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 determination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label determination. 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.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Taking Advantage: Using What You Can, When You Can as a Writer
I have a problem that I'm still coming to terms with. As much as it would excite me to tell you all it's a cliche drinking problem, it's actually handling the unknown.
When looked at, one of the biggest fears people carry is the unknown. Death, God, monsters, promotions, relationships; these are all things that scare us in some way or have scared us since we were children.
This week, I've missed two days of work and class, something that hasn't happened since the start of the semester, and the second time that anything similar has happened throughout my working and college careers. For some, taking a day off for illness or leisure is something the body and soul need, but to me, it's something that I feel changes me as a employee and student.
I woke up at six A.M., day one, and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth. For the next twenty minutes, I emptied my body out of every fluid or solid that it had. From there, I fell into shakes, more heaves, and even seconds of sleep. I was infected with a stomach bug, yet I felt as though I was part of the movie Contagion. On day two, I felt better, but I had to call out; I knew that if I didn't, there was a chance that I could infect those around me and possibly make my situation worse. I felt terrible. At that point, I knew I had to do something.
In order to make myself feel valuable to the human race, I wrote and did homework. Following homework, I wrote more. The muse, if one believes in it, kicked in, and I poured out pages of short pieces and brainstorming exercises. The unknown was still terrifying to me, but I let my situation handle itself and push me into a new direction that helped me in more than one way.
We have to go with what life, God, or E. coli gives us. Situations are bad--they always are--but it's how we handle the situation that makes us who we are and changes what comes of the situation. Had I gone to work and class, things could've gone wrong, and the thought of staying home terrified me because I didn't know what would happen. But I decided to take the scariest direction, and it worked out by me being honest and knowing what I have to give.
But man, the stomach flu sucks.
When looked at, one of the biggest fears people carry is the unknown. Death, God, monsters, promotions, relationships; these are all things that scare us in some way or have scared us since we were children.
This week, I've missed two days of work and class, something that hasn't happened since the start of the semester, and the second time that anything similar has happened throughout my working and college careers. For some, taking a day off for illness or leisure is something the body and soul need, but to me, it's something that I feel changes me as a employee and student.
I woke up at six A.M., day one, and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth. For the next twenty minutes, I emptied my body out of every fluid or solid that it had. From there, I fell into shakes, more heaves, and even seconds of sleep. I was infected with a stomach bug, yet I felt as though I was part of the movie Contagion. On day two, I felt better, but I had to call out; I knew that if I didn't, there was a chance that I could infect those around me and possibly make my situation worse. I felt terrible. At that point, I knew I had to do something.
In order to make myself feel valuable to the human race, I wrote and did homework. Following homework, I wrote more. The muse, if one believes in it, kicked in, and I poured out pages of short pieces and brainstorming exercises. The unknown was still terrifying to me, but I let my situation handle itself and push me into a new direction that helped me in more than one way.
We have to go with what life, God, or E. coli gives us. Situations are bad--they always are--but it's how we handle the situation that makes us who we are and changes what comes of the situation. Had I gone to work and class, things could've gone wrong, and the thought of staying home terrified me because I didn't know what would happen. But I decided to take the scariest direction, and it worked out by me being honest and knowing what I have to give.
But man, the stomach flu sucks.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Typing under Deaf Ears
For the first time in my life, I had to miss a day of work due to illness. For me, it's a big deal (obviously), and I'm still a bit nervous about the whole thing. Really, it shouldn't be a big deal at all. Shouldn't it?
I drove home on the Sixty Freeway, and everything sounded muffled. My eyes darted across the highway as I looked for any trouble. My head pounded. Burning hotter than my truck's heater, my throat lining tasted like onions.
I got home after ten minutes, and immediately, I went to sleep. The next day came, and I had to call out. But from then on, my time in bed was spent with my typewriter or a book.
Sick days can be argued to have been made for writers. On a weekly basis, if our schedules are busy enough, we have to fight for a chance to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. Writing's a career that promises to torment you if you work a ten-hour job (or are a parent).
I pounded the keys of my fifty-year-old silent-super typewriter, striking a sheet of printer paper--silently. My ears ached. Everything had grown quieter a day after staying home. Conversations felt like shouting matches. Opening my jaw created a pop that shook my head. In a way, I liked it.
