Short Story: Adventures in Editing

Before I get to the point of this post, I just wanted to point out that NANOWRIMO STARTS IN LESS THAN TWO DAYS! TOO SOON! NOT READY! NOT ENOUGH PLANS! GOING TO TRY PANTSING! AAAAH!

Ahem.

Anyway, as you may or may not know, I'm going to try my hand at writing some short stories this year for NaNo (and maybe some revising, and writing the history of the world my NaNo '12 is set in). NaNoRebel! Really I'll be working on whatever I want and adding up the words for various projects until I hit 50k.

The following story is one thing I'll be playing with this November. It's about a young writer who goes to an editing counselor and it's not what she expects. I don't remember where this idea came from, but it was lots of fun to write, and I plan on doing more of them. That is, if I can find ways to make the editing process fun to read about. Hmm.

I experimented quite a bit while writing this. It's in the present tense, which I don't use for novels and only recently became comfortable reading. It uses this weird perspective that looks like third person omniscient but is actually third person limited. And it has inordinate amounts of alliteration.

But, hey, it was still a lot of fun.

Please go ahead and critique if you want. As I said, I did a lot of experimenting, and I'd like to know what worked and what didn't.

(Please forgive the lack of indents. The right formatting didn't carry over from my Word doc, and I don't really want to spend the time fixing it.)

Adventures in Editing

Episode 1: The Reunion, The Counselor, and The Axe.

A young writer walks up the stairs of Chadrick’s First Draft Depository and Editing Counselors with a spring in her step. Six weeks before, she said a tearful goodbye to her first draft, written in the flurry of fingers and maelstrom of metaphor known as National Novel Writing Month.

Today, she gets it back.

This is her best work yet, she can feel it. A friend of hers told her of Chadrick’s, a place that provided first draft care while the writers took a six week break before editing.

She remembers the tears and smudged ink from that day six weeks ago. Here, on these fated steps, she said goodbye to her characters, bid farewell to her plot twists, and afterward purchased a plot bunny from a nearby street seller to ease the pain.

The motto of Chadrick’s stares down at her from the arched eyebrow of the entrance: “What has been written shall be rewritten.” Above it is a crest bearing two crossed axes.

A strange motto indeed. And why the axes? But, oddness aside, according to her friend, Chadrick’s is the best of the best.

As well it should be for the amount of money she’s paid.

She flings open the door, and the sweet smell of ink floods her nose. Oh, how she’s missed it!

The reception room looks just as she remembers it. Lines of prose still flit across the wall paper, and the soft sounds of pen scratching paper and clicking computer keys echo from nowhere.

She rushes to the front desk and spouts her name.

The pink-haired receptionist looks up from a manuscript. “Nice to meet you. May I help you?”

The writer blushes. “I’m here to pick up my manuscript.”

The receptionist nods and types something into her computer. A sad smile spreads across her face. “This is your first time using Chadrick’s?”

The writer nods. “Yes, a friend told me it’s the best.”

“Yes, it is that,” the receptionist says. “Let me see which editing counselor you…” Her smile flattens into a line. “It says you’re scheduled to talk with Rodge Slayer. That’s mean.”

The writer frowns, a little uncertain. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” the receptionist says, shaking herself a bit and smiling again. She points across the hall to a door. “Go through there. Mr. Slayer’s office is the door at the end.”

The writer thanks her and turns toward the door, which she now sees has more axes engraved on it.

As she grabs the handle, she hears the receptionist say “Oh, honey, bless your heart.”

Suddenly the axes look more menacing than odd. Why do they have axes as their logo?

She pushes the thought away and plows into the next room.

And stops.

A semi-dark hallway stretches before her, the only light coming from a string of swinging bulbs. It harpoons the darkness, but does not completely eradicate the shadows.

The door closes silently behind her. She takes a step, and it makes no noise.

The writer takes a deep breath—noting a lack of odors—and shakes her head. Her friend said that Chadrick’s was the best of the best, and that going there was one of the best choices he’d ever made.

 A wail slices the silence.

A door crashes open, and a middle-aged woman comes out, clutching sheets of paper to her chest. Inky tears run down her face.

“My darlings…dead!” she sobs, pushing her way past the writer and slamming the door to the reception area behind her.

The writer swallows. Not once had her friend said anything about dark hallways, abundant axes, or…death. He’d said the first day was hard, but surely it couldn’t be that bad.

Could it?

As much as she wants to turn around, the writer is not leaving without her manuscript, and the only way she’ll ever see it again is by going through the door at the end of the hall.

So she takes a step forward. Her journey down the eerie hallway is uneventful, though occasionally a sniffle slips or a cheer crescendos from behind one of the other closed doors.

The name Rodge Slayer stands out on the door, demanding to be noticed and underscored by yet another axe.

The writer raises her hand and knocks. The dull sound dies around her, failing to echo.

The door flies open to reveal a short man in a top hat. He beams. “You must be the writer of this tale,” he says in a English accent, waving a thick stack of papers in the air. The writer sees her name at the top of one page.

