Viewing blog entries in category: Personal Writing
Over the past week or so I've been on the final edit/read through of my novel meaning it'll be time to start querying soon, so that's weighing on the back of my mind.
At the same time I finished a short story I'm going to edit and see if I can't sell it to a magazine. I also am 7 chapters into a novel involving the character that's in the short story.
So in short, I'm busier than a three legged dog on a hot tin roof.
Oh, and if that wasn't enough I simplified my wordpress blog this weekend too.
The opening line popped into my head late last night so I put it to paper and have built from there. Maybe it'll be a good story. Who knows.
Some folks say sunset is the best part of the day that the mixture of colors and lighting makes it beautiful, but I don’t see that. All it looks like to me is another sign that it’s time to go to work; nothing more and nothing less.
The laser pistol barely weighs more than five pounds and is eight inches long, just enough to make an outline under my cloak, which means I have to move carefully while looking normal. It’s a hard thing to pull off but I’ve gotten plenty of practice at doing this so it’s second nature.
People enter and leave the subway as it arrives at another station along the way. This is one of most dangerous times of a job so I keep my senses on high alert. It wouldn’t take much for a cop, or another assassin, to sneak up on me in the chaos and then the game would be up. However, much to my relief, no one makes a move and the doors close again before the train pulls out of the station.
A transit police officer strolls past and we make eye contact for a split second. Any longer and it’d raise suspicion, which would complicate things and if there was something I didn’t need on this job it was complications. He ignores me and continues on his way, and why wouldn’t he? I look just like any other teenaged girl on the train.
But I’m not like every other teen because, you see, I’m an assassin. It’s a weird line of work, something that someone my age shouldn’t be in but I blame my father for that. He died five years ago when I was twelve and my uncle took custody of me.
That word is enough to cause the bile to rise up my throat and I swallow hard to push it back down. Monster would be a better describer of Tom. Being a cop obsessed with eliminating criminals no matter what it took, he began teaching me how to kill the very minute we got home from dad’s funeral. Three months later I killed my first man, a child molester who’d managed to avoid conviction in three different trials. So, armed with his conviction of ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ Tom sent me to eliminate him.
“Next stop Brandenburg Square,” a computerized voice says from the overhead speakers.
Most of the people around me stand up and move towards the door, which isn’t surprising. The Square, as locals call it, is home to many high ranking government officials and business people. It is here that the truly rich and privileged exercise their illicit hobbies and sexual desires.
And why I’m here.
I join the crowd and smooth my cloak with both hands without taking my eyes off the people standing in front of me. It’s all natural, something riders see daily, and nothing worth paying attention to. Even the ever vigilant cop doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, which tells me I’ve done my job.
Most people would smile when being this successful but I prefer not to. To allow too much emotion to show when on a job is a risk because it could then become overwhelming and I might not be able to pull the trigger when necessary.
Metal poles, each topped with a curved arm that ended with a light, line the street with just enough spacing between them that a small section of darkness existed between each zone. According to Tom the rich and elite liked to think they were living back in the nineteenth century instead of the twenty-fourth. I find the thought to be stupid and silly because all it did was allow for a predator to strike.
Fall in Darbytown is a time of year where people like me can operate fairly easily despite the private security employed by targets. The days would be warm, enough to make people not want to wear heavy clothing, or body armor for that matter, but cool enough at night that I can wear a cloak and no appear suspicious.
Time to make the final adjustments to kill the target and this truly was the most dangerous time for me. If someone walked into the alley, or the bathroom, at the wrong time I’d be forced to kill them and potentially alert the authorities, and the target, that I’m here. That would fit into the Bad Thing category.
The target was a business man with a penchant for raping women. He was up to twenty-five yet no one would testify in court, thus allowing him to get away with it. The inability of the law to punish the rapist caught the eye of Tom and here I was, making final preparations.
I entered the women’s room and moved to the far most stall and then closed the door behind me. The pistol’s grip felt warm after be beside my body for so long, which proved reassuring in a way. You see, despite what people thought, cold lasers lose a lot of their strength and the possibility of a mark surviving an attack goes up. Tonight it won’t be a worry.
Women enter and leave while I pull a part of the cloak over my nose and mouth and then cover my head with the hood. There were no security cameras covering the sidewalks between the station and the restaurant, which meant no one would be able to identify me.