While writing is hard to get to do on a busy schedule, it's also very hard to have peace-and-quiet.
It's Sunday, five days after day-zero of my cold. I will be returning to work tomorrow, heavily medicated if need be, where writing will have to take the backseat. I feel better. It's not where I'd like my cold to be, but it's where it has to be. Also, my hearing is back.
Take the time to enjoy whatever life throws at you. Good or bad, it's how we react that makes the difference. Positivity is created by us, not anyone else. By Thursday, I'll surely miss being able to type under very, very clogged ears.
I drove home on the Sixty Freeway, and everything sounded muffled. My eyes darted across the highway as I looked for any trouble. My head pounded. Burning hotter than my truck's heater, my throat lining tasted like onions.
I got home after ten minutes, and immediately, I went to sleep. The next day came, and I had to call out. But from then on, my time in bed was spent with my typewriter or a book.
Sick days can be argued to have been made for writers. On a weekly basis, if our schedules are busy enough, we have to fight for a chance to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. Writing's a career that promises to torment you if you work a ten-hour job (or are a parent).
I pounded the keys of my fifty-year-old silent-super typewriter, striking a sheet of printer paper--silently. My ears ached. Everything had grown quieter a day after staying home. Conversations felt like shouting matches. Opening my jaw created a pop that shook my head. In a way, I liked it.
While writing is hard to get to do on a busy schedule, it's also very hard to have peace-and-quiet.
It's Sunday, five days after day-zero of my cold. I will be returning to work tomorrow, heavily medicated if need be, where writing will have to take the backseat. I feel better. It's not where I'd like my cold to be, but it's where it has to be. Also, my hearing is back.
Take the time to enjoy whatever life throws at you. Good or bad, it's how we react that makes the difference. Positivity is created by us, not anyone else. By Thursday, I'll surely miss being able to type under very, very clogged ears.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Spring in Academia
It wasn't until I parked that I realized how much I had to rush. Cars lined the fences of Mt. San Antonio College. A breeze had picked up, and crowds hunkered around the crossing sign at the closest intersection, one parking lot away. For the start of a semester, this wasn't too bad.
My classes are mixed throughout the week: Mondays and Wednesdays are Speech, Tuesdays and Thursdays are Nonfiction, and Thursday nights are Career Development. I decided to take a lighter semester as I work in other classes, tutoring students and preparing them for their next courses. Nothing too hard, I said.
I'll be working forty hours a week, at least.
Crossing the street, I had to squeeze my way through trudging students. I then had to climb the hill. My phone said it was 8:35, which meant that I was later for an 8:30 meeting.
The American Language department wasn't too much of a walk from where I was. There, I would find my first work section, a linked or connect unit of two classes leading from 9:45 A.M. to 2:05 P.M.. A line led out the front doors. Students of various nationalities fidgeted, sighed, groaned. Those at the end of the line didn't seem any happier, speaking in broken English.
Eight minutes passed until I found the office of the professor I would be working under. The office hid at the end of the hall, but when I stepped in, the professor greeted me and pulled me to a chair. I was given a textbook, syllabus, and discussion of what to expect. Smiling, I agreed that this semester would be interesting, fun.
Class started on time, and I might another professor. She gave her name, office hours, and expectations. Halfway through, she introduced me. I stood in front of the class, eyes watching over me. Day one, and I knew that I was in for a ride.
My classes are mixed throughout the week: Mondays and Wednesdays are Speech, Tuesdays and Thursdays are Nonfiction, and Thursday nights are Career Development. I decided to take a lighter semester as I work in other classes, tutoring students and preparing them for their next courses. Nothing too hard, I said.
I'll be working forty hours a week, at least.
Crossing the street, I had to squeeze my way through trudging students. I then had to climb the hill. My phone said it was 8:35, which meant that I was later for an 8:30 meeting.
The American Language department wasn't too much of a walk from where I was. There, I would find my first work section, a linked or connect unit of two classes leading from 9:45 A.M. to 2:05 P.M.. A line led out the front doors. Students of various nationalities fidgeted, sighed, groaned. Those at the end of the line didn't seem any happier, speaking in broken English.