“Yes,” she says, forcing a smile and pulling her eyes off the stack of paper.

“Well, come in, come in! It’s so nice to see a new author in here.”

The writer steps in the room, which, unlike the monochrome reception area and creepy hallway, is painted in bright, flamboyant red.

The man in the top hat thrusts his hand out. “I’m Rodge, as you might have guessed.” His smile battles with the walls in a contest of brightness.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

The writer shakes Rodge’s hand and introduces herself.

Rodge slips behind a desk and gestures to a comfy looking-chair in front of it. “Take a seat, take a seat.”

The writer does so.

“I believe you came for this.” He slaps the stack of paper on the desk.

But it is not just any stack of paper. That paper represents a month of sweat, tears, and tea. A month of late nights, chocolate, and disconnected internet.

It is the beloved manuscript.

“Tell me, how many stories have you written?” Rodge asks, putting on a pair of square glasses and glancing at the treasured paper.

“This was my second novel,” the writer says, forcing aside memories of the travesty to the world of literature that was her first. The editing fiasco that resulted was why her friend had recommended Chadrick’s.

Rodge nods. “Well, for a second novel you did very well.” He looked over the top of his glasses and smiles. “Now the fun begins.”

He reaches under the desk and brings out an axe. A gleaming, silver thing about a foot long, with words carved into the handle. It catches the light in a metallic wink.  “Here’s your axe.”

The writer looks at it. “Why do I need an axe?”

He sighs like he’s heard this many times before. “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. Not a single word you wrote in this draft is going to make it to the final draft.”

The writer gasps in horror. How can this be? She spent a month, a month, working on her masterpiece. It needs work, yes, but surely she won’t cut out every single word she wrote.

Mr. Slayer must be joking.

“The axe,” he continues, “Is a tool that will help you to fix metaphoric missteps, polish prose, and otherwise bring your novel to the masterpiece it is going to be. You’ll also want these.”

He slaps a package of red pens in front of her, the same shade of red as the walls. The word Chadrick’s is embossed on each, the letters vaguely standing out in the clear plastic, caught somewhere between visible and invisible.

Now those she knows how to use.

She glances back at the axe. “Will I really need something that large and sharp to edit?”

“It makes it less painful,” Mr. Slayer says, “I’ve done extensive testing, and my findings all conclude that using the axe in conjunction with the ubiquitous red pen achieves the best results. Why don’t you try it out?” He pushes the axe toward her. “The first time is a little shocking, but you’ll soon get the hang of it.”

The writer’s eyes widen until they hurt. She stares at the axe, its medieval charm dripping away with the imminent ink of an innocent manuscript.

“N-now?”

“The longer you put it off, the harder it hurts. Cut something small first. A superfluous sentence or unnecessary scene.”

The writer looks at the weapon again. She could cut a sentence with a red pen easily. Scribble it over until it looks like a crime scene.

But use an axe? She doesn’t even know how to use the axe!

It is just one sentence, the practical part of her says. She could cut one sentence, even with this lethal device.

The writer flips through her beloved manuscript, looking for a sentence to cut, her fingers tingling with nostalgic joy.

She finds one, there. “The garden was brown.” That could be replaced with something better.

She picks up the axe. It is not cold, contrary to what she expected, and the half-written metaphor about steely frostbite dies in her mind. Rather, it is warm. Not too hot, not to cold, but a comfortable warm, like the perfect bowl of porridge.

Taking a deep breath, she raises the axe above her head and –

“STOP!” Mr. Slayer shoots to his feet, flinging his hands to the ceiling. He puts a hand on the writer’s. “That’s not how it works.” He lowers her hand to the desk. “Watch me.” He pulls another piece of paper from a drawer. A grocery list. He picks up the axe, and lowers the tip of it to rest on the word “rutabagas.” The ink ripples, blurs, and disappears, as though washed out with water. The handle of the axe catches the light again, but this time the flash is purple, not silver.

“No reckless hacking.” Mr. Slayer says. “Just precise removal. Now you try.”

The writer, embarrassed, takes the axe again, gently lowering the tip to her condemned sentence. The ink ripples. Less like a pond, more like a notebook left in the rain. She blinks, and the ink is gone.

The handle of the axe grows warmer, and once again flashes purple. Confused, she examines the handle more closely. The words inscribed on it are “To cut, to save, perchance to reuse.”

Mr. Slayer smiles. “Now, that’s the best part of Chadrick’s editing axes. They save all the words they cut, along with a backup of your entire manuscript, in the handle.”

The writer blinks, and takes another look at the axe. Surely not. “How is that possible?”

Mr. Slayer shakes his head. “Company secret, company secret. Couldn’t tell you if I wanted to.”

What madness is this? A magical axe that stores information? The writer flips it over and looks at it from every angle, as though examining something from another planet.

For all she knows, she could be.

“There is a USB port on the bottom, if you slide the medallion aside,” Mr. Slayer says, rummaging in his desk again.

The writer notices a slight depression on one side of the rounded handle end, and pushes. Sure enough, the round piece slides aside to reveal a familiar, indented rectangular box.

