literary festival outside of regular fandom conventions, and the same feeling of mutual appreciation was there, but focused devotedly on writing and literature. I wish I could have returned for Sunday, so next year I'll be sure to clear it up, and come April when Mt Sac. hosts their writer's conference, I'll be there to socialize and learn--socialization seems to be my weakest point.
Learning, however, is something I will continue to be doing until that point, with Mt. Sac returning to school next Monday. I only have Math, Literature, and one training course, but I will be tutoring students within the classroom and I'm excited.
And as far as my writing goes, with the bumps and bruises along the way, I have several stories revised and ready to ship out. I've been working on a book, too: It's a sci-fi horror story taking place on a large military ship, called The Neptune. I'm taking it slow, learning the process of writing a much larger story, but I'm having fun doing it (or at least I think I do). My chapters run quite a bit short, but I'm not too worried about it right now; the plot is giving me shivers as I go.
To all those returning to school, good luck, have fun, and drive safely the first few days; being from Mt. Sac, it's easy to see how a parking lot can become a focal point of trauma throughout someone's life.
This would be my first literary festival outside of regular fandom conventions, and the same feeling of mutual appreciation was there, but focused devotedly on writing and literature. I wish I could have returned for Sunday, so next year I'll be sure to clear it up, and come April when Mt Sac. hosts their writer's conference, I'll be there to socialize and learn--socialization seems to be my weakest point.
Learning, however, is something I will continue to be doing until that point, with Mt. Sac returning to school next Monday. I only have Math, Literature, and one training course, but I will be tutoring students within the classroom and I'm excited.
And as far as my writing goes, with the bumps and bruises along the way, I have several stories revised and ready to ship out. I've been working on a book, too: It's a sci-fi horror story taking place on a large military ship, called The Neptune. I'm taking it slow, learning the process of writing a much larger story, but I'm having fun doing it (or at least I think I do). My chapters run quite a bit short, but I'm not too worried about it right now; the plot is giving me shivers as I go.
To all those returning to school, good luck, have fun, and drive safely the first few days; being from Mt. Sac, it's easy to see how a parking lot can become a focal point of trauma throughout someone's life.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
A Bittersweet Return
After a week of being away in San Jose, I have returned to sunny Southern-California, where the temperature on arrival was eighty degrees and the sinus just punched me in the nose. It feels good to be back in my own bed, with my laptop whirring underneath my fingers. I missed it, and I certainly missed my usual writing schedule.
The convention went very well. I arrived anxious and stressed, making sure my itinerary was followed to the margin, but ended up relaxing and resting my eyes on the train. Eventually, I met up with a friend's boyfriend in San Francisco. We dropped off our things at the house, then hung around the city until my friend came home from work. Until the late hours of the night, we worked to help prepare her art table for the weekend.
We arrived in San Jose the next day, and my blood-pressure was through the skylights. The convention takes place within a hotel, and throughout the many corridors, elevators, and the large, adjacent Convention Center next door, the energy of excitement flows through each guest. When the next day came, that feeling was multiplied, and it continued to grow.
The artistry I see at these events is amazing. Each year, no matter what location, I find myself surprised, excited, and entertained with the things people create, whether in fiction, or digital art and paintings. I look at my friend, Christine Knopp, and constantly question how she does half the things she does. I remember that people the same way about us writers--I don't even know how I do what I do.
During the day, I met with the folks at Sofawolf Press, the team who has welcomed me to their literature magazine with open "paws." I discussed a bit with Jeff Eddie, and can't wait to work with him on my short-story. I also had to pick up a copy of Divisions, by Kyell Gold--signed, too!
But with the weekend over, everyone returned home to their family, pets, and loved ones, I'm back to work and writing. My novella is towards the end, and will need heavy revision when the time comes; some of the big plot points need to be looked at and decided whether or not they fit. I have several short-stories revised and edited, too. I'm not sure where to send them, but I'll find somewhere, even if it means I pay Duotropes new fee policy.
It's always a hard time returning back to reality, but I plan to return to the convention with high expectations, and maybe with a few more stories published.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Spooks, Spectors, And Nonsense
As the days grow colder, the nights much darker, it's easy to feel that holiday cheer warm your heart. Hot Cocoa, warm fires, and the pleasing glow of a neighbor's obnoxious lawn decoration. But I'm not here to talk about that.
