White

 Hey! Alice again. Not sure what Jillian is doing, but she should not have given me this password. I’ve got one of my own stories today, one that I’m calling White.

I strode down the halls unchallenged. In a world where the colour of your hair gave away your powers, no one challenged a blonde. Some servants even bowed as I walked past. Only a blonde could rule, and it was better safe than sorry.

The prison guards, just like the others, didn’t challenge me. If they had known what I was about to do, perhaps  they would’ve. Then again, they were self-serving men, considering their own miserable lives before those of the wretched prisoners they guarded. 

As I walked down the hall, it became harder and harder to breathe. The scent of stale urine and fear permeated the air. Uncomfortable, I scratched at my bare arms. My control was over the air itself, and this air was tainted. Mother often wondered why I didn't like to be inside.

Several prisoners stared as I walked past. A well-dressed lady was an oddity in this world of guards and wretches. Even more odd was the fact that my hair was cropped close too my head, though not so close I'd be robbed of my power. Fashion dictated that blonde hair was the height of style, and so anyone with naturally blonde hair grew it long, man or woman. 

Soon I was so far underground that I felt as though I was suffocating. Only my resolve kept me moving forward. Every cell in my body screamed to be back in the open air, to be free of the earth's depths. There was something I had to do first.

Finally, I reached the cell. The lanterns sputtered in dank air, water dripping somewhere I couldn't see. Inside the cell sat a young man. He was curled in one of the corners, his hair grown past his ears. It was the same length it had been when he was taken away. Malnourishment, then. I couldn't tell what colour his hair was under the grime, and his eyes were closed.

A sign on the door told me without a doubt that this was who I was looking for. It read, Extremely dangerous. Do not engage.

The air was slow to respond to my call, but it did. I fed a wisp of it through the bars in the cell door, sending it to ruffle his hair. Everything else that answered went into the lock, a focused blade of air that could cut through metal, a trick I'd used before.

On the surface, the door would've been open in a minute, lock split apart from the inside. This one took longer, because the air was stale. 

The man inside the cell looked up when he felt the wind on his face. His eyes widened in recognition, but his face twisted with fear. 

"You shouldn't be here, Lynn," he said. "You're doing exactly what they want."

"So? They can't stop me."

He stood up, keeping one hand against the wall. "Yes, Lynn, they can. Why do you think I'm down here? This is where you're weak."

The door swung open at last. I stepped toward him, grinning. "Obviously not that weak."

For a spilt second, his eyes locked onto something behind me. "But not strong enough," he whispered.

Someone grabbed me from behind, an arm wrapping around my throat, cutting off my breath. "Drystan," I choked out.

Slowly, he sank back to the floor in the corner. I was pulled away from the door, back into the corridor. Panicked, I reached out to the air, begging it to help me. It responded, but slowly. Black spots danced in front of my eyes and consumed my vision before I could even strike back.

*****

 Something was wrong. My head throbbed, and my skin burned. The air hung heavy around me, too heavy for me to call it. I tried to open my eyes, but there was something over my head.

A person walked in front of me, making the air move. If not for the disturbance his motion caused, I wouldn't have known where he was. 

"So you are the great Lynn Windstalker. Not so terrifying, are you?"

I struggled against the bonds around my wrists. They cut into my skin, tightening as I moved.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," the man said. "That rope will tighten more if you struggle."

Fighting down my panic, I stilled. "Wh-what do you want with me?" I managed to ask.

"Right now? Nothing. Perhaps I'll think of somehow you can be useful to me. Until then, you'll stay here." He touched the sides of my face, pulling on the hood. I blinked in the sudden brightness, even though the cell wasn't that bright. 

The first thing I noticed was his hair. It was jet black. "You don't have any powers," I whispered.

"No, I don't. And yet you are the one laying on the floor, trussed like a turkey, completely at my mercy. Magic is a crutch, a tool for weak people to oppress the strong. Magic like yours has taught a race of lions to follow the lambs."

"I'm not weak," I replied.

"And yet you're here. I was able to catch you without getting a scratch. I've caught Drystan Voidmaker. And killed Amara Starlight. As I said, magic is a crutch." He bent down, close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. "But not anymore."

I closed my eyes, concentrating. The air in the room was hot and heavy, useless. The breath coming from his mouth, on the other hand, was different. Carefully, I pulled it to me, coiling it around my wrists, where it sawed against the ties. He couldn't have noticed. No one misses their breath once it's been exhaled. 

He straightened before I could gather any more, stepping back. "I'll leave you here to think on your crimes, Lynn Windstalker. And to think on your punishment."

"Where's Drystan?" I asked, my voice stronger with hope.

"In a cell, same as you. But his is designed to exploit his weaknesses."

I didn't know Drystan had a weakness. But everyone has to.

"What are you going to do to him?"

"He will be an example. Drystan Voidbringer is the weakest of you all, and therefore his crutch is most impressive. Perhaps I'll kill him in the square."

"No," I whispered. "You can't."

"And why not, Lynn Windstalker? Who is going to stop me?"

"Me," I replied, drawing the air from him. This was different than merely taking what he exhaled. I controlled the air in his lungs, drawing it away. He fell to his knees, choking on his own breath.

The first breath of air cut through the ties, freeing my hands. I jumped to my feet, a little unsteady. 

"See," I bent over him, not releasing his breath. "I am not powerless. Far from it. And you do not control me. I can kill you with a thought. Remember that."

He glared at me.

"But, unlike you, I am merciful. You will live to feel the humiliation of losing to me."

I strode out of the cell, releasing him once the door closed behind me.

Once I was back in the hall, I searched for Drystan as long as I dared. But I couldn't find him. Whoever the man had been, he'd taken me out of the castle.

Drystan would have to wait. The fresh air called to me.

***** 

Mother walked through the tall grasses, her red hair streaming behind her. "Lynn!" she called. 

I didn't answer. I didn't want to talk right now.

"Lynn, where are you?"

She would've walked right past me, but one of the winds I'd sent to find Drystan returned in a hurry, hot and weak. Destroyed, somehow.

"Hello, Mother," I said, sitting up.

"There you are! Didn't you hear me calling?"

The wind pressed against me, begging to be released. It felt wrong.

I called it to my face, breathing it in. Drystan immediately came to mind, chained in a dark cell. Coughing suddenly, I bent double, sending the wind away to disperse.

"Lynn!" Mother looked worried.

"The wind," I gasped out, filling my lungs with fresh air. "It was broken, somehow. But it found Drystan."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Somewhere wind can't touch."

"I thought wind could go everywhere."

"So did I," I whispered.

"Are you going to look for him?"

"I don't see how I can, Mother. They've taken the cities, and that's where he'll be. There isn't even anyone to help me. We were a minority before, but the crown protected us. Now..." I shuddered, not wanting to finish the thought.

"So you're going to let your best friend die?"

"There isn't anything I can do, Mother. I can't find him." Tears gathered in my eyes. "He was captured because of me, Mother. This is my fault."

She sat down beside me. "Don't talk like that. It's not your fault."

"He was protecting me."

"That was his choice. You need to let him have the dignity of it."

"But what if he dies? That will be my fault."

"Lynn, stop. If this is anyone's fault, it's mine. My generation, anyway. We are the ones that oppressed the powerless. And now we leave our children to deal with it."

"But we can't, Mother. We're not strong enough."

"Then you need to survive, to get strong enough, to learn from our mistakes. Don't give up."

One of the children came running toward us. "Lady Lynn!" she called, "Lady Lynn, come quick!"

"What is it, Moriah?"

"Lord Drystan is in the village. Someone has him tied up. I think the man is going to hurt him."

I jumped to my feet, heart in my mouth. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Lady Lynn."

"Thank you, Moriah. Now, I want you to stay here, all right? The town isn't safe."

She nodded, staring at me with wide eyes. 

I turned away, calling every wind I could reach. They lifted me into the air, a skill that had taken years and about fifty broken bones to master. If anyone was going to reach the village on time, I would.

A crowd was gathered around a stage, around two people. One I recognized and one I knew from my nightmares. Drystan and the man who had captured him.

"Lynn Windstalker!" the man called out when he saw me. "I see you've come to watch your friend die."

"Not likely," I replied. 

"Get out of here, Lynn!" Drystan screamed, "Go! Save yourself!"

I floated to the ground, my hair flaring. I'd let it grow since escaping. "I'm not leaving," I replied. "I left you behind once. Never again."

The man smiled, an expression that sent fear running through me. "Just as foolish as I thought you'd be, Windstalker. But you'll both die here."

He nodded to someone I couldn't see, and suddenly the air around me stilled. I reached for it, but it was like it wasn't there at all.

Panicking, I looked around. A young woman was staring at me, frowning with concentration.

"You see, Lynn Windstalker," the man said, coming closer. "Those with black hair are not powerless. Rather, they are the most powerful of all. Black is the colour that consumes all other colours, the absence of light. Black also consumes magic. Your friend here felt it first. One look from Inesa, and he was weak as the day he was born. That is what is happening to you. You are powerless to stop me."