Mr. Slayer pushes a bundled cord across the desk. One end has a USB plug, and the other a flat bar with a paperclip-like protrusion in the center. “And this is our patented Notebook Reader. You clip it to the top of your notebook or printed manuscript, plug it into the axe, and anything you write down, the axe will record.”

The writer is pretty sure that her eyebrows will be lost in the roof, and her jaw in the basement. 

But Mr. Slayer isn’t done. “Then, if you have a double ended USB cable, you can download anything from the axe onto a computer. You cannot go directly from notebook to computer, however. You must use the axe in between.”

“How…”

Mr. Slayer smiles and taps his nose. “Company secret.”

“And I suppose the red pens can record my thoughts automatically. Or they have some kind of magic ink that self-corrects typos.”

He frowns. “No, don’t be ridiculous. The red pens are simply red pens. One does not edit without red pens.”

Nodding, the writer picks up the pens and the Notebook Reader axe attachment, and slips them in her purse. The axe…well, she’ll just have to carry that. Oh, the looks she’s going to get walking down the street.

“Now you have the gadgets, you can start the editing.” Mr. Slayer neatens the pages of the manuscript, and hands them to her.

The writer frowns. “I thought you were to walk me through the editing process. Help me get started.”

“No. The best way to learn is by jumping in. I will be here to offer advice and help you figure out tricky spots, but I will not do your revising for you.”

The writer nods, but inside her stomach twists like a snake eating its own tail. The last time she edited on her own, she’d wound up hating her story.

She does not want to go there again.

“However, I will give you assignments,” says Mr. Slayer. “How much time will you spend editing a day?”

“Two to three hours. I work at a bookshop downtown the rest of the time. What do you mean by assignments?”

“When you come back next week, I expect you to have done a full read through with your red pens, made lots of notes, and chosen one thing large thing to be cut.”

Sounds reasonable. “And if I don’t?”

“If you do not complete the assignments, you will not be welcomed back at Chadrick’s. We understand that life gets in the way, but if you don’t take editing seriously, we won’t take you seriously. You will no longer be offered our services, and you will not be refunded. Some of the other counselors are softer on their writers, but I do not believe in baby feeding and cradling your ego. To work with me, you must be very dedicated and willing to do the work.”

No services. No refund. No help. Another round of solo edits that will cause her to go crazy.

“I’ll do whatever you ask.”

Mr. Slayer smiled. “Good. Then I will see you next week. Do Wednesday mornings generally work for you?”  

 There you have it. Quick question for non-writer readers (if there even are any): One of the folks who gave me feedback on this story said it might be a good idea if I develop the writer a bit more and show how she feels about her writing. I know how the writer feels, as will other writers (I hope), but non-writers might not. I think my critiquer makes a good point. Thoughts? Were you able to glean how she felt about her writing?

And with that, I'll wish you a fantastic afternoon/night/morning/whatever.

In Which I Say Goodbye to Aunt Trevina

Sometime in the last week or so, I decided to cut one of my characters: my MC's Aunt Trevina.  I liked Aunt Trevina. She had potential. She also had no reason to be in the story. Her sole purpose was one that could easily and more sensibly be filled by another character.

So, Aunt Trevina got the axe.

And I wrote her an epitaph/obituary/funeral thing. Here it is. Enjoy.

Trevina Copperstone

Here lie the fictitious remains of Trevina Copperstone, beloved, if sometimes annoying aunt, charming socialite, and possibly undercover detective. 

Trevina died last Sunday, sacrificed to the second draft in the name of a better story. She is survived by her niece, Lord Gwendolyn Copperstone, who will no longer know of her existence. She is preceded in death by her husband Renfrew Copperstone, whose death happened in the story, and who shall stay in the Realm of Fabrication.

We lay her scenes to rest in the Document of Darlings Killed, and pray that someday they will rise again to find their place in another story.

Rest in peace, Trevina. You will be missed. 

And on that happy note, I wish you a lovely night/day/whatever. 

Teen Read Week Blog Tour: My Favorite Books I Read This Year

It's Teen Read Week! And once again the lovely Sarah F. from Inklined is hosting a blog tour. For my post, I'm going to list my favorite books that I've read in the past year, with the Goodreads description, and my (brief) thoughts on each.

The Mistborn Trilogy by Brandon Sanderson

"A thousand years ago evil came to the land. A dark lord rules through the aristocratic families and ordinary folk labor as slaves in volcanic ash fields. A troublemaker arrives. A rumored revolt depends on an untrustworthy criminal and a young girl who must master Allomancy, metal magic."

This was by far my top favorite of the year.  Fabulous character development, and a twisty plot. It was written for adults, so it's a little dark, and there's a smidge of adult content, but nothing graphic. Such content usually is a turn off for me, but I liked this book so much I ignored it.

If you're a writer, be sure to check out Writing Excuses, a podcast series about writing hosted by Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells (see his book Partials below), and Howard Tayler.


Entwined by Heather Dixon 
"Azalea is trapped. Just when she should feel that everything is before her . . . beautiful gowns, dashing suitors, balls filled with dancing . . . it's taken away. All of it.