Even with the season of giving upon us, my interests still fall into the category of creepy and eerie: the paranormal. A few posts ago, as well as the large discussion of why I write, seen on my blog, I mentioned my interests in ghosts. They're the unknown figures that stand in the hallway late at night; the watchful eye over your shoulder even later at night, or even the hand that grabs you during the day, and turning to look you find no one there (let's at least hope you find no one there. Society's full of creeps these days).
But it's not the fear that draws me. It's the idea of a possible living, once-breathing creature still roaming Earth, unknown and unexplainable. While that does tie into the fear, it only draws me in further, and forces me to discuss the activities present with others. Of course, that's easier said than done--who wants to talk about ghosts other than that one guy?
My interests started as a kid at my grandparent's home. It was on the edge of East Los Angeles, and each night there would be the occasional footstep, creak, or even shudder. Of course, our grandpa enjoyed staying up during the night, and he did drink, doing random stuff at random times, but most of the time it wasn't home--all the times I stayed up it wasn't him. Other than that, my time with the paranormal was restricted to television specials on Travel Channel, which, believe me, were far better than some bro's swearing at ghosts and laughing at each other.
But then I got into acting, which allowed me to travel to well-known, and sometimes old, desolate places. We filmed a deleted-scene for Constantine in the pool of the KnickerBocker Hotel in Hollywood, California, which has reports of Marylin Manroe's spirit appearing all over the hotel in lobby mirrors and upstair rooms. On one cold night I was filmed at the Universal Backlot, and footsteps could be heard where no one else was walking. I was able to visit places I had only heard of being haunted, and it gave me a rush.
After a few years, my family and I started to take trips to San Francisco, which is such a beautiful, regal city--but it's haunted, too. I've always wanted to go across the bay to the prison, Alcatraz Island, but they would have to pry me away from the island by my cold, dead hands. On the way home from the bay, we always stop by The Winchester Mystery House, a towering feat of architecture built by the blueprints of spirits.
Even with the season of giving upon us, my interests still fall into the category of creepy and eerie: the paranormal. A few posts ago, as well as the large discussion of why I write, seen on my blog, I mentioned my interests in ghosts. They're the unknown figures that stand in the hallway late at night; the watchful eye over your shoulder even later at night, or even the hand that grabs you during the day, and turning to look you find no one there (let's at least hope you find no one there. Society's full of creeps these days).
But it's not the fear that draws me. It's the idea of a possible living, once-breathing creature still roaming Earth, unknown and unexplainable. While that does tie into the fear, it only draws me in further, and forces me to discuss the activities present with others. Of course, that's easier said than done--who wants to talk about ghosts other than that one guy?
My interests started as a kid at my grandparent's home. It was on the edge of East Los Angeles, and each night there would be the occasional footstep, creak, or even shudder. Of course, our grandpa enjoyed staying up during the night, and he did drink, doing random stuff at random times, but most of the time it wasn't home--all the times I stayed up it wasn't him. Other than that, my time with the paranormal was restricted to television specials on Travel Channel, which, believe me, were far better than some bro's swearing at ghosts and laughing at each other.
But then I got into acting, which allowed me to travel to well-known, and sometimes old, desolate places. We filmed a deleted-scene for Constantine in the pool of the KnickerBocker Hotel in Hollywood, California, which has reports of Marylin Manroe's spirit appearing all over the hotel in lobby mirrors and upstair rooms. On one cold night I was filmed at the Universal Backlot, and footsteps could be heard where no one else was walking. I was able to visit places I had only heard of being haunted, and it gave me a rush.
After a few years, my family and I started to take trips to San Francisco, which is such a beautiful, regal city--but it's haunted, too. I've always wanted to go across the bay to the prison, Alcatraz Island, but they would have to pry me away from the island by my cold, dead hands. On the way home from the bay, we always stop by The Winchester Mystery House, a towering feat of architecture built by the blueprints of spirits.
The house was owned by Sarah Winchester, and, supposedly due to the spirits of her father's company, she was forced to build the house in odd, difficult pathways, confusing the spirits.