"Why?" I whispered to the girl. "Why would you do this?"

"You murdered my parents," she replied, eyes narrowing.

"That can't be true," I said, taking a step toward her. It felt strange to not have the constant touch of the air, to not have each touch of the wind call to me. "I would remember."

"Clearly, you don't. Perhaps because you were young."

"Discovering your inner monster is fascinating, Lynn Windstalker, but it’s time to finish what your ancestors started.”

He drew a wicked-looking knife, with a serrated edge. Meant to kill, for sure, but to cause as much pain as possible before you died.

All I could do was watch as he bent over Drystan, my friend’s chest heaving with fear. In a second, the heaving stopped, black blood pouring onto the stage.

“No!” I screamed, reaching for my magic, hoping desperately that there was something I could do.

“This is your fault, Lynn Windstalker,” the man said, cleaning his knife. “I want you to always remember that you were the one who brought about Drystan Voidmaker’s death.”

I fell to my knees.

“Now run, weakling, before I decide to kill anyone else.”

I stumbled out of the village, tears streaming from my eyes.

The end!

Happy New Year, everyone! Maybe Jillian will be back next week. We’ll see.

Thoughts of a Salvage

 Hey hey hey! Alice here. Jillian is a little busy this week, what with things like Christmas and family and whatnot, so she asked me to write this post for her.

So, instead of Writing Tips or Jack’s story, you are getting a little bit of random weirdness that I like to call Thoughts of a Salvage. In case you were wondering, that’s me.

Anyway, here we go.

I was looking at Pinterest, theoretically for writing inspiration for a character that is more complicated than I thought she would be, and I stumbled across something amazing. I’d post the actual thing, but, like I said, Jillian is busy and it’s her job to track down authors and creators. The quote is, in a nutshell “To do the impossible, you need to ignore the popular.”

Just thought that was fantastic advice for a writer, because if you try to follow the crowd and do what they do, you’ll never stand out. Writing is about challenging preconceptions, going against the norm. Stories are an extremely powerful tool for change. A well-told story will always convince more people than a reasoned argument. That’s because people are hardwired to pay more attention to stories.

That is also why people hide behind masks and Instagram filters. Another quote (from the Joker) says that if you “give a man a mask and he will show his true self.” which is also true. Once people feel as though you don’t know who they are, they are immediately more comfortable to say what they really think, which is why cyber bullying is such a huge problem. People are easier to lie to when you don’t have to see their faces or pay the consequences for lying.

Wow. Nothing like going for a short wading session and ending up with the water at your neck. Didn’t mean to get so deep for my first post (third if you include the stories Jillian kidnapped).

Aanyway, got to go. Have a good week, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!

Blood and Ash

 Hey! Here's that story from Alice, because Pandora is more than a little stuck. Maybe next week you'll meet the gladiator she hates so much. Otherwise Jack has something new.

So. Alice told me this story was loosely based on the Legend of Zelda gaming universe, though I couldn't tell when I read it over.

Without further ado, Blood and Ash.

Ten thousand years of searching, he thought, And still no trace of her. 

Ten thousand years. The world had changed since the day he had started his search, since he was charged with the sacred duty of finding the Queen's Granddaughter. Back then, he'd ridden a horse, or walked, or begged farmers for rides in their wagons. Ships hadn't even begun crossing the oceans, or the airplanes that made weeks of travel into nights, or even hours.

And the collapse. If not for the protection spells he had learned on his long search, he would've been ripped apart by the creatures that came from the seas, from the outer reaches of space. Humanity had fought them off, but only barely. They'd been forced to destroy their own infrastructure when it was discovered that the creatures fed off the strange information sharing system that had been called the internet. 

Ten thousand years is a long time, and he was starting to feel it. Though spells and magic would keep his body young until he completed his search, his mind felt the fatigue. Years of trekking across the earth had taken their toll, and he no longer had the energy or will to complete the mission he had been so eager to begin.

But the Queen waited for him. She, too, was immortal until her granddaughter was found. Until there was a successor for her line.

When her daughter disappeared into the streams of time during a routine training session, the Queen outlawed time travel, in an effort to safeguard the lives of those under her. But she hadn't anticipated the magic of the throne, which kept her and her entire court alive long past the time they should've perished. A successor would be the only thing to free them from eternity.

"Excuse me, sir," a young woman approached him, her steps slow, her arms and legs impossibly thin. "Do you have any food to spare?"

He stared at her, wondering why she had chosen him to approach. Though he took care to keep himself clean, his clothes were in the same shape hers were, and his beard and hair was wild and unkempt. When humanity was fighting for survival, no one cared about neatness. The combs had been melted in an attempt to drive the aliens back. Some hogwash about the build-up of oil from human skin, or something like that. However, it had worked, but it meant men and women were paying more for a single comb than most earned in a year.

Slowly shaking his head, he walked on, careful not to trip on any of the rough patches or cracks in the pavement. 

At least she had asked. The last group had tried to threaten him with a knife.

Finally, it got too dark to keep walking, so he sat down next to one of the buildings. Ash from volcanic activity meant that the temperature stayed pleasantly warm, even after the sun went down.

As he drifted in and out of sleep, his home called to him. His queen called to him.

"Doran," she said, standing before him. She looked as beautiful as the day he'd left, as the dawn and summer sky. "Please, you must hurry."

"I'm trying, my queen," he replied, bowing low.

"We run out of time. The fatigue is setting in, and more are falling asleep. I fear that we will not live to see a new monarch on the throne."

When he dared to meet her eyes, he saw the same ache that plagued him. Their minds wanted to rest.

"I'll find her," he said, his resolve strengthened. "I swear it."

With that, he woke. 

"Hey, old man." A group of ragtag children stood around him, led by a scrawny teenager.

"Leave me alone," Doran whispered, feeling a pang of fear. Even with his protection spells, an altercation with this group could be messy.

"We would, except Poppy here recognized you. Said you were in her mother's stories."

Doran stared at the girl that the teen had indicated. All these years, and she woke him up? He could see the irony of the situation.

"She recognized me?"

"Are you hard of hearing? That's what I said."

Slowly, Doran stood up, holding his arms out with his palms up to show that he wasn't armed. "Who was her mother?"

"How are we supposed to know? She died when Poppy was little, barely old enough to fend for herself."

So the Princess was dead. That was why Doran had been sent to find the Queen's Granddaughter.

"Was she killed in the Collapse?"

Poppy nodded, staring at him with suspicious eyes. 

"But you remember me from her stories?"

"Mother said that I would meet a man who looked like a wolf, a man who would steal me away from everything I loved."

Doran breathed a sigh of relief. It would be so much easier to take the girl away if she'd been prepared. He thanked the spirit of the Princess for understanding that.

"Did she tell you where I would take you?"

"To a court of pretenses and lies. But I'm not going anywhere."

"Why not?"

"Because this is my home, and I am with my family. There isn't anywhere you could take me that would be better than this."

"Oh, but there is," Doran replied, stepping toward her. "The place I come from is a land of magic and mystery, with lush meadows and sparkling cities."

The scrawny teen laughed. "And you, old man, are crazy. Magic is a lie, a trick to make weak minds follow. You'll not fool us."

"Please, let me show you," Doran said. Poppy shrank back, not letting him touch her.

"No. Mother said that if I went with you, I would die."

That made Doran stop. Princess Carlina had been a powerful seer. Perhaps the accident hadn't been a...

Mentally, he shook himself. He was being paranoid. Years away from the court had drained his memory of the beauty of it.

"That's not true," he finally said, "Where I come from, you are a princess. You are the next ruler of our court."

Now the children stared at him. As much as they tried to deny it, they'd all dreamed of being royalty, of having someone come and whisk them away from the poverty and hunger that was their daily lot.

"You should go, Poppy," one of the girls whispered. "Go with him, and then come back for us."

Poppy stared at the girl, her red hair shining like a beacon. "I will, but only so I can take you away from here."

She stepped forward and took Doran's hand. In a blink, they stood in the center of the court, surrounded by courtiers. But something wasn't right.

Doran stared around, trying to put his finger on it, ignoring the men and women who exclaimed over him and Poppy. Try as he might, the change eluded him.

"Dearest Granddaughter!" the Queen exclaimed, parting the crowd like her silvery hair. "Oh, I'm so happy you're safe. Where is your mother?"

"She didn't live through the Collapse." Poppy seemed to be taking the change extraordinarily well, looking around curiously.

"That's unfortunate," the Queen whispered, standing silent for a few moments. "But all is well, because you have returned home. Please, dear Granddaughter, come sit on my throne. Take your rightful place as our queen."

Poppy looked nervous as she walked forward. The throne was an ornate affair, woven from a living tree. This meant that it was always growing and changing, though there were servants who were tasked with making sure it didn't grow too quickly. Each year, the tree was carved with a new pattern that attached to the old, meaning that it bore an intricate growth chart on its branches.

