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.