Believe what you feel on its construction, the home itself has had many visitors arrive and encounter paranormal occurrences. During the one hour, above ground tour, we were at the part of the mansion that was destroyed during the San Francisco earthquake. Part of the house had crumbled, as well as had a fire, but eventually it had been rebuilt until Sarah Winchester's death--it still remains unfinished to this day. While in that wing of the manor, a fan, plugged into the wall, stopped suddenly, turning off. Nothing else was affected--lights, etc--and upon leaving that spot, the fan started to spin again. Another year, me and my mom took the behind-the-scenes tour, which forces you to wear hardhats and travel underneath the home. It was creepy, but upon reaching a certain room, where the sun should have beamed through the glass, warming us, we all were hit with a solid cold breeze out of nowhere, the room shivering. "Cold spots," as investigators title them, are a sign of spirits entering a room, or being present. The tour continued on, and that spot was never cold again when we came back--as it should, having no air vents or open windows.
In my own home, I've experience walking in to find my dumbbell weights stacked vertically on my chair; I've woken up to find my bed sheets tugged away and at the other side of the room; I've walked outside my room, late at night, to feel someone sitting in the living room, staring at me, watching me in the darkness before sending me back to my room, still feeling followed.
Nothing has happened for the past two years, and I'm thankful for that--I like my ghosts, but not as much as I love my sleep. I've been looking into visiting The Queen Mary, a haunted cruise ship in Long Beach, California, and spending the night in one of their haunted hotel rooms. For now, however, my time with the paranormal is kept mostly to my stories, looking for ways to creep others out and to further understand them. Who knows, by writing more eerie, mind-racing horror stories, I might bring some spirits over to visit me. I just hope they know and follow my sleep schedule.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Why I Write
Today a bunch of us writers are trying out a little experiment; each writer, listed below with their names and blogs, will post why they write, and how they grew into a writer.
I grew up in East Los Angeles with my grandparents and younger brother. My parents, living in Chino where I reside now, were always busy with work, and had no time to take care of us. My father was a trucker, and Mom was, and still is, a supervisor for the Southern California Gas Company. We would visit them on the weekends, but during the week it was just me and my twin-brother with the grandparents.
We didn't have much to do there, and the internet wasn't out. My brother was very much into scary stories, and I was into the discovery and study of Paranormal activity (great kids, right?). The house had its own weird happenings, so on occasion we would stay up, in pitch darkness, and just watch for anything. Of course, we would get too scared to stay up past twelve, and School was something we did, so we would never go past ten at the latest. But it was exciting.
I grew up with a bunch of kids who, like me, had a huge imagination. They weren't into the Paranormal like I was, but we enjoyed the same television shows. Eventually we got tired of playing these stories on the School's yard, and we moved onto our next big adventure: comics and stories. I wrote the dialogue, stories, descriptions, and dabbled a bit in drawing, but I was never as good as the others in art. These were the kids who spent hours drawing, and could turn out a new masterpiece within minutes (masterpieces, however, were restricted to the use of crayons and markers). We moved throughout our years continuing to create stories together. Eventually we passed on out of Middle School and had to move on.
After the loss of my Grandfather, and missing the nights we would tell each other stories, my brother and I was asked to move to my parent's home in Chino by the state. We followed, and ended up going to the High School just around the block, but we were horrified. The years of scary stories and Ghost-hunting led to us dressing up as punks, and we were forced to attend a School where we had no friends to compare with. Of course we were the outsiders, but it didn't stay like that for long.
My brother was known for his crazy ways and long, feminine hair. I gained friends thanks to my imagination and creativity. I joined the Japanese Animation and Art club, and hours after school, for four years, were devoted to Marching Band. I wanted to do theatre, having done acting as a child growing up, but our parents grid-locked us into making music. The years went by so quickly, and I had lost my spark in creating stories.
After a few years I went into a medical scare--Cancer. I had gained an odd lump in my throat, and the mole on my chest was seen as an oddity to the doctors. They removed both things for testing, but I was traumatized; days were spent in bed, crying, and I was eventually forced onto anxiety medication. I fell out of an abusive relationship at the time as well, the person not helping me in the slightest, so things were grim.
I started to attend therapy on campus for free. My mother was against it, saying my anxiety and trauma was nothing at all, but I was tired of the nightmares, crying fits, and general sulking that went on. The therapy didn't help much asides giving me someone to talk to, which was good, but I needed answers, solutions, and for my problems to just "fuck off." Then I found a book.