Eight minutes passed until I found the office of the professor I would be working under. The office hid at the end of the hall, but when I stepped in, the professor greeted me and pulled me to a chair. I was given a textbook, syllabus, and discussion of what to expect. Smiling, I agreed that this semester would be interesting, fun.
Class started on time, and I might another professor. She gave her name, office hours, and expectations. Halfway through, she introduced me. I stood in front of the class, eyes watching over me. Day one, and I knew that I was in for a ride.
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.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Further Confusion, a Not so Confusing Trip
Walking to a Safeway started my morning, and already, I had seen several convention goers in large animal costumes and uniforms from various anime shows. The sky was open, free of clouds, and the sun warmed me even with the sixty degree temperature. On my back, I carried my bag with a legal pad, box of business cards, and a copy of The Hobbit. Only thing I had forgotten was my room key.
Further Confusion (FC) is a convention that takes place in San Jose, California, and focuses on anthropomorphic animals and illustrations, something still popular since the years of Disney's The Lion King. Artists, writers, and costumers network and sell their wares and creations. Taking place in a hotel, the convention allows for parties as well, and even with no sense of smell, I can feel the alcohol radiate from the fox I pass by.
I reach the Safeway with my two roommates, both who are creators of these expensive suits. We pick up sandwich bread and bananas (non-organic due to price). Also, I take this chance to get breakfast. After a walk back, we collapse on our room's beds. A stack of newly purchased novels lay next to me. No spending, I tell myself.
Outside of buying stuff, there were panels to attend as well as hold. I didn't make it to any of the writing panels I wished to see, but I was on a panel with Kyell Gold and Watts Martin, two authors who are known around the fandom for their fiction. The panel discussed releasing stories and publishing. I focused more so on magazines, blogging and twitter. Questions were passed around for us until the two hours ended, and everyone went on his or her way.
For me, conventions and conferences present the opportunity to network, unlike what staying behind a keyboard and screen does. Publishers attend as well as fans, and several of my own friends are artists, like my roommates. They spent their time selling behind desks. I lumbered around when I could and helped if they needed it.
The most important thing for me, however, is getting grounded, and FC allows that. I get to remember my start as a writer, my stressful growth from where I once was. I attended these events with my partner at the time, more focused on the party aspect, but the real thing that draws myself and others is the passion. The time spent on the works seen crawls with it. When people state they wake up in the morning to write, illustrate, or sing, it shows here. It is inspiring, simply. And the energy pushed around gets me working.
For now, I'm back home and resting. I have started a new piece, and the novel I have been working through is also under heavy focus still. School is coming up, and work is still keeping me busy.
It's as though I have stepped out of a dream world, and reality is slowly coming back to me. The memories I've made this FC will stay with me, and I look forward to the next upcoming event on my schedule, The San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival. 2014 is turning out to be a great year, and I couldn't be happier.
Kyell gold is the author of Out of Position, Green Fairy, and other anthropomorphic texts. His work can be found on Sofawolf.com.
Information for The San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival can be found at SGVlitfest.com.
Further Confusion (FC) is a convention that takes place in San Jose, California, and focuses on anthropomorphic animals and illustrations, something still popular since the years of Disney's The Lion King. Artists, writers, and costumers network and sell their wares and creations. Taking place in a hotel, the convention allows for parties as well, and even with no sense of smell, I can feel the alcohol radiate from the fox I pass by.
I reach the Safeway with my two roommates, both who are creators of these expensive suits. We pick up sandwich bread and bananas (non-organic due to price). Also, I take this chance to get breakfast. After a walk back, we collapse on our room's beds. A stack of newly purchased novels lay next to me. No spending, I tell myself.
Outside of buying stuff, there were panels to attend as well as hold. I didn't make it to any of the writing panels I wished to see, but I was on a panel with Kyell Gold and Watts Martin, two authors who are known around the fandom for their fiction. The panel discussed releasing stories and publishing. I focused more so on magazines, blogging and twitter. Questions were passed around for us until the two hours ended, and everyone went on his or her way.
For me, conventions and conferences present the opportunity to network, unlike what staying behind a keyboard and screen does. Publishers attend as well as fans, and several of my own friends are artists, like my roommates. They spent their time selling behind desks. I lumbered around when I could and helped if they needed it.