The hostesses were busy with other parties as I slipped past and into the dimly lit eating area. Once again the idea that the rich had of making things as “romantic” as they could would come back and bit them in the ass. While it did give the right mood if someone wanted to get laid, it also allowed me to work without being spotted until too late.
A middle aged man, balding and with a stomach that lapped over his bet, sat at a table with a woman and two bodyguards. My orders are simple: kill them all. While the woman was an innocent party, neither Tom nor I could afford for her to be able to identify me to the cops.
“This is a private party,” he said as I came to a stop in front of his table. “Move along before I have you escorted out.”
“You’re guilty of rape,” I said as I pull out the pistol and the first bodyguard moves for his weapon.
One thing all the training Tom put me through did was it give my lightning fast reflexes. The hired muscle didn’t stand a chance as I shot him through the heart and then killed the second man with a single shot to the head.
“It ends, tonight,” I shoot him in the head and then turn the gun on the woman who is pleading for her life. It sucks that Tom wants her dead but that’s the job so I kill her too.
I thought I'd write a blog post showing what an average day in the life of a writer was like.
One of the things I see a lot on writing forums are beginning writers asking about characters. It seems that creating characters is challenging to those who are just starting. In reality, they’re not. The problem most people have is they don’t realize that writing comes from the heart. What do I mean by that? Well, here’s a brief explanation.
I created a character named Kate over twenty years ago while I was in middle school and carried her with me until late this past fall. She was a brutal character who could be very violent, and always carried a lot of angst with her. I have Bipolar and when I was coming through the school system, there wasn’t the support programs there are now. In fact, my illness got listed as LD/ED, and it never addressed the issues that lead to being unstable and not able to fit in with the crowd.
That led to a lot of mental abuse from the people around me over the years and that ended up going into Kate. She became the anger, sadness and frustration that I felt over the past. So, all the brutal rage that builds up when one suffers abuse became the reason for her creation.
One day, a kind lady named Maia challenged me. She asked me whether I wanted to be a serious writer, and I decided that the answer was “Yes.” When that happened, a thought arose to create a new character and, PERHAPS, kill Kate off. As I worked on creating the new character, three more came along to create and ensemble cast (which is a post for another day). Things started to change, and a whole new world for the characters morphed off the one I’d already built for Kate.
As I said earlier, the previous character Kate was based off my pain and hurt. The new character, Talia, and her sisters came from the ‘new’ me. Having spent almost three years having regular counseling after my last bipolar breakdown, I came to learn, and accept, who I was. This opened up another side that never had shown itself while writing. Thus, the characters changed.
Hemmingway is famous for saying:
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway
His quote is very true, and I challenge everyone to look deep inside yourself when you’re starting your characterization process and see if there’s any connection, or chemistry, between you the writer and the creation. If that doesn’t exist than the writing won’t feel ‘real,’ and it’ll leave a person wondering what they’ve done wrong.
Writing comes from the heart.
This is going to be a lengthy set of blogs, so I'm going to post each in individually. A couple days ago, I completed a first edit on a hard copy of chapter one of my novel. This is what there is after edit one. The second part will cover the editing for second round, and the third part will have a closer to finished product.
I, and no one has to do it my way, feel it's easier to do these things off a print out then the screen, because it allows me to see how the words aren't perfect. On the screen, they all look perfect, and nothing seems to feel like it needs cutting. as you can see, it's ok, nothing special though.
Here's the initial first copy:
She tore onto the landing field; freedom just feet away.
Her athletic shoes slid across dry, burnt orange ground before they gained a purchase, the sudden stop causing her to windmill both arms to keep balance. She spun on the balls of her feet, blonde and red hair following the motion before reversing course. It flopped over her face a golden colored shield, and the girl raised a hand, blood running from several deep cuts on the back of it, pushing it out of the way with a growl.
The girl squinted her eyes after spending so much time indoors, licking suddenly dry lips as she kept looking over her shoulder and then back towards where she came. A young man, burly shoulders rippling, sweat plastering his brown hair to his head, struggled with an older man. He gave up five inches to guard, fighting to keep him at bay, before looking over at her. His rounded, chiseled face making her heart flutter for a second, the strain contorting his high cheeks into a grimace of pain, before looking over his shoulder at her.