With no small amount of effort, Poppy managed to climb into the throne, which stood nearly as tall as she did. After a bit of shifting to get comfortable, she sat perfectly still.

Doran stared at her as she seemed to fade. Her youth vanished, until she was bend and twisted, her red hair now a muted shade of silver, her face lined and worn. The Queen seemed to grow younger, her mind suddenly rejuvenated.

He felt it too. The fatigue that had tormented him for so long seemed to lift. Doran felt young again.

Poppy screamed on the throne as she faded further, her fingers falling to dust as she stared.

Around him, the court itself got brighter, sucking away Poppy's life in order to preserve itself.

Falling to his knees, Doran retched. His stomach presented him with the small bits of food he had managed to scrounge that morning.

"No," he gasped out as Poppy melted away. "NO!"

"You have done well, Doran," his Queen knelt next to him, the woman he had given ten thousand years of his life to. "Your court and people thank you."

"Why?" he whispered, staring at her.

"Because I do not want to die," she replied. "Immortality was something I've always desired, which is why I cast Carlina into the streams of time. With any luck, the girl would die before you found her. But I never counted on the fatigue."

The Queen rambled on and on, though Doran wasn't listening. Instead, his hand grasped something within the tattered fabric of his cloak, a weapon that he should never have found. A weapon that he'd kept, though he didn't know the reason why.

Moving with a speed he didn't remember, he plunged the knife into the Queen's chest, pulling her life force out with it. She collapsed immediately, and the court began to crumble and shake.

"Death is not something to be feared," he whispered to her still body. "Death is a friend. Death means that we can rest."

And in moments, the court that had been home to the most powerful sorcerers since time began collapsed.

Thanks for reading! Have a good week!

Writing thoughts

 All right. Pandora is not finished with Medusa’s story yet (something about a gladiator interfering and meddling where he’s not wanted. I wasn’t about to argue.) so I’ve got some writing thoughts for you. Not enough to really be called a writing tip, but I still think it’s good information.

All right, here we go.

First of all, series. Often, fantasy writers seem to think that a series is better than a stand-alone, hands down. I actually disagree. Often, for me, anyway, I’ll read a stand-alone before a series, simply because of the time involved. I can read a 300 page book in about an hour, with no interruptions. When you have a series of ten 300 word books, that’s a time commitment of more than a normal working day. Don’t get me wrong, I like to both read and write a book series. But your reader is lending you their time and attention and expecting to enjoy that time spent in your world. If your series is getting stale, consider ending it.

Second, your characters. Too often, writers will have side characters that appear for two or three scenes, then disappear into the pit of Despair, never to be seen again. I am definitely guilty of this. Make sure that each character has a satisfactory character arc (this means the ones that have effect on the story, not necessarily the barkeep). It helps to imagine them each as the protagonist of their own story.

Here’s one that I’ve had thrown at me a few times, regarding something that really threw me before I really understood this concept. Know the difference between professional proof readers and beta readers. Both are extremely valuable, but sometimes you get advice from beta readers who are trying to act like professionals. For example, in Unidentified, one of my beta readers asked me why Katelynn was so brave. I obsessed over this relatively minor thing (though it seems major) until one of my other friends asked me why it mattered. It doesn’t, because the beta reader was taking that character trait out of context. The way the book is written means that it jumps back and forth between the past and present, and the character traits she learned in the past influence the beginning of the story. A professional proof reader would’ve read the whole story and seen that, rather than making notes as they went along, like my beta reader was doing.

Just some thoughts. Pandora might be done her story by Friday, and if she’s not, Alice mentioned having something I can post.

Thanks for reading and have a good week!

Medusa

 Hey! Here's that story I promised from Pandora. Please let me know what you think!

Medusa

The day I was born, I killed three people. Not purposefully, of course, but the guilt is still mine.

The midwife was first, a woman who was too plain to catch a husband when she was younger, so she turned to the secrets of childbirth, helping many of the women before her death. She screamed when she saw me, when my eyes opened, and turned to stone.

My father was next, prying me from her cold hands, looking for himself what could be so horrifying. The nest of snakes that was my hair hissed at him, and he was next.

Finally, my grandmother, my mother's mother. She proclaimed me cursed and took me from my father's arms, intending to kill me there and then. But she met my eyes, and she too was petrified. 

Mother wrapped me in a blanket, head and all, and tucked me in a basket. She was weak, but knew what she had to do to save my life. I looked like nothing more than a pile of laundry, as long as I stayed quiet.

We escaped the village, and then she began to run, as fast and far away as she could go. She told me of hearing pursuit and running faster, or hiding in brambles. All the while, I stayed silent and still. Often she wondered if I was dead, suffocated, but then a snake would hiss, or I would coo.

Finally, she came to the temple, where she knew I would be safe. It was abandoned, and too far from the path for anyone to ever find me.

I had a good childhood, even though I had to cover my eyes, in order to keep my mother safe.   It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

She told me stories, stories of her life in the village, of growing up, of the father I never would know, and of the day I'd been born. I had no friends, no playmates, so she was the only person I ever knew. Mother taught me that I was to hide, that I would be murdered if anyone ever saw me. My snakes told me the same.

I was always able to understand them, even when I was young. It nearly gave Mother a heart attack when the first sound I truly made was a hiss.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and my childhood was no exception. 

I couldn't see her, but I could hear her cough and wheeze, my snakes telling me that she was thinner and thinner, eating less and less. Even though she denied it, I knew she was dying.

Eventually, she agreed. "We have to go to the village," she whispered, her skeletal hand clutching mine. "They have medicine there. Someone will be able to help."

I agreed. Mother couldn't die. 

First, though, there was the matter of concealing my differences. The blindfold would have to stay on, my snakes could direct me. I preferred it that way, anyway. The only time I ever took it off was when I was completely alone, bathing, or preparing food. I'd learned to floor plan to the temple ages ago. However, the outside world was a mystery.

Mother talked me through making a hood that would cover my hair, using the remains of the clothes she had been wearing when we ran. It worked, as long as my snakes kept quiet. But that meant I was essentially blind.

The journey back through the forest was filled with the sounds of me yelping as branches whipped across my face, my snakes hissing, and Mother groaning and coughing. She had one arm around my shoulders, to help her walk. That did meant that if I fell, she would too, so I had to be extra careful. It took hours.

I sensed when we reached the edge of the forest because it there was suddenly a breeze on the exposed parts of my face. Mother stood a little straighter, and my snakes went silent.

"Hello!" Someone called, making me jump a little.

"Answer him, Medusa," Mother said. I was named for my grandmother, the woman I'd killed the day I was born.

"We need help!" I called back.

Then Mother's weight was lifted from my shoulders. "Let me take her. We'll get you to a healer, ma'am."

"Thank you," Mother whispered. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"My name is Nikos. What about you?"

"I am Amalthaea, and my daughter is named Medusa."

"It is nice to meet you both," he said. "The healer is not far. Can you make it?"

Mother answered, but it was too quietly for me to hear.

"We'll just take our time, then. Keeping up, Medusa?"

I was a few steps behind, careful to follow the sound of them talking. "I'm here," I replied.

"If you don't mind me asking, where did you live? There's nothing on the other side of the forest, nothing but impassable mountains."

"We're nomads," I replied quickly. "We've been in that forest almost a year, ever since Mother got sick."

"Nomads, you say?" Nikos sounded thoughtful.

"Our clan was wiped out," Mother told him. "We were the only two to escape the massacre."

Nikos walked in silence for a long while, then said, "Here's the healer's hut. She's one of the best this side of the mountains."

"Thank you," I said, "I can help my mother from here."

"No, I insist. Let me help you."

Without giving me a chance to argue further, he opened the door and went inside.

To be continued.....

Looks like I caught Pandora off guard! She's promised that she will have the rest done by next week. This will also become her first novel (a fleshed out version, obviously).

Thanks for reading this far, and see you next week!

Writing tip # 11 - Writing is HARD

 Hey! Time for another writing tip. This one isn't really a tip, as they go, but it is a fact. Writing is HARD.

Most people have this stereotypical idea of writers, that they live lives behind their computers, only rarely coming out to accept writing awards and things like that. Mostly because that's what the movies portray.  If you don't have this idea, you have probably tried writing a book at some point, with a serious eye to publishing.

Writing is not sunshine and roses. Often, writers live and die without getting any kind of major recognition while they live, sometimes never getting it. 

A writer is the ultimate chameleon. They have to understand what goes on in the head of a 30 year old investment banker, at the same time as knowing what a six year old girl would be thinking. And it has to be portrayed in a convincing way. A writer has to be able to envision people they'll never meet and describe them accurately to a reader.

A writer also has to know a lot about the world they're writing in. Small details need to be hashed out, because you could be missing a major plot hole somewhere if you don't explain how your main character came to know some obscure bit of information. This doesn't mean you should know every detail, though, because then you'll spend the entire time world building and never get to write.