The most important thing for me, however, is getting grounded, and FC allows that. I get to remember my start as a writer, my stressful growth from where I once was. I attended these events with my partner at the time, more focused on the party aspect, but the real thing that draws myself and others is the passion. The time spent on the works seen crawls with it. When people state they wake up in the morning to write, illustrate, or sing, it shows here. It is inspiring, simply. And the energy pushed around gets me working.
For now, I'm back home and resting. I have started a new piece, and the novel I have been working through is also under heavy focus still. School is coming up, and work is still keeping me busy.
It's as though I have stepped out of a dream world, and reality is slowly coming back to me. The memories I've made this FC will stay with me, and I look forward to the next upcoming event on my schedule, The San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival. 2014 is turning out to be a great year, and I couldn't be happier.
Kyell gold is the author of Out of Position, Green Fairy, and other anthropomorphic texts. His work can be found on Sofawolf.com.
Information for The San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival can be found at SGVlitfest.com.
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.
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.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Finals--Chaos And a Word-processor
Working in the Writing-Center, it's a lie to say we don't notice the holiday chaos. The computer lab has been at, if not completely, near full capacity; the tables, reserved for one-on-one tutoring, are filled with papers, laptops, and every type of pen and pencil, making the center look as though there was a massive printing deadline at the Campus's Journalism department, but it's not the Journalism department--it's the entire school It's the end of the Fall semester at my community-college, and students are hunkering down, cogs spinning, working towards the end with a final push for the questionably well deserved A+.
As another student, I make sure I wake up with enough time to shave and make myself presentable, record and go over the day's plan, review any writing or revision notes I have for stories, and ultimately scarf down a boiling bowl of burnt oatmeal before the clock hits 8:05 A.M..
The drive is pleasant, and my twin-brother, manning the radio, makes sure there's enough music to keep it interesting. Parking isn't an issue anymore; at the beginning of the semester, the lot, and street, would be filled at 8 A.M.. Once I get to school and set into the greatest parking spot in the world, and situated for work at the center, I have no idea what goes on outside the doors.
Today, It took me until after my first shift to remember that I had a math final this upcoming Monday and I would need my shift covered; it took me until my final shift to remember I even had a twin-brother. The constant barrage of students, each with their reasons why the paper's due tomorrow, and they are barely drafting a thesis, boggles the mind, and forces us tutors to keep quick and adaptable. We're kind, understanding, nurturing people, and if we weren't then by God we shouldn't be tutoring. It's not just the students, however, caught in this mad frenzy, but we too are affected by this rush.
Some of us could be on our breaks, or in-between shifts, crumpled away in the break-room, studying or reworking a thesis paper. Others of us dash to the computer-lab on these off times before a computer could be swiped--respectfully, of course--hurrying to type up the next essay, story submission, and lab-report. The winter mindset has befallen us all, and turned the population of college students into ravenous creatures.
By the time I return home, I'm dead tired, and forced to scribe out around 50 equations of Algebra before I can write. When I hit the word-processor, nothing comes out but dull ideas, unoriginal plots, and dialogue that could make the writer's of the recent Twilight films into Shakespearian poets; tutoring, let alone School, is a mind-numbing, creativity-sucking time of the year. With the holiday season in swing, it's just two more weeks and we'll be home safe and free. The idea of presents, Christmas lights, cookies, and emasculating drinks at Starbucks just thrills the inner young-adult inside me.
Whatever your profession be--tutor, teacher, professor, writer, student, parent--good luck and enjoy your holidays; be grateful for what you have, the time spent together with friends, and the hard work you put towards your passions and studies.
But don't even get me started on Winter Intercession.
As another student, I make sure I wake up with enough time to shave and make myself presentable, record and go over the day's plan, review any writing or revision notes I have for stories, and ultimately scarf down a boiling bowl of burnt oatmeal before the clock hits 8:05 A.M..
The drive is pleasant, and my twin-brother, manning the radio, makes sure there's enough music to keep it interesting. Parking isn't an issue anymore; at the beginning of the semester, the lot, and street, would be filled at 8 A.M.. Once I get to school and set into the greatest parking spot in the world, and situated for work at the center, I have no idea what goes on outside the doors.