The Tools, by Phil Stutz and Barry Michels, is what I'd like to think saved me. There I found techniques, tools, as they called it, to help combat my fears. I was amazed that books could do this for me, and while I grew up reading stories, novellas and novels, this was something incomparable. Immediately I talked with my friends, and told them what was inside. I was a missionary trying to tell of the Lord's graces. Then I began to write.
And I wrote more.
And I wrote more.
Things were pouring out, and my grades in English were soaring high. Immediately I wanted to do this; immediately I wanted to write something that could change someone's life, or show them that they're not alone--no one has to go through this alone. I started writing dramas, romances, and even realistic, horrifying thrillers. I was hooked.
I moved on to the next level of college, where thanks to my professor at the time I met my now mentor, John Brantingham. I awkwardly called him one day and told him I just wanted to writer--to know how to do the things these people did. We met up in his office and I showed him a trio of stories I threw together. He talked with me on what I was doing well, and not-so-well, but encouraged me to continue whether it be through our School's writing club, or the class. Again, I was hooked.
I now tutor English and Writing at my School's Writing-center. My writing schedule takes over my entire day, as I make sure to write no less than 500 words (my goal, however, is to keep at 1000 words a day). I write and read every day, and make sure not to drop off the ball. If I can't write anything up to that amount, I keep it to a 500 word essay, or journal.
Literature is a great thing, and in some way has influenced me throughout life. While it also might have saved my life, it's pushed me forward into a new, positive direction, where I can actually see a future for myself (majoring in acting or Italian were some of the silly things I thought of during my first years in College). Moving forward, I want to become an Editor as of this point, but continue to write encouraging, thrilling, or just plain horrifying stories that show the wonders, troubles, and accomplishments of real, every day life.
Below are the links to the other authors who are writing about their appreciation of this wonderful craft. Feel free to visit, and give writing a chance yourself!
I grew up in East Los Angeles with my grandparents and younger brother. My parents, living in Chino where I reside now, were always busy with work, and had no time to take care of us. My father was a trucker, and Mom was, and still is, a supervisor for the Southern California Gas Company. We would visit them on the weekends, but during the week it was just me and my twin-brother with the grandparents.
We didn't have much to do there, and the internet wasn't out. My brother was very much into scary stories, and I was into the discovery and study of Paranormal activity (great kids, right?). The house had its own weird happenings, so on occasion we would stay up, in pitch darkness, and just watch for anything. Of course, we would get too scared to stay up past twelve, and School was something we did, so we would never go past ten at the latest. But it was exciting.
I grew up with a bunch of kids who, like me, had a huge imagination. They weren't into the Paranormal like I was, but we enjoyed the same television shows. Eventually we got tired of playing these stories on the School's yard, and we moved onto our next big adventure: comics and stories. I wrote the dialogue, stories, descriptions, and dabbled a bit in drawing, but I was never as good as the others in art. These were the kids who spent hours drawing, and could turn out a new masterpiece within minutes (masterpieces, however, were restricted to the use of crayons and markers). We moved throughout our years continuing to create stories together. Eventually we passed on out of Middle School and had to move on.
After the loss of my Grandfather, and missing the nights we would tell each other stories, my brother and I was asked to move to my parent's home in Chino by the state. We followed, and ended up going to the High School just around the block, but we were horrified. The years of scary stories and Ghost-hunting led to us dressing up as punks, and we were forced to attend a School where we had no friends to compare with. Of course we were the outsiders, but it didn't stay like that for long.
My brother was known for his crazy ways and long, feminine hair. I gained friends thanks to my imagination and creativity. I joined the Japanese Animation and Art club, and hours after school, for four years, were devoted to Marching Band. I wanted to do theatre, having done acting as a child growing up, but our parents grid-locked us into making music. The years went by so quickly, and I had lost my spark in creating stories.
After a few years I went into a medical scare--Cancer. I had gained an odd lump in my throat, and the mole on my chest was seen as an oddity to the doctors. They removed both things for testing, but I was traumatized; days were spent in bed, crying, and I was eventually forced onto anxiety medication. I fell out of an abusive relationship at the time as well, the person not helping me in the slightest, so things were grim.
I started to attend therapy on campus for free. My mother was against it, saying my anxiety and trauma was nothing at all, but I was tired of the nightmares, crying fits, and general sulking that went on. The therapy didn't help much asides giving me someone to talk to, which was good, but I needed answers, solutions, and for my problems to just "fuck off." Then I found a book.