A writer also has to know things about the character that will never reach the page, but could influence the person's actions. A good example of this being explained is actually in a novel, Brandon Sanderson's The Emperor's Soul.

Beyond the technical hardness, there's also the need to actually sit down and write while ignoring distractions. Like now, for example. I'm writing this blog post instead of working on my next book. 

Writing has lots of background work that no one sees. However, this doesn't mean you shouldn't write. If you are a writer, you will want to keep writing in spite of everything I've just told you, in spite of the difficulty. If what I've said makes you shake your head, maybe consider a different outlet for your creativity.

Thanks! Don't forget to check back tomorrow for Pandora's take on the legend of Medusa.

Not going easy

Hey!!! It's me again. I managed to wrangle something out of Jack Glisson this week, so I've got a sci-fi story for you. He wrote off a prompt that he found a while ago. However, I couldn't find the original creator of the image, so I can't post it. Anyway, here's Jack's first ever published work (yes, this counts).

Not Going Easy

She crouched behind the tree, feeling hot blood drip to the ground. Her hunters were not far enough away. It was over. Amala knew that she was about to die.

Not yet, she thought. They wouldn't get her without a fight.

The robots weren't technically built for the swamp, but that didn't matter. Even if it managed to stop them, they could have reinforcements in a matter of minutes. 

Hands shaking, she reached into her small mechanic's pouch, hunting through her tools for something useful.

Everything she had was technically useful, just not in her current situation. Each one of her tools was as familiar as her own fingers, as familiar as each breath she took. 

Smiling a little, she touched each one, her fear momentarily forgotten as she was lost in the memories. The wrench set she'd been given by her father on her fifth birthday, the special tool that could open any lock that she'd saved for years to buy new. All scrappers had a similar toolset, though hers were the nicest.

Tucked into the side pocket was a small photo, the last thing she had from her mother. Her mother had never taken to space. Father had said some people couldn't handle travel over lightyears. Made them sick, or something.

Amala  touched the frayed piece of paper, feeling the softness of the many times the sheet had been crumpled and flattened. Nothing stayed in good condition in a scrapper's pouch.

She stared at the image, a simple landscape. There'd always been a plan to visit Earth, maybe find her mother. Course, after her father died, that plan had become nothing but a dream. Something about Earth called her, though. Rumour said that all humans felt it, that it was an inherent tie to their home planet.

The robots started splashing closer, their lights cutting through the gloom. Amala shifted, biting back a groan of pain as her wounded leg took her weight, for a split second.

Something occurred to her then, an idea that could save some scrappers from these robots, if not herself. She pulled out her lock opener, unscrewing the back. The battery glowed with a dim light, showing her just how bad her leg wound was. That wasn't something she wanted to think about.

Taking a screwdriver, she pried open the protective casing, which was no easy task. The photon batteries were not meant to be opened, other than in a very controlled and professional environment. Obviously, that was to keep regular idiots from accessing the core, as Amala was about to do.

Staring at the glass tube containing the compressed molecules, she couldn't believe what she was about to do. The red glow made it seem as though her entire body was covered with blood. 

Blood was mixing with the stagnant water under her knees, enough that she was feeling lightheaded. 

Rising slightly, she broke a piece of bark off the tree stump. The crack echoed around her and the robots stopped. A peek around the tree told her that they were facing in her direction. 

She set the core on a flat rock, her palm on top of it. Then she threw the piece of bark against the top of the tree, making it rattle. The robots would have no question of where she was.

A deep breath was all she had time for before the first was around the tree.

"Amala Harri! You are under arrest for illegally modifying your escort."

She scowled up at it. "I put eyeballs on it. Named it. Gave it an identity. And you tore him apart."

"The truce of 3847 decreed that unauthorized modification of an escort is punishable with life in the salt mines if Kara."

"No, you'll not take me to some salt mine."

Amala leaned on her right hand, the one that rested on the core. The thin glass cracked, cutting into her hand. Then the world exploded. 

The end.

Thanks for reading, and have a good week. Next time it'll be a take on Medusa's legend, from the mind of Pandora Jarvis, another of my Scribbler associates. 

Sneak peek

 All right. Today I have something special for you guys. My friend Alice Salvage (you've already seen one of her stories) has a story, but she needs some feedback on it. She's given me the first chapter to post and hopefully get thoughts and critique. We also do this amongst ourselves (meaning the Scribblers) but it's helpful to get outside thoughts as well. Without further ado, 

Dragon 

Chapter 1

I ran through the halls of the abbey, my heart pounding, my bare feet cold on the smooth marble. My breath came is short, sharp gasps.

The creature behind me ran silently, though I knew he was there. He darted from shadow to shadow, the chase more a game to him. Dragons loved to play with their prey.

When I glanced over my shoulder, his forest green eyes glowed. They were all I could make out in the darkness, though imagination and rumor filled in the rest of his majestic body. Even terrified as I was, I couldn't deny the inherent beauty of the Iridescent dragon. 

That moment caused me to lose my step on the slick floor, falling heavily onto my right shoulder. 

"Please, Prince Scalar," I cried out, pushing myself away as the dragon came closer. "Please don't hurt me."

"Princess, wake up! Please, Princess."

I sat bolt upright, my chest heaving in fear. "It was him, Kata," I whispered, shaking. "The prince. He was there again."

"It's all right, Princess. He's not here. Prince Scalar is in Solaria. I assume you won't be sleeping again tonight?"

"No. If anyone asks for me, I will be on the west wall." 

"Would you like me to accompany you?"

"No, Kata. Get some sleep. Maybe have a tray with tea sent up at dawn."

"Of course, milady. I will prepare it myself." She tried to hide a yawn, and I smiled.

"Get some rest."

"Of course, milady." 

I noticed how she waited until the door closed behind me before moving.

All my dresses, and even my nightgowns, had long sleeves, but I still tugged on the left one before making my way down the hall toward the set of stairs that led to the wall. 

Two guards fell into step behind me. "Please not today, Kyler," I said, speaking to the one who was always on my right.

"Milady, I have orders directly from the Regent. We will be with you, but we'll remain at a distance. Is that acceptable?"

I nodded, too tired to argue. Too often, my sleep was disturbed by the same nightmare. This exchange had almost become habit. 

On the wall, I walked out to the center, enjoying the fresh sea breeze. Ever since coming to the abbey, this had been my favorite place.  Many of the nuns were afraid of the sea, and they were all too busy with their tasks.

I enjoyed it most now, when the entire abbey was asleep, save for me and my guards.

The nuns would be up with the sun, saying their prayers to Aarush, the king of the dragons. Once that was finished, they'd go about their daily tasks, sewing, gardening, cleaning and cooking, each according to her talents. 

Closing my eyes, I allowed my mind to drift, though not too far. If I gave myself the freedom, all I would think about was the day that my life changed.

Not for the first time, I wondered why Prince Scalar was the dragon I saw. He hadn't even been there that day, though no one believed me on that count. Mathis said that it was because I'd wake in the night, screaming about green dragons and horror. Father's generals, acting as a ruling council until Mathis was old enough to take over as regent, had taken that as enough proof to go to war, the same war we'd been fighting for ten years. They'd started a war that had claimed thousands of lives from both sides based on the nightmares of a girl who'd had horrors come to life.

Despite all my efforts not to, my thoughts circled back to the event, the single most defining day of my life. I hardly noticed when the sun rose, turning the spray of the waves crashing against the cliff rose and gold hues. Normally, that transformation from mundane water to thousands of jewels being launched into the air was what I came to the walls to see, but I stayed locked in my memories.

"Princess." The Abbess's quiet voice behind me was what finally broke the spell of the past. She was standing behind me, holding a tray with tea and bright yellow sunberries. Her enormous dog, Kaspar, stood by her side, a position he rarely left. "What were you thinking about?" A nod of her head, and my guards carried two chairs and a small table, setting them where we could see over the low safety railing.

"Not much," I replied, taking a seat.

"Don't lie to me, Lia. I've talked with you almost every morning for ten years. I can tell when you aren't telling me the whole truth." She handed me a small cup with fragrant tea. 

I wrapped my hands around it, letting the warmth sink into me and drive away the dark thoughts that came with the night. "The nightmare again."

"With the dragon?"

"Yes," my voice was barely audible, even in my own ears. "Though my dragon never appeared."

"Small mercies, at least."

We sat in silence for several minutes as I tried to frame my next question. "Mother Abbess," I finally began, looking into her face. At first, I'd been scared of her, especially because of her left eye, which had been torn out in some accident she never shared. Of course, she wore an eye patch, and gradually her jokes about being a pirate forced to masquerade as the head nun won me over.

"What, Lia?" 

"Why do I always see Prince Scalar? Why is he the one chasing me in my dreams, and not my parents' killer?"

"The mind is a strange and wondrous thing, Princess. Our dreams are a mix of our thoughts, fears and wishes. You fear Prince Scalar, so he is the one you see."