The Keeper understands. He's trapped, too, held for centuries within the walls of the palace. And so he extends an invitation.

Every night, Azalea and her eleven sisters may step through the enchanted passage in their room to dance in his silver forest.

But there is a cost.

The Keeper likes to keep things.

Azalea may not realize how tangled she is in his web until it is too late."

I randomly picked this up at the library, and I loved it. This spin on The Twelve Dancing Princesses was delightful. Magic, mystery, and a hint of romance. Read my review here.


The Partials Sequence by Dan Wells
"The human race is all but extinct after a war with Partials—engineered organic beings identical to humans—has decimated the population. Reduced to only tens of thousands by RM, a weaponized virus to which only a fraction of humanity is immune, the survivors in North America have huddled together on Long Island while the Partials have mysteriously retreated. The threat of the Partials is still imminent, but, worse, no baby has been born immune to RM in more than a decade. Our time is running out.

Kira, a sixteen-year-old medic-in-training, is on the front lines of this battle, seeing RM ravage the community while mandatory pregnancy laws have pushed what's left of humanity to the brink of civil war, and she's not content to stand by and watch. But as she makes a desperate decision to save the last of her race, she will find that the survival of humans and Partials alike rests in her attempts to uncover the connections between them—connections that humanity has forgotten, or perhaps never even knew were there."

This, again, was a little dark, and since a good portion of the plot revolved around humanity losing the ability to reproduce (sort of), it was a topic of discussion. But again, aside from references, there was nothing horrid. This one had lots of action, good characters, and some good plot twists. I hadn't read a lot of dystopias before this, and this was the first one I really liked.  (I think the only one I'd read before was Lois Lowry's The Giver, which I...well, hated. But I was only thirteen or so, and it seriously creeped me out.)



The Blood of Kings Trilogy by Jill Williamson
 "Given the chance to train as a squire, kitchen servant Achan Cham hopes to pull himself out of his pitiful life and become a Kingsguard Knight. When Achan's owner learns of his training, he forces Achan to spar with the Crown Prince--more of a death sentence than an honor. Meanwhile, strange voices in Achan's head cause him to fear he's going mad. While escorting the prince to a council presentation, their convoy is attacked. Achan is wounded and arrested, but escapes from prison--only to discover a secret about himself he never believed possible."

I think I might have actually finished this at the end of last year, but I'm counting it anyway. This was a great fantasy with a fun plot, an interesting world, and enjoyable characters. Read my review here.


The Ankulen by Kendra E. Ardnek
"Fifteen-year-old Jen can't remember her imagination. She knows she had one once, though, and honestly, she'd like it back. It's been eight years. One day she finds a young boy who claims to be one of her imaginary friends and that her imaginary world is being eaten by a hydra-like monster called the Polystoikhedron. He helps her find the Ankulen, a special bracelet that had given the ability to bring her imagination to life and together they embark on a quest to find friendship, healing, and perhaps even some family."

 I had the pleasure of beta reading this earlier this summer, and it has since been published. This was a delightful, completely clean little book with that great concept.  Read my review here.


The Archived by Victoria Schwab
"Each body has a story to tell, a life seen in pictures that only Librarians can read. The dead are called Histories, and the vast realm in which they rest is the Archive.

Da first brought Mackenzie Bishop here four years ago, when she was twelve years old, frightened but determined to prove herself. Now Da is dead, and Mac has grown into what he once was, a ruthless Keeper, tasked with stopping often—violent Histories from waking up and getting out. Because of her job, she lies to the people she loves, and she knows fear for what it is: a useful tool for staying alive.

Being a Keeper isn’t just dangerous—it’s a constant reminder of those Mac has lost. Da’s death was hard enough, but now her little brother is gone too. Mac starts to wonder about the boundary between living and dying, sleeping and waking. In the Archive, the dead must never be disturbed. And yet, someone is deliberately altering Histories, erasing essential chapters. Unless Mac can piece together what remains, the Archive itself might crumble and fall."

Again with an interesting concept and great characters. Also some good mystery. I always like mystery. And the pretty-sure-is-going-to-be-a-romantic-interest-in-the-next-book was hilarious, as I recall.  Read my review here.


Aurelia by Anne Osterlund
"Princess Aurelia is next in line to rule the kingdom of Tyralt, but she would rather be one of the common folk, free to learn and roam and . . . not marry the next tyrannical prince that comes courting. Naturally, the king wants Aurelia to marry for political power. Aurelia wants to marry for love. And someone in the kingdom wants her . . . dead. Assigned to investigate and protect Aurelia is Robert, the son of the king's former royal spy and one of Aurelia's oldest friends. As Aurelia and Robert slowly uncover clues as to who is threatening her, their friendship turns to romance. With everything possible on the line, her life, her kingdom, her heart, Aurelia is forced to take matters into her own hands, no matter the cost."

I really enjoyed this, and it's sequel Exile (though I liked Aurelia more). At the time, I really liked the character development. But then I read Mistborn right after this, which blew every book I read this year out of the water, so my memories of this one are slightly skewed. More good mystery, political intrigue, and like I said, character development.