The Tools, by Phil Stutz and Barry Michels, is what I'd like to think saved me. There I found techniques, tools, as they called it, to help combat my fears. I was amazed that books could do this for me, and while I grew up reading stories, novellas and novels, this was something incomparable. Immediately I talked with my friends, and told them what was inside. I was a missionary trying to tell of the Lord's graces. Then I began to write.
And I wrote more.
And I wrote more.
Things were pouring out, and my grades in English were soaring high. Immediately I wanted to do this; immediately I wanted to write something that could change someone's life, or show them that they're not alone--no one has to go through this alone. I started writing dramas, romances, and even realistic, horrifying thrillers. I was hooked.
I moved on to the next level of college, where thanks to my professor at the time I met my now mentor, John Brantingham. I awkwardly called him one day and told him I just wanted to writer--to know how to do the things these people did. We met up in his office and I showed him a trio of stories I threw together. He talked with me on what I was doing well, and not-so-well, but encouraged me to continue whether it be through our School's writing club, or the class. Again, I was hooked.
I now tutor English and Writing at my School's Writing-center. My writing schedule takes over my entire day, as I make sure to write no less than 500 words (my goal, however, is to keep at 1000 words a day). I write and read every day, and make sure not to drop off the ball. If I can't write anything up to that amount, I keep it to a 500 word essay, or journal.
Literature is a great thing, and in some way has influenced me throughout life. While it also might have saved my life, it's pushed me forward into a new, positive direction, where I can actually see a future for myself (majoring in acting or Italian were some of the silly things I thought of during my first years in College). Moving forward, I want to become an Editor as of this point, but continue to write encouraging, thrilling, or just plain horrifying stories that show the wonders, troubles, and accomplishments of real, every day life.
Below are the links to the other authors who are writing about their appreciation of this wonderful craft. Feel free to visit, and give writing a chance yourself!
Kyle
Van Sant http://pkvansant.blogspot.com/
Charlotte
San Juan charlottesanjuan.wordpress.com
Marta
Chausee http://martachausee.blogspot.com/
Cora
Ramos http://coraramos-cora.blogspot.com/
Melodie
Campbell http://funnygirlmelodie.blogspot.com/
Lesley
Diehl http://anotherdraught.blogspot.com
Jim
Callan www.jamesrcallan.com/blog
Chris
Swinney http://clswinney.com
Carole
Avila http://caroleavilablog.wordpress.com/
Augie
Hicks http://augiecorner.blogspot.com
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Eastmont University
I've been busy for the past few weeks working on a collection of short stories. My goal every day, when writing in general, is to hit 1000 words or more. Some days this comes easy, while others it can be a constant struggle. Tired of just writing random stories, I e-mailed the editor of Sofawolf Press, a publishing company focused towards fans of anthropomorphic animals.
Looking into it, I did find the interests of Sofawolf's literature focused on more relationship topics, but as well as a number of drama stories. I was given notice they would be interested in a collection of short stories, if provided with one, so I've taken the helm to write one.
It's still in the first process currently, and has four main stories, and one vignette so far, but I plan to include more. The word count is up to 19,765. I wasn't given a specific range (though I should probably ask!), so I'm hoping to get it close to 25k-30k words. Once that's done, I'll focus on the editing process, then move on to beta-readers once I'm proud of it.
The stories take place around Eastmont University, a large campus with no prejudice towards specific breeds and species. It contains stories on love, cheating, revenge, suspense, mystery, and the general lives of students; however, there are strong topics such as prejudice, rape, loss, and plagiarism in school, showing all the dramatic things that happen throughout life. With branching out towards other genres/fandoms, I'm hoping this will only build me as a writer.
It's no where near complete, but this project is giving me room to grow as I push forward, and even if it's a little different, discussing normal issues with walking, talking animals, it's helping me break my boundaries and experiment a bit. I do wonder, though: could a relationship end over the loss of a thrown tennis-ball?
PS: The title's a work-in-progress, too. Titles would have to be my Achilles' heel.
Looking into it, I did find the interests of Sofawolf's literature focused on more relationship topics, but as well as a number of drama stories. I was given notice they would be interested in a collection of short stories, if provided with one, so I've taken the helm to write one.