"But, Mother..."

She shook her head. "I will argue about the significance of dreams with you some other time, Lia. For now, I have news from your brother."

"Mathis?" I felt my heart sink. My brother only ever wrote me when he wanted to convince me to return to the palace. I always refused.

"Yes. Apparently, he's managed to catch his prize, the prince of Solaria."

"Prince Denyl?"

"No, Lia. Prince Scalar. The regent wants you to be present when he passes judgement."

"Tell him I'm not going."

She looked sympathetic for a moment, then hardened. "Princess, you cannot stay here. Not any longer."

I could only gape at her, unable to find my words.

"This abbey is meant to be a place of healing, not a place to hide from your fears. I've allowed you to stay this long because you were not ready, but I now believe that I've helped you as much as I can. Until you face your fears, you'll never know if you can conquer them."

"Mother Abbess," I whispered. "Please. Don't throw me out."

"It's for your own good, Princess. You have duties that you must assume. You've been of age to rule for three years now, and have made no move to claim the throne from your brother. It's time for you to reappear to our people, and another opportunity like this one will not come for a while. You need to return."

Now I nodded, though tears streamed down my face. She was right. I had to return to the palace so I could face the demons that haunted my nightmares.

That's the end of Chapter 1! Thanks for reading all the way to here, and please leave a comment so that Alice can improve the story. Please keep in mind that this is a second draft, so there are likely to be rather minor spelling and grammar mistakes.

Next week I'll be posting a chapter from one of Jack Glisson's stories (another Scribbler). If you're into sci-fi, it's definitely worth checking out!

Thanks and have a good week!

Writing tip #10 - Set goals

 This might seem a little self-explanatory, but it really isn't. Many people don't realize that writing a book is HARD. Distractions are everywhere we turn, from Pinterest 'research' to the feeling of 'I just don't want to write today.'

Don't worry, though, because there is a solution, a remarkably simple one. Set goals. This can be to write a certain amount of words, a certain amount of pages, or even chapters. I currently write about 1000 words a day (though I write more if I'm on a roll), and at first I had to leave my phone upstairs, just to keep from being distracted, because, like all teens, I simply couldn't ignore the buzz that meant someone wanted to talk to me. Now, though, I find it much easier. 

If you set goals for your writing, it can be quite fulfilling to reach the goal each day, and even push yourself to reach higher goals. Writing can be something that you fit into the small parts of your day that aren't reserved for something else. 

Even just five hundred words is a good word goal, especially if you consider that 500 words is about a page. Four or five typed pages make a chapter, and 12 or so chapters make a book. It would take a bit longer, but you will end up with a finished first draft.

Obviously, there will be days when you dont meet your goals, and that's all right. Just accept it, and move on, writing for the next day. As I've said before, if writing becomes a chore, take a break. Unless you're actually on a schedule, don't hold yourself to dates you can't reach. You'll just burn out.

Achlys

 Not all princes are charming. The fae shared stories of men who are all kind and good, handsome and honourable. They lied to us.

My prince was not what you would expect, if the fae are to be believed. Scars from a childhood accident marred his face and twisted his body and his mind. Children shied away from him and even the dogs would run when they sensed him coming. Something about his presence whispered of hidden evils, of danger that was barely contained. When I first encountered him, his manner sent a shiver down my spine.

But for all of that, I loved him. Deep down, he was kind and good, though he trusted very few with that side of him. A ruler had to be strong, especially in a war torn country such as ours. It wasn't anywhere special, but it sat on several important trade routes. That meant any military advances along said trade routes had to march through our lands. Foreign soldiers were responsible for more deaths than Achlys ever was, though he was the only one who faced punishment for it.

His brother was first in line for the throne, the heir apparent. If something were to happen, Achlys was next in line, but he was content with merely watching his brother rule from his shadows, where no one could make out his features enough to be afraid of him. I first met him in those shadows and, until the day his brother died, our relationship was hidden by the same.

Duyen was killed by soldiers in a raid, a death that many would say was honourable. Of course, honourable death or not, he was still dead.

Achlys was suddenly yanked from his shadows, and I with him. He had watched his brother learn how to be a king for years, and knew much of what he had to know. However, there is something that no manner of lessons can teach, and that was honour. Years of being tormented over his appearance mean that he was cold and cruel, to everyone except me. He was even cruel to me sometimes, but only when other people were nearby.

Perhaps I should've given up on him then, but I couldn't. The scared little boy he showed me when we were alone needed someone to depend on. Because of that little boy, I stayed by his side, quietly accepting his anger and his love, almost in equal measure.

His lack of honour made Achlys exactly the king that our country needed. He was willing to do what no one else did, such as reforming the army, pushing the men harder than they'd ever been pushed. My prince also ordered that all able-bodied young men join his army, something his brother had hesitated to do.

Achlys was the one who finally stood up to the armies that marched through our lands. The men in our army learned to ignore the unspoken rules of fighting, instead using methods that were previously considered too cowardly to employ. But Achlys ordered it, and it saved our country.

Many of the decisions he was forced to make tore at him, but he was willing to sacrifice what little bit of his humanity was left if it meant saving his country. Some might say that it was honour that drove him to make the sacrifices he did, but it was not. He lied and cheated and twisted his way to peace, and the people hated him for it. They hated that he'd taken their sons and sent them back broken, that he'd betrayed every moral they held dear in order to secure peace.

Looking back, I suppose the uprising was inevitable, but it shocked me at the time. Perhaps that was because I saw how he truly felt, the horror at what he did and the immense guilt over every battle. But that was the side of himself that he kept locked away, deep within. 

As all new kings will, my prince had made his people a promise.When he was crowned, Achlys had sworn an oath before the people, declaring that he would secure peace for them at all costs. Maybe he even knew that the cost would be his own life.

When the rebels broke into the palace, he turned to me, a dagger in his hand and sorrow in his eyes. "I won't fight them," he declared. "I cannot."

I could only nod, fighting back my tears.

"They'll tear me apart if they catch me," he whispered, his voice shaking a little. Even princes feel fear, after all. "Please, Tsillah. I need you to kill me."

Like a coward, I refused. His eyes begged me to do it.

"I know that you will make it quick. They will not. Please."

Now I was trembling. My hands shook as I took the knife, and my breath rattled in my lungs.

When the rebels came to our sanctuary, they discovered me standing over the lifeless body of the man I loved, his blood permanently staining the floor.

For my act, the rebels crowned me queen. I had the most legitimate claim to the throne, and I had proven myself to them with one act.

The country prospered under my reign, thanks to Achlys. His willingness to do what needed to be done meant that the countries around us feared our military. Even bands of marauders avoided our nation, as any man they encountered knew how to defend himselves ruthlessly, much the same way the bandits themselves fought. 

They see me as a hero, but I know better. I am no hero and he was not a villain. Not all princes are charming, not all villains are evil. Not all heroes are good. Most of all, not all princesses get happy endings.

 Edit: Forgot to say, but the credit for this story goes to my fellow Scribbler, Alice Salvage. 

Writing tip #9 - Pricey Writing Classes aren't necessary

 Hey! I know, it's been a while. I've been busy. New stories and whatnot.

Without further ado, let's dive right in!

Pricey writing classes aren't necessary. I know there's a whole market and revenue stream for the more professional authors in exactly that, and I don't mean to say that they aren't beneficial in any way. Absolutely not.

What I'm saying is that these classes often teach you a very cookie-cutter way of writing, especially the ones at the high school level. There's lots of following very specific rules and writing exactly like the person who is hosting the class, which can ruin your individuality as a writer. Obviously, that's a bad thing.

However, writing classes can help you if they are more oriented toward the marketing/business/publishing side of things, as people often don't really know how to navigate a seemingly complicated world. 

Ultimately, it's up to you and what you think you need for yourself in your writing journey. No one can tell you what you should or shouldn't do. 

Writing Tip #8 - Build a Community

 Build a community. I don't mean literally build a village, but rather to try bond with your readers, at least some of them. Try to connect with a core group that will be loyal to you no matter what, readers who will see your name and buy your book, because readers like that don't need to be drawn to your books with other marketing techniques.

This community will include readers, but it'll also include your editor, someone you should try to at least have a phone conversation with. Your editor is the person who can polish your story, bring it to levels you could never reach and couldn't hope to reach on your own. They read and improve stories for a living! I've met the woman I consider my editor (Jan) once, and I intend to visit her again before my second book comes out. As editors are concerned, I don't have much experience, but she is a rock star.

More people! Every author, especially a self-published author, needs beta readers. These are readers who will read your book for you and tell you what major plot points need to be improved. It's important to remember that even the best beta readers can't substitute for an editor, but they are valuable all the same. If your core group of readers also includes your beta readers, all the better. Then you'll have a team that knows your series and what is going on, so there's less to explain to them.