Today, It took me until after my first shift to remember that I had a math final this upcoming Monday and I would need my shift covered; it took me until my final shift to remember I even had a twin-brother. The constant barrage of students, each with their reasons why the paper's due tomorrow, and they are barely drafting a thesis, boggles the mind, and forces us tutors to keep quick and adaptable. We're kind, understanding, nurturing people, and if we weren't then by God we shouldn't be tutoring. It's not just the students, however, caught in this mad frenzy, but we too are affected by this rush.
Some of us could be on our breaks, or in-between shifts, crumpled away in the break-room, studying or reworking a thesis paper. Others of us dash to the computer-lab on these off times before a computer could be swiped--respectfully, of course--hurrying to type up the next essay, story submission, and lab-report. The winter mindset has befallen us all, and turned the population of college students into ravenous creatures.
By the time I return home, I'm dead tired, and forced to scribe out around 50 equations of Algebra before I can write. When I hit the word-processor, nothing comes out but dull ideas, unoriginal plots, and dialogue that could make the writer's of the recent Twilight films into Shakespearian poets; tutoring, let alone School, is a mind-numbing, creativity-sucking time of the year. With the holiday season in swing, it's just two more weeks and we'll be home safe and free. The idea of presents, Christmas lights, cookies, and emasculating drinks at Starbucks just thrills the inner young-adult inside me.
Whatever your profession be--tutor, teacher, professor, writer, student, parent--good luck and enjoy your holidays; be grateful for what you have, the time spent together with friends, and the hard work you put towards your passions and studies.
But don't even get me started on Winter Intercession.
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
Friday, November 9, 2012
The Sulking, Working, Studying, Preparing, Walking Dead
Working as a tutor in the writing center, it's very common to get started on a discussion completely unrelated towards the student's assignments. I find myself going on about my own personal writing issues, current events relating to argumentative essays, and even the occasional discussion of entertainment. Last night I talked with someone about "Assassin's Creed 3," which already has a strong following, but a few days ago I brought up "The Walking Dead"--big mistake. I love the television show. AMC has pulled out such a great piece of illustrated literature, and created something that really dives into the human mind once put under horrible pressure. As they say in the show, "kill the dead, fear the living," which completely personifies the series in one clear, concise statement. Because of the drama it presents, "The Walking Dead," and the idea of a zombie apocalypse, is seen everywhere.
One of my supervisors was walking by me and another student while I was trying to give an understanding of paragraph transitions. I modeled it after T.W.D. (The Walking Dead), saying how each episode ends, and begins, on a strong note that melds together easily. My supervisor turned, her eyes wide, hands in the air above her head, and almost screamed. "Oh god, how could they do that to her?!" She shouted, referring to the death of one of the main characters. The student was startled, and I couldn't help myself but laugh. The supervisor goes to the waiting area, where other students exclaim a mutual understanding. That wasn't the end of it.
After all my appointments were done for the night, I was put onto Walk-In List duty; I tutor the students who weren't able to schedule an appointment, but wait for an open slot. Tuesday nights are always relaxed, and not many students are in by eight at night, an hour before closing. My supervisor comes out from her office and towards me with that same look of anger on her face: "How could they do it, John?!" She covered her face. I laughed. For the next thirty minutes, we go into a discussion on the literature, ideals, and acting within the show. It's always a blast when your co-workers have mutual interest, no?
In a society that lives in the new frontier, the internet, there are many ways students, co-workers, or even family can relate to one another. With the belief of the oncoming end of the world (which, I've learned, has already passed on the Mayan Calendar..), so many people spend their time preparing for the worst: not earthquakes, tornadoes, or floods--but zombies. Television has shows focused on bunker/safety preparation ("Dooms Day Preppers"), weaponry ("Future weapons", or any show that features exploding stuff on the Military and National Geographic Channel), and obtaining large amounts of food for storage ("Extreme Couponing"). To say that our population is a little obsessed is a complete understatement.
Looking at the obsession, it feels to me that it stems from a primal fear: fear of the unknown. When the apocalypse comes, we won't really know what to do. As humans, we have so many things in our homes and possession that to begin thinking on what to save, and what to trash, would be mind numbing. We wouldn't be able to begin to understand the depression of losing a loved one right in front of us, let alone if it crawled back up and sprinted at you, screaming. As a society, we're not ready for such a devastation--but you can be sure as hell we have some ideas.