There you have it! Be sure to check out the other posts in the blog tour at Inklined, Emily Rachelle Writes, and The Ramblings of a Young Author.

And a lovely day/night/afternoon/whatever to you.

Second Drafts, NaNoWriMo, and a Fun Video.

Hello, chaps.

Last night, just a few minutes before midnight, I finished my first ever second draft.  Well, secondish draft. There are still great big plot holes and places that say something like ADD MORE HERE and [FILLER] and a character or two that disappears and subplots with no middle, BUT I DID A REWRITE FROM BEGINNING TO END, AND I DON'T FEEL LIKE STRANGLING ANYONE!  Last time I tried a second draft (with my first novel) I hated doing it and gave up and wanted to strangle all my characters. Even though this draft is still a huge holey mess, it's still more editing than I've ever done on a story before. And this calls for celebration. Brownies for all!

In other news, today is October first (in case you didn't remember the date or just came out of a time travel experiment and don't know when you are) which means it's time to start planning for NaNoWriMo. *Squeals of delight* Not entirely sure what I'll be working on this year, but the current top idea/concept is a paranormal... something, involving amputees.

As a reward for slogging through this entirely boring post, I give you Plot Device, a cool short film that someone told me about.

And thus ends my brief return to the blogosphere. I shall disappear again now.  A lovely day/night/tea-time/whatever to you.

Why my MC Acts like Me

One of the problems I've had in the two novels I've written is that the MC acts like me. The first time that might have been intentional, but the second time it wasn't. When I created my second MC, Gwen, I didn't want her to be like me or Lizzie, my first MC.

But she started acting like me anyway. And sometimes my different characters will act/react in the same way.

I found this vexing.

Today, I think I figured out why that happened. When I write my MCs, or any character for that matter, I write the emotional reactions that make sense to me. I write my own.

Just because I tend to hide negative emotions like anger, doesn't mean that everyone else does. And it doesn't mean my MC or any of my other characters should. Some may explode in a flurry of irrational, hastily spoken words. Some may become passive aggressive. Some may start blaming others. Some may not react at all. There are a myriad of possible reactions to each emotion.

No two people react the same way to the same emotion. Characters should be no different. There may be similarities, but no two people are exactly alike. Everyone has lived a different life that has shaped their emotions and emotional responses in a way that is unique to them.

So when you're fleshing out your characters, keep this in mind.

And a lovely night/day/mid-morning/whatever to you.

Grammarly Blog Offer

  UPDATE 9/28/2014

First, confession: I've procrastinated updating this post for months, and I feel really bad about that. 

Second: I got another email from Nikolas Baron that said this:

I just wanted to let you know that I'm very sorry for creeping you out and clearly failing to do Grammarly's Blogger Partnership Program justice in my email. I will say that your comment about getting more subscribers took me by surprise. As a growing Inc 500 company, we attract about 30 million page views per year. Emailing individual bloggers in an attempt to get them to sign up, only to then give them a gift card wouldn't make a whole lot of sense. As I mentioned in my first email to you, we offer sponsored bloggers a free, premium account of Grammarly so they don't have to go through the hassle of signing up with a credit card. Looking back, I do understand your skepticism. If multiple people write about something online, there's usually some truth to it. In this case, however, the handful of blog posts decrying our campaign as "spam" was a result of misunderstandings with a tiny fraction of the total number of bloggers we contacted. Most of these misunderstandings have been resolved. The hundreds of participating bloggers we've been fortunate enough to sponsor include Jose Vilson, Craig Hart, Katherine Hansen, and Dr. Leroy Huizenga.

 I think I overreacted  when I originally wrote this post, and for that I apologize. It seems this may not be a scam after all.

 

ORIGINAL POST: 

Writing related scam alert! I received this email recently, and after doing a Google search, I found a couple blog posts about others getting the exact same email and finding it fraudulent. Thought I'd warn you all too.

 

Hi Lily,

You know better than most that putting your writing "out there" takes a tremendous amount of courage; readers will find and comment on even the simplest mistakes. At Grammarly we know the feeling - and we've made it our mission to improve writers' confidence. Putting our money where our mouth is, we'd be honored to sponsor your next blog post with a $20 Amazon gift card.

In case you haven’t heard of us, Grammarly is an automated online proofreader that finds and explains those pesky grammar, spelling, and punctuation mistakes that are bound to find their way into your first draft. Think of us as a second pair of digital eyes that can spare you the cost of hiring a proofreader. If you'd like to join our 3 million users and try the premium version of our proofreader for free, let me know and I'll make it happen!

Please send me the expected publishing date and topic of your next appropriate blog post (ideally something about writing) so I can give you all the details you need in time.

Cheers,
Nick

P.S. Let me know if you ever find yourself in foggy San Francisco; I’d love to grab some coffee. 

And may I just say that that last line totally creeps me out. I'm only seventeen! And if this person has actually been here, then he's seen that old picture of me over there on my side bar, but it's two years old so I look only FIFTEEN. Completely inappropriate. And.... well, the wording is just weird. All of it. Thank heaven for Google and those others that posted about this scam.