It's still in the first process currently, and has four main stories, and one vignette so far, but I plan to include more. The word count is up to 19,765. I wasn't given a specific range (though I should probably ask!), so I'm hoping to get it close to 25k-30k words. Once that's done, I'll focus on the editing process, then move on to beta-readers once I'm proud of it.
The stories take place around Eastmont University, a large campus with no prejudice towards specific breeds and species. It contains stories on love, cheating, revenge, suspense, mystery, and the general lives of students; however, there are strong topics such as prejudice, rape, loss, and plagiarism in school, showing all the dramatic things that happen throughout life. With branching out towards other genres/fandoms, I'm hoping this will only build me as a writer.
It's no where near complete, but this project is giving me room to grow as I push forward, and even if it's a little different, discussing normal issues with walking, talking animals, it's helping me break my boundaries and experiment a bit. I do wonder, though: could a relationship end over the loss of a thrown tennis-ball?
PS: The title's a work-in-progress, too. Titles would have to be my Achilles' heel.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Beta-Readers And The Art of Tutoring
Hey everyone! First off, I’m posting tonight in need of a few people. I’m working hard towards getting published, amongst my time tutoring and teaching, and I’m getting nothing but positive comments from my professor. While that’s nice to hear, and is a very good thing for a writer to know, I still need a few folks I can rely on to give me constructive opinions on my writing.
Moving on now, I'm interested in discussing a bit about my current experiences in tutoring English, a job I've had for just around a month. It's a fun job that forces me to be social in situations I can't control, which to say is very good for me as a person. Most of my days are spent behind this dusty, music screaming laptop without any interaction outside my home beyond the internet. If lucky, I get to hang with friends, and if not--time for writing.
1. John Brantingham can be found here, on blogger, at http://www.johnbrantingham.blogspot.com .
I’m pretty divided when it comes to what I write; some days I write more human stories while the rest I focus my hand at anthropomorphic creatures. Furthermore, a majority of my stories fall under horror, suspense, sociology of every day life, and some other genres. You don’t need to be into these genres, but it can help me if you are.
Obviously I won’t be able to pay you, but I can acknowledge you with gratitude, and I only hope you find joy in helping someone further their career and passion. If you’re interested please note me here with a cover letter explaining any experience, education, or creative background you feel might help. Again, I’m not looking for you to be interested in my genres, or be a fellow tutor of the English language, but it would certainly help. Thank you!
Obviously I won’t be able to pay you, but I can acknowledge you with gratitude, and I only hope you find joy in helping someone further their career and passion. If you’re interested please note me here with a cover letter explaining any experience, education, or creative background you feel might help. Again, I’m not looking for you to be interested in my genres, or be a fellow tutor of the English language, but it would certainly help. Thank you!
Moving on now, I'm interested in discussing a bit about my current experiences in tutoring English, a job I've had for just around a month. It's a fun job that forces me to be social in situations I can't control, which to say is very good for me as a person. Most of my days are spent behind this dusty, music screaming laptop without any interaction outside my home beyond the internet. If lucky, I get to hang with friends, and if not--time for writing.
But tutoring allows me to meet new people, learn their stories, and show my compassionate, creative side to others. I joke with our director, Dr. David Charbonneau, that I care too much some times. He laughs at me and says that's fine, but don't help too much or skip appointments. If only it was as easy to do the former as he says.
Furthermore, tutoring strengthens my knowledge more than students I'm working with (genius, as I say!). My professor and some-what of a mentor in creative-writing, John Brantingham(1), brought this up during one of our class sessions. He mentioned that our knowledge is built stronger by teaching someone because we hear it for the second time, an enforce it into our minds. I like to joke that that's a double-edged blade, but sadly it's not a joke, and forces me to make sure my understanding is concise and correct.
Tutoring is a great way to improve not only as a writer, but as a respectable person in society. You hear so many stories of growth from students, and learn how people deal with society now in its tragic, strenuous occurrences. I've learned so much about people, and feel I will only learn more about society and the human heart as time goes on. My stories will improve; my understanding of life will improve. Not only does this push me further into a career I can enjoy, but I get payed too. That's kind of a plus, I guess.
1. John Brantingham can be found here, on blogger, at http://www.johnbrantingham.blogspot.com .
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