One of my supervisors was walking by me and another student while I was trying to give an understanding of paragraph transitions. I modeled it after T.W.D. (The Walking Dead), saying how each episode ends, and begins, on a strong note that melds together easily. My supervisor turned, her eyes wide, hands in the air above her head, and almost screamed. "Oh god, how could they do that to her?!" She shouted, referring to the death of one of the main characters. The student was startled, and I couldn't help myself but laugh. The supervisor goes to the waiting area, where other students exclaim a mutual understanding. That wasn't the end of it.
After all my appointments were done for the night, I was put onto Walk-In List duty; I tutor the students who weren't able to schedule an appointment, but wait for an open slot. Tuesday nights are always relaxed, and not many students are in by eight at night, an hour before closing. My supervisor comes out from her office and towards me with that same look of anger on her face: "How could they do it, John?!" She covered her face. I laughed. For the next thirty minutes, we go into a discussion on the literature, ideals, and acting within the show. It's always a blast when your co-workers have mutual interest, no?
In a society that lives in the new frontier, the internet, there are many ways students, co-workers, or even family can relate to one another. With the belief of the oncoming end of the world (which, I've learned, has already passed on the Mayan Calendar..), so many people spend their time preparing for the worst: not earthquakes, tornadoes, or floods--but zombies. Television has shows focused on bunker/safety preparation ("Dooms Day Preppers"), weaponry ("Future weapons", or any show that features exploding stuff on the Military and National Geographic Channel), and obtaining large amounts of food for storage ("Extreme Couponing"). To say that our population is a little obsessed is a complete understatement.
Looking at the obsession, it feels to me that it stems from a primal fear: fear of the unknown. When the apocalypse comes, we won't really know what to do. As humans, we have so many things in our homes and possession that to begin thinking on what to save, and what to trash, would be mind numbing. We wouldn't be able to begin to understand the depression of losing a loved one right in front of us, let alone if it crawled back up and sprinted at you, screaming. As a society, we're not ready for such a devastation--but you can be sure as hell we have some ideas.
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.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Writing: Getting Started
Writing always comes off as a difficult, however, rewarding craft. Many youth and students start with the occasional class poetry, short stories, and the academic essay. College seems to focus more on proving your logic and arguments through a series of given evidence and background on the subject. Other classes, more advanced, of course, focus on the analyzation of modern literature, or even the bible, and its effect on the mind and society. These all are things people struggle with when it comes to school--let's not even get started with math--but how would a student even get started with writing? After having attended several classes, and working with students in the Writing Center on campus, it has come to my attention that there's the biggest question of all: "how do I even get started?"
I started a new position at my College's Writing Center as an english tutor. A majority of the students who visit want assistance on grammar, punctuation, and simply to "just write the damn thing for me." Asides from my work, I spend my Thursday nights in a creative-writing class, led by John Brantingham (link provided below). John spends three hours with students, including myself, to explain the writing process and mind frame of a writer; furthermore, the class forms into a workshop setting, where all students are required to show their best respect to others, be professional, or they will get a swift kick out the door. I can't help but imagine what would actually happen if someone was disrespectful enough. The class has many questions of course, and the students range from basic to publishing in their skills. He explains that Character, conflict, and desire are the three major points of story (Brantingham). From there, a student writer could move the story forward.
Essay writers are less understanding when it comes to this idea. Academic writers don't want to jump in. They know that in order to construct a strong argument, research and good sources are needed. They are afraid that once they get started, everything will be chiseled permanent into a block of granite. If you tell them to just start, they will look at you as if you just dropped a cat several stories. Essays are planned to the bricks, while fiction is all about what happens next. So, what happens next? Just like John Brantingham mentioned, character, conflict, and desire are all very important. From that point on, in my mind, it's all up to the characters what they wish to do next. Let them run free; let them fuck up their lives. You as the writer must only show us what happens, and the characters are what drives this baby forward. If there's a murderer on their heels then show us how they hide in the closet with their sniffles projected past the door, and if they just lost their wife, well, show us how they fight against alcoholism and understand that they are better than that. Not only does this feel spontaneous, but it is spontaneous--that's life. Even with the use of CCD (conflict, character, desire), many argue that inspiration plays a big part--not so, says others.