 Here's one of the blog posts I read: http://inkyblots.com/grammarly-blog-sponsorship-or-not/ Also, if you follow the link they give to the Blasphemous Homemaker blog it's got some inappropriate content. Just to warn ya.

 Edited to add: According to one source, to claim the gift card you have to sign up for a 7 day trial of Grammarly with your credit card.  It may be that Grammarly is just trying to get more subscribers, but still. There are better ways. 

 And a scam-free night/day/mid-afternoon/whatever to you. 

Beating the Editing Blues

In my limited experience there are two types of writers: the kind that approach editing with a giant axe, squealing with glee; and the others who look at their writing as if it is the one holding the axe, sharpened and ready to hack at the writer's soul, and who see their first drafts as a quagmire of stagnant prose, characters with the emotional range of moss, and plot twists as captivating as pond scum.

I tend to swing back and forth.

During rough times of quagmire wading, it's important to stay positive. Editing in a negative, sullen mood is not as productive or enjoyable as editing in a cheerful mood.

But when your characters are trying to drown you in a stinking pit of cliched dialogue, how do you stay positive? Below are some things I've found helpful.

Find a good writing community and ask for help.
Finding people who have been where you are and who can offer support is a good starting place. Last week, I had a bad editing day, and I asked for tips on getting through it on the Go Teen Writers Facebook group. (That group is fantastic, by the way.) I didn't get many answers other than simply "stay positive", but interacting with people who'd been in the same place I was in and had gotten through it was encouraging.

Learn to kill your darlings. 
Once I was comfortable cutting bits of my "precious" first draft, things got easier. I was no longer constrained by the chains of my faulty prose. Example: I recently decided that the one character who dies, shouldn't die. Her death means nothing. I can use her for better purposes if she stays alive. I also decided that her love interest didn't need to be at the manor after all. He did nothing there, and if the girl lived, he had no reason to leave their village. However, cutting that subplot meant cutting some of my favorite scenes with the guy's little sister. She's adorable. I love writing her. I didn't want to take the axe to them, but once I did, it let me explore other and better options for the story. Now that the guy isn't at the manor, other stuff happens, stuff that is better for the story.

Any darlings that get cut I put in a deleted scenes doc, so I can use them again, should the need arise.

I once said that editing is a cross between cutting off your best friend's arm and giving them a much-needed makeover. I still agree with this. And, if your best friend has a third arm that really gets in the way and is entirely useless, even if it's pretty, it's better that it comes off.   Your words aren't written in stone. If something needs to go, it should go. You'll write something better to replace it.


 When you reach the point where you want to strangle someone, take a break. 
This is not a good mindset to edit in. Step away from the computer, set down the red pen. Go outside and take a walk. Read a book. Bathe the dog. Get out of your head.

Talk to someone about your story. 
My mom is by brainstorming partner. When I get stuck, I can talk with her. She knows pretty much the whole story, as she helped plan and plot before I even started writing it. Sometimes hashing an idea out with her sparks a new idea or shows me how to fix a problem.  

Beta read/critique for someone else.
Earlier this summer I started reading Embassy by S. Alex Martin. Reading someone else's work can give you practice editing and spotting rough spots, without having to worry about fixing them.   

When you think you're a horrible writer, remember that the fact that you recognize you're first draft is terrible means you're a good writer.
I found a quote on Pinterest once that stuck with me:

"The greater the artist, the greater the doubt. Perfect confidence is granted to the less talented as a consolation prize." - Robert Hughes

 The fact that you know it could be better means you have the ability to fix it. Always remember that you can fix it. You may need to practice, or learn some more, and it may take a while, but you can fix it.

Listen to happy music and/or read encouraging sayings.
I created a YouTube play list of encouraging songs, and I pin encouraging quotes onto one of my Pinterest boards. Here's one of my favorites. Here's another, and another, and here's a funny, though it isn't very encouraging.


And that's all I've got off the top of my head. Hope you find it helpful!

And a fabulous day/night/morning/whatever to you.

Acutal Contest Entry

So, in the post before last, I shared six possible entries that I wrote for the last Go Teen Writers contest. Now that the winners have been announced, I'm going to share my actual entry, which received an honorable mention.

I’ve never been the type of girl to say “leave your hope at the front gate.”

But for the first time in my life, I feel that sentiment worming its way into my head.

I look over the ruins of my city, a ghostly image of what it used to look like flickering just outside my vision.  Then, for a moment, the scavenging dragons in the sky become flying vehicles, and the fog crawling off the ocean becomes steam from Voyle’s Magic-processing factories. The sunlight sparkles off broken glass, and through the truth-obscuring fog I can imagine that the city is whole again.

Then a cloud comes over the sun. The illusion disappears.

I glance down at the notebook in my lap, and reread the words Pearl had written.

It passed.

Two words. Two small, innocent words with consequences far more chilling than I care to think about. 