“Katie, run!” He shouted. “Go! Get to the shuttle!”
Another voice chimed in.
“Almir! Run, damn it, run!”
She glanced over a shoulder at the tall man, standing on the shuttle’s cargo ramp, his long, thin face scrunched in a snarl. The backwash from the shuttle’s turbines lifted his short, salt and peppered hair as he looked at her, eyes imploring her to run. Dust thrown up from the turbines turned his black uniform an ugly shade of brown and he kept a hand to shield eyes.
Another cry drew the girl’s attention back to the young man’s plight.
“Katie! Go! Get the hell out of here!”
Tears ran from her green eyes and down curved cheeks, and through the channel on both sides of her small nose. Kate took a couple steps, chest tightening as Thomas, best friend and lover, sacrificed himself for freedom. Rear Admiral Claudio Reyes, head of Fleet Intelligence, screamed at her, her mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions.
What the hell do I do? I can’t leave Thomas-what would I do without him??
“Goddamn it, Katie!” Thomas shouted again as the man started to gain the upper hand. “Move your ass!”
The guard pressing his greater leverage, and his muscular arms rippling, starting to gain an advantage as He shoved Thomas down to the ground, pulling a long, shiny knife from a sheath on his belt. Thomas, helpless to stop the events about to unfold, looked at her, tears in his eyes, silently begging Kate to run.
Kate ran towards him, right arm extended as if she could prevent the events about to happen. “Thomas! No!”
A quick flash of steel in the orange sky, and the man drove the knife deep into the side of Thomas’ throat. Blood spurted as the guard pulled it back out, and the younger man brought a hand up to his neck. The red liquid, his very life, flowing between the fingers of his hand, and he looked over at her, eyes full of love, starting to visibly weaken.
She fell backwards, legs buckling, barely feeling the impact with the hard ground. “No! No!! NO!!!
Thomas seemed to shrivel, and he fell to the ground face first and didn’t move. Sobs, deep and wrenching, racked her body as Kate pushed herself backwards with both feet.
“Almir! Come on! He’s gone!” Reyes shouted.
She pushed herself back upright, the move mechanical, staring blankly where her best friend-and lover-lay. “Thomas!”
Kate ran backwards, never taking her eyes off the guard. A sneer, combining joy over the kill and disdain of her, pulling the corners of his lips upwards, and the man looked up, seeing the shuttle, eyes narrowing and he spat on the ground.
He reached onto his belt, pulling a grenade off, and yanked the pin. The guard tossed the grenade, moving quickly backwards, as Kate spotted the tumbling weapon. Behind Kate, Reyes stepping forward, arm outstretched, his face contorting in rage.
“Shoot that bastard!” he screamed.
Multiple gunshots filled the air, but Kate never heard them. Her mind moved on overdrive, the world around her, moving at light speed moments before, slowed to frame-by-frame. She stopped shy of the shuttle, watching the pineapple tumble through the air, every detail crystal clear. It’s ovular; armor gray exterior contained many round protrusions, each containing its antipersonnel shrapnel, with small squares covering the remaining surface.
“Almir! No! Get down!”
It started to angle down at her.
“Almir, move! Run!”
She looked at him, blonde hair flying, and then back to the grenade. It was already too late, and Kate closed her eyes waiting for her inevitable death.
The explosion, blinding her even with eyes shut, shook the air and she opened her eyes as a mighty fist slamming into her chest. Explosions of pain raced up the spine as Kate’s chest collapse the sound of her heartbeat dying. A spray of needles tore into the bottom of her face, which burned as if someone poured burning oil on it. Hot steel, rushing outwards at great speed, ripping through her arms and legs, adding to the agony until the crescendo overwhelmed her.
Kate slammed into the ground, the impact brutal and adding to the pain filling her consciousness. Pain spiked and raced into her overloaded brain, the burning agony increasing to levels she’d never experienced before with each attempted breath. Screaming didn’t work, because her mouth wouldn’t move, which left Kate screaming in her mind, the horrible sound tearing deep into her consciousness, ripping sanity away.
The agony reached a peak, and darkness grabbed her feet, pulling her downwards.
Page 1 of 2