There are other people that are also important, like cover designers, maybe a marketing team, your teachers and anyone who believes in and encourages you, and that special someone who keeps you supplied with coffee and chocolate during the long hours editing, and the person you bounce ideas off of, and the first person to read your stories, and and and... the list is endless. Community is important. I fill some of these roles for myself, but it's helpful and refreshing to know that there are people behind me that will help and support me. 

Next week we'll talk about what can happen if you don't let anyone else read your book! Have a good week!

What if notebooks didn't exist?

 There are two possible replies to this scenario: Either writers would save a lot of money every year, or every writer would have to carry a binder of loose leaf paper with them at all times. (Of course, this would be before phones were equipped with notetaking apps and laptops got really thin)

I spend way more money than I should buying notebooks. In the months since January, I've probably purchased at least fifteen, which is a lot. From where I'm sitting right now, I can see six different notebooks, all of which I bought in the last three months. Notebooks can be expensive, especially if you prefer to write with a pen on paper (as opposed to a laptop or tablet or phone).

For the same reason, if notebooks didn't exist, I'd probably end up carrying at least two sheets of paper with me at all times, because sometimes it's nice to be able to work on a story while waiting or sitting or talking. But that would be an immense hassle. No one said writing was easy.

If you have another idea for a 'What if Wednesday,' please comment with it!

What if I created a writing group?

 I know, it's not Wednesday,  so it's kinda a bad time for a 'What if...' post, but this is important.

What if I created a writing group? Well. It would be where I'd post upcoming books, writing tips and blog posts on here would start coming from the writers in my group. Sound cool?

Guess what! I did it. I created my own writing group, which is called Scribbler Collective. The Instagram account is up and running, and the website is in the final stages of production. Sound awesome? There's more! In a few weeks I'll be releasing a FREE ebook from me and my Scribbler pals which will include stories that were posted here, as well as some from other writer friends. The ebook will be called Screenshot and it will launch soon!

Also, if you've sent me a message through the form on this blog, I promise I havent been ignoring you. There was a typo in the email address I entered (human error guys. Still a thing), but I've fixed it now. I'm really sorry if you did try to send me a message through it, but it is up and working right now.

Thanks for reading all the way to here and have a good (ahem) Friday!

Writing Tip #7 - Don't Overedit

 I know, this sounds counterintuitive. Editing makes your book better, and can help iron out wrinkles. Therefore, more editing is good, right?

I'd agree, but to a point. Editing is good, but too much editing can make you lose interest in your own book. There will probably be some minor problems (I know that my book has a small grammar mistake) but, as long as they don't take away from the readability or flow of the story, I honestly wouldn't worry about those.

Too much editing can also mean that your book starts to get mired in small bits of grammar that no one cares about or even knows, and it can start to look wrong. 

Editing is good, and I really recommend at least a few rounds of edits. (My book had seven or eight). Just not so many that you get sick of your own writing.

A shorter tip this week, but that's all right.

Writing Tip #6 - Breaks are Healthy

 Sometimes, a story gets stuck. Maybe your brain is all out of ideas, maybe the plot just suddenly stops making sense. You're tired, frustrated and there's a dent in your desk from banging your head.

If you're at this point, stop. Stop writing, stop thinking about that story (hard, I know) and just take a break. Don't keep trying to force it your writing, or your story will feel forced to a reader.

This doesn't mean stop writing completely, just to take a break from it. Give your brain a rest and refill whatever dark box your creative ideas come from. Your brain needs time to recharge, and the lack of ideas is how it tells you. Give yourself a break.

More importantly, don't beat yourself up over it. Everyone needs a break at some point. When you come back, your ideas will be fresher, and you'll be able to see the story in a new light. Of course, this isn't instantaneous. It takes some time to get that spark back. But if you take that time, your story will thank you for it.

If just not writing is too hard (it definitely is for me), then find another project. A shorter one, even. Lots of the short stories that I post here were written when my main story got stuck.

Most of all, don't quit. Needing a break doesn't mean that you're a bad writer, or that you don't belong in the publishing industry. Imposter syndrome is something every writer needs to deal with. But keep working, and one day you will have a story.

Tip #5 - Get advice from Experienced Writers

 

First of all, this doesn't mean me.

More experienced writers have been in the game for years and can often steer you away from rookie mistakes that they regretted making. Of course, you'll make your own mistakes, but that's not what we're looking at right now.
Often, experienced writers do charge to speak with them directly, but you can listen to their podcasts for free. These podcasts usually cover a lot of the basics of publishing (with a specific emphasis on self-publishing because that's what I do).
Another option is to read nonfiction books about writing and with self publishing tips in them. For example, books like Successful Self-Publishing by Joanna Penn. I recommend this book specifically because the ebook version of it is free. I've read it a few times now, and it's really good. She shares her struggles and problems, which helps you to see the warning signs for those problems and avoid them yourself.
Also, if you do know an author personally, or someone who's been in the business for a few years, talk to them. Chances are, they'll do their best to help you.
Remember, though. This is self-publishing. Don't ever expect someone to have all the answers. There will be parts that you need to figure out for yourself.
That's all for this week! Next week we'll talk about how not writing can improve your writing.

Writing Tip #4 - Never delete anything

 Never, ever delete your old stories. Not even the ones you are really ashamed of and don't ever want to see again. Your stories are valuable, and they can be helpful in a few situations. Here are two.

First, you can get discouraged and feel as though you haven't matured at all as a writer. Reading those old stories will help you to see how far you've really come. Comparing yourself with successful, published authors is never helpful, but I feel like that's something all beginner authors struggle with. Instead, you can compare with your old work and see how far you come, rather than how far you have yet to go. Those published books have undergone several edits, (mine went through eight or nine edits and two full rewrites), and you are writing a first draft. Give yourself some room to make mistakes.

Second, your old stories can serve as starting points for new stories. Sometimes time gives you a different perspective on old thoughts, and you may want to start working on those stories again, but heading in a different direction. If you still have the old stories, you have the bones of characters and settings, which means less work for you. And less work is good, because people are lazy.

A third reason to look at your old stories is that sometimes, it's funny to see how astronomically bad at writing you were. I read the first novel that I ever attempted, and I just laugh at it. I've said in previous posts that I can tell exactly what books I was reading at the time, and it's true. I can totally tell that I was reading certain books when I started, and halfway through I changed parts of the plot to make it more like a different book that I was reading. My first novel was Frankenstein's monster, and I'm glad it's hidden on my laptop where no one will find it. But I will never delete it, because that is where I found my love for both the written word and creating entire universes inside my head.

Don't delete your stories. You'll end up regretting it.

Writing Tip #3 - Write what you love

 Your writing is your way to express yourself. Obviously, if you don't write what you love to read or watch or whatever, you will not enjoy writing it. And if you don't enjoy writing it, your readers won't like to read it.

My opinion on forcing yourself to write is simple: if writing feels like a chore, you'll start to avoid it. It is good to write every day, but it doesn't always have to be writing that contributes to your novel in some way. If you are stuck at some point in your novel, don't beat at your your brains trying to continue the story. Give yourself a break, and time to rediscover the spark that will make your story unique. Quality over quantity, every time. There isn't even a contest there.

Ha! Your lucky day. That was two rants in one. Don't worry, there'll still be a Tip #4.

Don't write to please someone else. Write what you like, and in your own style. Because there are 7 billion people in the world, and if you like it, there will be other people who do. Trust me on that. My mom didn't like the way I wrote Unidentified (I don't think she really liked it at all, but I didn't write it for her.) I wrote what I liked, and I've even met some of the other people who like that same style. Different people have different tastes.

Scheduling posts in advance is a marvelous thing. We'll see how many tips I can get done. 

Untitled story

 Another story! I saw the prompt for this a while ago (the prompt being the first line) and wasn't sure what to write. Break time at work is sometimes productive. 

It's strange, the things you remember as you watch someone die.

My brother lay on the concrete before me, bleeding from his chest, and all I could think about was how angry I had been with him only this morning. Little things, that should've been forgotten long ago, just started popping into my head.
I could hear the paramedics getting more and more worried, discussing things like internal bleeding and punctured lungs. Not many can survive three shots to the chest.
My mind ran through my memories. Panic of my own started to set in as I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I'd hugged him. Plenty of fights came to mind, but never the apology. Maybe I'd never apologized.
Despite the valiant efforts of the medical team, I could see the life leaving my brother. It was almost a tangible thing, like I could reach out and catch part of it, maybe anchor it to him. His breaths were getting shallower and shallower, the beeping from the heart monitor less and less frequent.
I remembered now. The last time I'd actually hugged him was years ago, the same day that our father died. At least with Father there had been time to prepare. Cancer gave warnings like that.
But it wasn't supposed to be this way. My brother was supposed to be there as I died, not bleed out on the cold pavement as I watched. I was supposed to go first. After all, I was older. I came first for everything.
I didn't know when I had started crying, but one of the bystanders noticed me. Why were there so many people in this little alley?
The woman put an arm around my shoulders, saying something I couldn't understand.
Small bits of my brother's life flashed before my eyes, stupid things that I'd teased him about but now regretted. When he accidentally went to the wrong house, instead of his date's. The night of his senior prom when he spilled water all over himself. The time he grew his hair out and I cut it in the middle of the night.
"Do you know him?" the woman beside me asked, her arm still around my shoulders.
"He's my brother," I whispered, the words sounding foreign and wrong in my mouth. He was my brother, but so much more than that.
He was a police officer, a hero, a trait that he could never turn off. I was cruel to him sometimes, but he always forgave me, even though I rarely forgave him. He was my support, even though I never realized it.
I knew the exact moment he left this world. The paramedics had been frantically trying to stabilize him enough to move him to hospital, but the beeping of the heart monitor was all over the place. And then it stopped being individual beeps and morphed into one long tone, the death knell that we all know from murder mysteries and medical dramas. And then silence.
My heart tore quietly inside my chest, a silent scream of mourning, selfishness and pain rolled into one ripping agony. He was gone.