This is what the MC of one of my latest shiny new ideas had to say about this prompt.  She gave me two paragraphs, actually, the other of which was one of the ones I posted before. 

This story is a bit nuts. It came to me after I listened to a cover of Imagine Dragons' Radioactive by Lindsey Stirling and Pentatonix and thought "Maybe one day I'll try writing a dystopia." Those of you who have known me for a while may have just gasped in horror, knowing my previous aversion to that genre. Said aversion is fading. 

Anyway, after that thought process got started, a bunch of other, older ideas said "Hey! You have to write me first!" And, after some bickering, they started joining forces one by one, saying "Hey, if we combine story ideas, maybe she'll write us faster." 

Bloody clever little plot bunnies. Now I have a story idea that covers possibly three genres (dystopia, science fantasy, and adventure), combines ideas for characters I've had floating around in my head for a while, and sounds fun to write. It may be my next NaNoWriMo story. We'll see.

And a wonderful day/evening/morning/whatever to you. 

The Ankulen by Kendra E. Ardnek Cover Reveal

This past June I had the great pleasure of critiquing/beta reading The Ankulen by Kendra E. Ardnek. Today, I'm participating in the cover reveal. 

Lovely, isn't it?

Here's the back cover blurb: 
Fifteen-year-old Jen can't remember her imagination. She knows she had one once, though, and honestly, she'd like it back. It's been eight years. One day she finds a young boy who claims to be one of her imaginary friends and that her imaginary world is being eaten by a hydra-like monster called the Polystoikhedron. He helps her find the Ankulen, a special bracelet that had given the ability to bring her imagination to life and together they embark on a quest to find friendship, healing, and perhaps even some family.

I thoroughly enjoyed The Ankulen.  Here's the GoodReads profile so you can go add it to your shelves.  

And here's a mini-interview with Miss Ardnek about The Ankulen. 

1. What sparked the idea that became The Ankulen?

There was no initial spark for The Ankulen. My younger cousin and I were in the yard trying to come up with a play for us to perform at our next family get-together. We had being trying to do something based on a story I had found that my mom had written, but it wasn't going anywhere. 

So we did what we always did when we wanted to come up with a new story. We assigned ourselves names, and started making stuff up as we went along. I was Jen and he was Chris. When he popped out of our toy castle claiming to be a friend who had once been my best friend but had been trapped in my imagination for the last eight years, we knew we had struck gold. We never performed the play, unfortunately, because we couldn't come up with an ending that would work with our limited budget.

2. Who is your favorite character, and why do you like them?

This is probably the most difficult question people ask me, since I love every character in a different way and for different reasons. However, I'll go with Derek as my favorite today. I often struggle with my boy characters, since I'm a girl and I don't know any boys older than twelve with whom I could sit down with and ask "okay, now how does your brain work?" But I think I got Derek right, and my Grandma and my Great Aunt (both of whom grew up with two brothers and no sisters) agree. Derek is a very complex guy, and he's stingy with his back story. (Which is probably the worst of any character in the book), and as a result, I didn't grasp his complete character until draft two. For the longest time, I thought that he didn't care about anything, but I was wrong. He does care about things, deeply, and he's very protective of anyone he's cares about. But he's been hurt a lot, so he's afraid to care. The full extent of his horrible childhood is never revealed in the book, but there are hints, and I do know most of it now. If I ever write a sequel, I will reveal the rest.

3. What was your favorite part of writing The Ankulen?

I'll go with the relationship between Derek, Jen, and Megan. I've never been in love, so I feel kinda awkward writing romance (fun though it may be), but I do have brothers and sisters. I also have cousins who live close enough to be practically siblings. I love writing about the bond that siblings share, and since Derek and Megan are adopted, writing this bond into existence was lots of fun. Megan and Jen get it right off, but there are lots of rocks where Derek is involved.

Kendra E. Ardnek  is the eldest daughter in a homeschooling family of four. She has been making up stories since an early age and published her first book, Sew, It's a Quest, when she was sixteen.

When she isn't writing, she's usually knitting, crocheting,  making swords out of paint-stir sticks, or looking up random facts. You can follow her writing adventures on her blog, Knittedbygodsplan.blogspot.com.

 Sew, it's a Quest was equally enjoyable. You should read them both.

 

And, she's having a release party on her blog on September 6! Mark your calendars! 

And that is all I have to say today. A wonder-filled day/evening/morning/whatever to you.

Alternate Contest Entries

So, last week I sent in an entry for the latest Go Teen Writers contest, in which I had to write a paragraph starting with the sentence fragment "I've never been the type of girl/guy to say..." 150 words tops.

And, I'm a finalist. (See it here.)

This is rather exciting, as I've never been a finalist in one of their contests with something longer than a sentence. The first time I won first place in a first sentence contest (see it here), and the second time I made the top 25 in an one-sentence elevator pitch contest (see it here - mine is #2), but I didn't make it to the winners' circle.

So, I'm rather excited.

When I was working with that prompt, I had a little explosion of ideas. I wrote seven possible entries. SEVEN. And I liked them all. With the help of my family and Hannah M. (one of the other finalists) I was able to narrow it down.