In his book On Writing, Stephen King describes that "'read a lot, write a lot' is the Great Commandment [of writing]" (151). "I used to tell interviewers that I wrote every day except for Christmas, the Fourth of July, and my birthday. That was a lie...I write every day, workaholic dweeb or not" (King 153). When starting to write fiction, the best way, that I've learned, is to just start writing. Start with the action or drama; start with the tears or fears; start with the arguments, but whatever you do don't wait around for your inspiration to save you. Matching that phrase from a popular video-game, the muse is a lie. Reading every day allows the writer to learn from others: the greats and masters. They play a role as your instructor, and can ease any misunderstanding such as how to write dialogue well. Writing every day allows the creativity to flow; with your mind constantly in creative drive, it's easier to write your next upcoming stories than waiting around for them to come.
Of course, there are many ways for writers to get their stories down on the page. Outlines and plot summaries, with the assistance of research, help some while others keep away from the outlines like it's a rabies infected hornets nest--I choose the latter to an extent. In reality it's what works best for you and gets you working. Don't wait for the muse to sweep you off your feet; the muse is a gold-digging-hussy, only stealing your precious time.
Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of The Craft--Tenth Anniversary Edition was used in this essay.
John Brantingham's website is http://johnbrantingham.webs.com/
He also has a blog, here, at http://johnbrantingham.blogspot.com/
I started a new position at my College's Writing Center as an english tutor. A majority of the students who visit want assistance on grammar, punctuation, and simply to "just write the damn thing for me." Asides from my work, I spend my Thursday nights in a creative-writing class, led by John Brantingham (link provided below). John spends three hours with students, including myself, to explain the writing process and mind frame of a writer; furthermore, the class forms into a workshop setting, where all students are required to show their best respect to others, be professional, or they will get a swift kick out the door. I can't help but imagine what would actually happen if someone was disrespectful enough. The class has many questions of course, and the students range from basic to publishing in their skills. He explains that Character, conflict, and desire are the three major points of story (Brantingham). From there, a student writer could move the story forward.
Essay writers are less understanding when it comes to this idea. Academic writers don't want to jump in. They know that in order to construct a strong argument, research and good sources are needed. They are afraid that once they get started, everything will be chiseled permanent into a block of granite. If you tell them to just start, they will look at you as if you just dropped a cat several stories. Essays are planned to the bricks, while fiction is all about what happens next. So, what happens next? Just like John Brantingham mentioned, character, conflict, and desire are all very important. From that point on, in my mind, it's all up to the characters what they wish to do next. Let them run free; let them fuck up their lives. You as the writer must only show us what happens, and the characters are what drives this baby forward. If there's a murderer on their heels then show us how they hide in the closet with their sniffles projected past the door, and if they just lost their wife, well, show us how they fight against alcoholism and understand that they are better than that. Not only does this feel spontaneous, but it is spontaneous--that's life. Even with the use of CCD (conflict, character, desire), many argue that inspiration plays a big part--not so, says others.
In his book On Writing, Stephen King describes that "'read a lot, write a lot' is the Great Commandment [of writing]" (151). "I used to tell interviewers that I wrote every day except for Christmas, the Fourth of July, and my birthday. That was a lie...I write every day, workaholic dweeb or not" (King 153). When starting to write fiction, the best way, that I've learned, is to just start writing. Start with the action or drama; start with the tears or fears; start with the arguments, but whatever you do don't wait around for your inspiration to save you. Matching that phrase from a popular video-game, the muse is a lie. Reading every day allows the writer to learn from others: the greats and masters. They play a role as your instructor, and can ease any misunderstanding such as how to write dialogue well. Writing every day allows the creativity to flow; with your mind constantly in creative drive, it's easier to write your next upcoming stories than waiting around for them to come.
Of course, there are many ways for writers to get their stories down on the page. Outlines and plot summaries, with the assistance of research, help some while others keep away from the outlines like it's a rabies infected hornets nest--I choose the latter to an extent. In reality it's what works best for you and gets you working. Don't wait for the muse to sweep you off your feet; the muse is a gold-digging-hussy, only stealing your precious time.
Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of The Craft--Tenth Anniversary Edition was used in this essay.
John Brantingham's website is http://johnbrantingham.webs.com/
He also has a blog, here, at http://johnbrantingham.blogspot.com/
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