Thoughts on a title?

Apology story?

 Here's another story (as a bit of an apology for not publishing for awhile and for not being able to publish for the next while.) I actually wrote this a long time ago, but couldn't post it here because I had submitted it to a magazine. Obviously, I got rejected, so I'm going to post it here and send the magazine a new one. 

Without further ado, Dear Big Sister.

Lexie!

Guess what! I turned 5 today! Mom says to tell you that I really miss you, and I want to see you soon. She bought me a little bracelet with an alien on it, to match my shirt. Dad bought me a cake that has horses, and I get to eat two pieces!

When are you coming home?

Tami

FIVE YEARS LATER

Hey, Lexie.

Mom said that I should write, that you missed me. How do you miss someone you don’t know?

School is good. I have an A in science. Mom said that you had an A in science too, in Grade 5.

It’s my tenth birthday, but you probably don’t care. You’ve missed every single other one.

Are you coming home?

Tami.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Lexie.

I know you won’t answer this letter, you never do, but I need to get some things off my mind.

First of all, where are you? All my friends that have big sisters go to them for advice, they get clothes from them, the whole deal. The last time I saw you was Christmas when I was ten. I need more than that.

Second, who are you? Mom says that you’re my sister, that you would be here if you could, that you’re off studying somewhere, but I don’t believe it. I feel like you are either made up, or you’re some random stranger that Mom decided should be my sister.

Third, what do you look like? Mom doesn’t have any pictures of you, which I think is odd, but she says that you just never send her any. She says that I take after her, with my blonde hair and bright nature, and you take after Dad, black hair, always thoughtful. It’s strange to imagine Dad’s features on a girl. Please send me a picture. I sent you one.

I’m fifteen now, and not stupid. Even I know that there’s something strange that I can count on one hand the times I have seen my older sister.

Come home.

Tami.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Lexie.

Mom told me everything, so I’m not sure why I’m writing to you. There’s certainly not going to be anyone to ever read this letter. Maybe I’ll bury it at your grave.

How many of my letters did you read, wanting to reply to? How many did you reply to, only to have Mom hide them, or send them back to you? Why did you attack the store clerk?

I know that you never knew me. You were ten when I was born, and were in prison when I was old enough to need you, to remember you. I’m sorry that I never understood, that I only saw what I needed and didn’t figure out for myself where you were. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you.

Perhaps this would’ve turned out differently if I had figured it out. I don’t think there was much I could’ve done. However, I’m sorry for not trying

I know my apologies come too late, both for you and for our relationship.

Mom told me how you attacked the store clerk, how the clerk had caught you shoplifting when I was four. The assault upped it from a shoplifting charge, one year, to five years. After you got out, you didn’t come home, instead trying to make it on your own. When you couldn’t, you attacked a cop and went back to jail.

I know what day you died. I remember when we got the news, how Mom cried in her room for a week. I was seventeen. For months, I bore the weight of a grief I didn’t understand, that I didn’t know the cause of. Slowly, though, Mom got better, though Dad didn’t. I suppose you know how he was drinking one night and crashed on the way home. Killed instantly, the paramedics said.

I might as well have been alone in the world. I worked two jobs to keep us in our house, kept my grades up, and hid everything from my friends. They didn’t understand why Mom couldn’t be stronger, and I didn’t either. No one knew that she was dealing with two different deaths. To be honest, I blamed her.

Seventeen, grieving, and basically alone in the world. Mom stopped eating, and it was a fight to get anything into her. Eventually, she was hospitalized, and started to see a therapist. On my eighteenth birthday, she apologized for the year I had lost, for losing herself so deeply.

She said that you had been stabbed seventeen times. Gang related. I like to hope that it was because you refused to join the gang, not because you did join and double-crossed them. You’re buried next to her parents in her family’s graveyard, instead of next to your father, where you belong. That was for my benefit. She didn’t want me to share the burden of grief that she was carrying.

I’m sorry for the insensitive and the things that I did that were not thoughtful. I’d like you to know that I’m happy, I’ve met my true love, and I am to be married next month. I wish you could’ve met Liam, could’ve teased me about him. I’ll name my first daughter after you, my big sister.

Goodbye, and all my love.

Tami.

Writing tip #2 - Build a presence

 There is something that any author who hopes to be successful in the self-publishing world needs to do, that I haven't done, and that is building an online presence. It's very important that you have an online presence, because if you don't, there isn't really any way for readers to find you, other than word of mouth. Trust me, word of mouth isn't all that effective. 

An author needs to have things like an Instagram account (I do. Check it out: @teenage_writer123), a blog where they can announce things like book release dates and contests and prizes and whatnot, a website (it's in the works, I promise) and a YouTube. In the self-publishing world, diversity is better. Don't rely on one site to bring you all your traffic.

Think of it like investing. You don't invest all your money in one venture. No, you diversify, just in case that one venture fails. If you are only invested in that, you could potentially lose everything, whereas if you were invested in several different things, you'd only lose a small part of your total income. Don't put all your eggs in one basket.

It won't hurt your sales to have a following before you decide to publish. The more people you reach before, the less people you have to reach later on. That is logical.

All right, enough of that. I probably won't be able to post again for a while (though if I can, that'll be good) because life can get complicated. Rest assured that the second book in my series (so the sequel to Unidentified) is on its way, it just needs more editing than I thought it would. I'm also going to do some work on a nonfiction, which will contain all the writing tips that I post here and possibly more.

Anyway, I guess this is farewell for now, but I'll be back.

Does anyone else find it ironic that I'm announcing I'll be cutting back on my internet presence after a post about being online more? Yeah, things don't always work out like we would like.

Writing Tip #1 - Read

A writer should be a reader. That's a simple fact, but it is true.

Reading good novels, stories and articles will help your style, especially if you read a lot and a variety of genres. You'll start to notice little things that you might not have noticed otherwise, like a specific wording that means something, while a slightly different wording could mean something else.

This mental exercise can also help you with genre for your novel. If you read books in the genre that you're writing in, you'll start to notice trends, or guidelines for that specific genre of book. For example, a romance novel is expected to at least have a first kiss, and in a dystopian, it's generally accepted that the hero (or heroine) shouldn't be permanently maimed over the course of the book. (This led to a rewrite on my part because Katelynn originally had her nose broken)

When you read lots of books, you'll find that your writing style starts to mature and get better over time. I don't even want to see the first stories I wrote, because they were just so bad. That's partly because I wrote almost every day for five years and part because I read almost as much. And not short books, or books I've read a thousand times (though there were a few of those). I read books that challenged me, that made me work to understand them. Books like George Orwell's Animal Farm, or Tolkein's Lord of the Rings. Reading books that challenge you will not only help you to mature as a writer, but you will also find that your thinking matures.

Last but not least, a writer should be a reader because that gives them a perfect opportunity to see what the competition is doing and then they know how to do the opposite, because going along with the crowd never led to anything good.

 

This is a rather short post, but I feel no guilt. Come back next week for writing tip number 2, which will probably end up being longer. It’s a juicy topic.

    

Planner or pantser?

First of all, I feel like I should apologize for not posting. Life got away from me for a bit there, but that's no excuse. All right, on to the post.

I know, I know. Pantser is a bit of a disturbing word, and you might not know what it means at first glance. Put simply, a pantser is someone who doesn't really plan out their stories ahead of time, and basically lets the characters decide and go where their characters go. Planners are the opposite. They carefully go over every single plot point of their novel and plan every scene.

It can really help your writing if you know which you are, because planners will find themselves unable to write like a pantser, and vice versa.

I am a pantser, rather proudly. My characters have minds of their own and usually just climb over the flimsy plot fences I put them in. All I know before I write the story is the ending, and that my job is to make sure the characters get to that ending at all costs. There are advantages and disadvantages to this. An advantage is that if I want to change something spontaneously (like throw in some major twist or a big reveal) because there is a perfect opportunity to do it, I can and don't have to worry about throwing off any plans or plots that I had. Another advantage is that I am always surprised by my characters. For example, in Unidentified, I knew what the ending was going to be, and I knew the general setting. Not planning out every character and scene allowed me to discover my characters, and my characters weren't confined to ideas that I'd had about them earlier. This allowed Levi and Sophie to play a much larger role than they were supposed to, and even to steal the stage as main characters in the second book. (Yes, there is a second book. It's currently in the editing stage).