Since I have nothing better to do with them, I thought I'd share the six non-entered paragraphs here. If you have anything to say about them, I'd love to hear it.

#1

I’ve never been the type of guy to say things like “never say never” or “the glass is half full.”

No. I say things like “the grass is always greener on the other side” and “all that glitters isn’t gold.”

Maybe it’s time for that to change.

Investigating murder changes how you see the world.  It becomes darker, smellier, lonelier. If someone had told me that before, maybe I would’ve become something—someone—else.

But here I am, crouching above another mangled corpse in another cramped, fetid sewer. There have been better crime scenes.

Sargent McCallow splashes toward me, a hand clamped over his nose and mouth. “On their way,” he mumbles.

I nod. “Gonna use the Memorizer?”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

I look down at the dead man at my feet. Mid 50s, street clothing, lots of blood. But, just like the last ones, he won’t have any memories for the Memorizer to find.

#2

I’ve never been the type of girl to say “leave your hope at the front gate.” I don’t like to dwell on that aspect of our situation.

But I can feel that sentiment worming its way into my head now.

I stare over the ruins of the city from my perch atop the Assembly building, trying to ignore the notebook resting like a weight in my lap. It is only 5:43. I could pretend I hadn’t read it for another 17 minutes.

But that won’t change what it says.

I give in and look at it.

It passed, Maggie had written. I’m sorry.

I try to imagine what it was like before the Magic died, taking Maggie’s world with it.

I can’t do it. It’s impossible to reconcile what the others have said with what I see before me.

#3

(This is the one I submitted, and once they announce the winners, I'll post it.)

#4

I’ve never been the type of girl to say “I love you.”  But, as I watch my father’s coffin loaded onto a black carriage, I wish I’d said it, if only once.

No! part of me whispers. He never made the effort. He ignored you. He doesn’t deserve those thoughts.

The voice is right.

But still. He was getting better, at the end.

I turn away from the carriage, and cast a glance over my shoulder at the manor. I can’t help but feel a small thrill. Citcra Hall, mine at last.

A tall man in a black suit walks up to me. Mr. Snyder. Wonderful.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Silverbeetle.”

Liar. He only wants whatever Father left him in his will.

“Good day, Mr. Snyder,” I say, walking to where another carriage awaits me.

#5

I’ve never been the type of girl to say “Less is more.”

What kind of nonsense is that? More is always more, and more’s always better.

Especially when it comes to piracy.

I stand in the crow’s nest of our ship, Mourning’s Revenge, the wind kissing my skin.  We’ll be even with the Ootwoxan ship in thirty minutes.

“Noxie, get down from there,” Horace shouts at me. “We’re not going to take those shorties if you don’t get the guns ready.”

Leaning over, I see him scowling up at me. I grin. “Need I remind you that I’m one of those ‘shorties’?”

He belts a laugh. “Aye, that’s why you’re planning to rob ‘your’ king. You’re no more Ootwoxan anymore than I’m a woman.”

I scramble out of the crow’s nest and slide down to the deck. “Right you are, Horace.”

#6

I’ve never been the type of girl to say things like “ROFL” or “TTYL” or “laters.”

But, unfortunately, my brother does.

I glance down at his latest text, a travesty to the English language.  liz can u plz bring my sticks to Burchs? left them in ur truck srry.

“Two things, brother dear,” I mumble as I type a reply, “Spelling and grammar.” I do a quick proofread of my response,

It seems you left your ability to communicate properly with them. I’ll meet you there at lunchtime.

And hit send. He won’t listen to me—he never does—but a girl can hope, right?

Mr. Thompson pokes her head around the corner, her lips pulled tight into a neat circle.

Oh dear.

“Lizzie,” she says, “I just got off the phone with Mrs. Storm-Baker.” —So that explains the expression— “She’ll be stopping by this afternoon to look at teacups.” 

#7

I’ve never been the type of guy to say things like “war isn’t the answer” or “Chad hearts Tori” in my graffiti.

Shakespeare is so much more fun.

So it is with glee that I cover yet another ill-fated proclamation of love on the side of the bridge with something far more poetic and meaningful: the Bard’s sonnet 116.

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments…”

Now this is true art. The spray paint kisses the rusted metal, soaking up the beauty of Shakespeare’s words.

“Love is not love, which alte—”

A footstep crunches on gravel. I freeze halfway through the word “alters.” This road is supposed to be closed. That’s why I chose this bridge as my next canvas.

Maybe someone else had the same idea.

Great.

I slip behind an old honeysuckle bush, trying to see who this intruder on my solitude is.

---

Please excuse that weird bar.  I copied and pasted these from the Word doc I wrote them in, and it hitched a ride as a stray bit of formatting.  

BUT LOOK MY "ENTRIES" ACTUALLY HAVE BITS OF INTERNAL NARRATIVE IN THEM.  This is just as exciting as making it to the final round, as my WiP has an embarrassingly small amount of internal narrative.

So, that's that. Hope you enjoyed those.

And a lovely night/day/morning/whatever to you.