Of course, there are also disadvantages to pantsing, the main one being that it is VERY easy to lose the plot. I've found myself mired in the inescapable mud of side quests, when the only solution is a rewrite. Believe me, that sucks.

Planning has advantages in that you don't lose the plot and you also know everything there could possibly be to know about your character, the world they live in and the plot. (Although I've never understood the use of knowing what my medieval knight's favorite modern breakfast cereal is). Obviously, this can mean a more consistent story overall and a straightforward story line.

The main disadvantage of planning is the advantage of pantsing, that you can't really have an unplanned plot twist without having to revisit your outline and deciding if it's worth throwing away however much planning there is after the twist. 

I can't really speak to how planning works because I don't tend to do it. Usually, I find that if I map out too much of the plot before writing, I lose the magic of actually writing the story itself in the mire of the outlines and character sketching. That said, I do have an enormous map hanging on my wall with cultures and countries and conflicts, simply for convenience for my fantasy stories. There are lots of planning resources online, as everyone seems to have a different way to plan their stories. Just find the way that works best for you.

That's the end of today's post, but I do have a question for anyone who might happen to read this. If I were to start a podcast for teenage writers (and other writers too. I don't discriminate) what should be in it? Content-wise, I mean. I'd welcome any suggestions you might have.

Thank you, and hopefully I'll post again before August. 😉

Another STORY!!

So, this week I didn't really feel like coming up with any writing advice, so I just have a story for you guys. This story was a lot of fun to write because turning big abstract concepts into people makes you look at them in new ways. All the small details about the empires were actually researched, so they are largely accurate.

Without further ado, CLASH OF EMPIRES.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Civilization said, nervously looking around the empty chairs. The room was huge, but would seem small very shortly. “You know how the empires fight when they get together.”

“It’ll be all right,” Technology replied absently, stirring his coffee. He sat to Civilization's right, dressed impeccably, as always, in a suit and tie.

Civilization stared at the door, a pensive look on her face. “We called this meeting so that we can introduce the Present to his Past, right?”

“Yes,” Technology was still stirring his coffee, thinking about nothing so weighty as the meeting that they were about to conduct. Rather, he was concentrating on creating a small whirlpool in his coffee mug, wondering if it would be possible to make a mug that would stir itself.

“Well, then, why did we have to invite everyone? Couldn’t we have left out the marginalized empires? You know how testy they get when someone brings them up.”

“We couldn’t have left anyone out, Civilization, my dear, because they would be insulted and probably ignite a revival. That would be a headache, for both of us.”

Civilization nodded, still deep in thought. So deep, in fact, that she didn’t notice when the door opened and Sumer walked into the room, taking a seat across from the two inside.

“Hello,” he said quietly, tapping his hand on the table.

“Oh, hello, Sumer,” Technology replied. This was one of the marginalized empires, so he didn’t say much more than ‘hello.’ If it had been Rome, however, they would’ve had a good chat.

The Hittite empire opened the door, and sniffed disdainfully at Sumer. Then, snubbing done, she sat in the far corner. Hittite didn’t like to associate with other marginalized empires.

Sumer, however, took offense. “What was that?” he asked, losing his normally quiet attitude.

“You know exactly what it was,” Hittite replied, her voice like the screech of a harpy.

“You owe most of your legal ideas, your council, your literary style to me,” Sumer snapped.

“No, Sumer dear,” Hittite waved her hand dismissively. “We improved on an existing, lacking culture.”

Civilization broke in before it could get more violent. “Hello, Sumer and Hittite. Please, save the arguing for the actual meeting.”

“At least I wasn’t brought down by infighting,” Hittite muttered.

“Better than drought and earthquake,” Sumer retorted.

Phoenicia had entered the room, unnoticed by the combatants. He was a little embarrassed about the creation of Carthage. It really had been an accident.

Hittite laughed when she noticed him, but fell silent when Minos came in. It was no secret that she was afraid of him.

“Hey, everyone,” Minos said, sitting near Civilization.

“Hi, Minos,” Civilization was already nursing a headache. Technology had finished his coffee and was wondering if he could create a mug that would refill itself.

“Hi, Civilization. Hey, Phoenicia! How’s Carthage doing?”

“Leave him alone, Minos,” Sumer told him. Minos was a bully, but he only picked on Phoenicia because any other empire could’ve stomped him with their military.

“Hello, everyone!” the present empires turned. Babylon was in the house. He sauntered in like he owned the place, picking the seat to Technology’s right. Technology still ignored him.

“Babylon!” Minos said, a smile playing across his lips, “How are your gardens?”

Babylon stopped in his tracks. “What did you say?”

“You know, Babylon,” Minos was actually smiling now, “It’s hilarious that you were great and mighty and all that, and what people remember of you is your gardens.”

“They were very nice gardens,” Babylon said quietly, taking his seat.

“Lots of invention in them,” Technology said. “Civilization, why did you invite Minos? He didn’t come up with anything awesome.”

“I had to,” Civilization replied.  “Headaches for us, remember?”

“Right.” Technology took out his phone and began to design his self-stirring, self-refilling mug. Babylon and Hittite stared at the device as though it was a gift directly from the heavens.

The door opened again, and Persia came in. He took the seat beside Sumer, not drawing attention to himself. Babylon spotted him and sank down in his chair.

“You put up a good fight, Babylon,” Persia said. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. Maybe if the fight had been on my land, you would’ve won.” Persia was like that. He liked to put everyone else at ease, not trumpeting his victories as many did. His nature was a reflection of his first emperor, Cyrus the Great.

“You empires,” Technology muttered. “Always so bloodthirsty. Must you all be built upon the corpse of the one that came before?”

Civilization scoffed. “You’re a fine one to talk, Technology. Remember the 1900’s?”

“That was necessary.”

The empires began to talk amongst themselves, the hum of conversation rising.

When the door opened again, the talk immediately fell silent. They were all scared of Rome.

Rome and Greece came in together, Rome's arm draped over Greece's shoulders. Both empires were very handsome, losing the pointed beard that had been the fashion in Persia. Rome was clean-shaven, muscular and tall, reflecting the values of his culture. Greece looked much the same, and the two were so similar they could’ve been brothers.

“You see, Greece,” Rome was saying, “I saw your culture and that it was superior to the one that I had at the time, and I borrowed it. Then, by combining it with the elements of mine that were better, I created the perfect culture.”

“It was still just a copy of mine,” Greece mumbled.

“No, it wasn’t!” Rome exploded, pushing the smaller Greece away from him. They took chairs on opposite sides of the table.

Technology, who really hadn’t been paying much attention up to now, sat up straighter. “Civilization, you didn’t invite the Middle Ages, did you?”

“Of course I did. Can’t leave anyone out, Technology.”

It wasn’t really a secret that Technology hated the Middle Ages. He had become a baby, as the people forgot their technologies and returned to primitive ways of life. It was only after the Renaissance that he had started to grow up, and had only during the Industrial Revolution become an adult.

Middle Ages, Renaissance and Industrial Revolution each came in, quietly taking their places. Renaissance was ashamed that her ideas had brought about so much death in the human world, so much revolution. It had probably been for the best, but no one could tell.

Middle Ages was fascinated by the pen before him, staring at it like it was the Holy Grail. He had never seen such interesting technology, and couldn’t fathom what would be done with it.

Industrial Revolution worried that his technologies would only lead to more hurt and pain, as they had in the 1800’s. He hated that children had been forced to work in his factories, often getting hurt or maimed there. That was a horrible blot on his otherwise golden record.

The door opened one last time, and a young boy walked in. He was the Present, or the era that would become the 2000’s. So far, he didn’t believe in truth, he believed that killing babies was all right, he was a firm believer that he was the epitome of the eras and he didn’t believe in getting married.

“All right,” Civilization said, after he took his seat on her left. “Is everyone here?”

“You forgot China, the Goths, the Huns, the Japanese, the Americans, the British,” Technology began, but Civilization cut him off.

“One thing at a time, Technology. Is everyone I invited here?”

“Why do I need to know them?” Present asked, before anyone else could reply. “They’re all dead. They can’t teach me anything I don’t already know.”

Civilization and Technology, indeed, all the empires and eras, stared at him in shock. Never before had an era been so prideful, so self-centered. Not even Rome had dared to ignore the past.

“I don’t even think that I need to be here,” Present continued. With that, he stood up and left the room. Shocked quiet reigned for several minutes.

“This is bad,” Technology said, breaking the silence.

One by one, the empires and eras nodded.

“Yes,” Civilization replied, feeling a sinking deep within her. “Those who don’t remember their past are bound to repeat it.”