Living characters can become more vivid by first making them ghosts. Dead characters can come alive through the artifacts or wreckage they leave behind.
Excellent article!
"There and Not" by Donald Maass
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Words to Remember
Ask yourself what could go wrong next. Stories move forward through conflict. It can be little conflict or big conflict. Conflict leads to change and change means progress through the story as you document it all.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
"White Lace and Promises"
Today's entry is brought t you courtesy of Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge.
This week's word is: Bustier. Now then. This is not 'bustier' as in "Jenny is bustier than Golda". No. This is 'bustier' as in "Black Satin Bustier". As in, the French undergarment.
And now, my contribution.
"White Lace and Promises"
It was the dress of my dreams, a vision of white satin and lace with row upon row of tiny pearlescent beads, their myriad designs stitched with flawless creativity.
I admired myself in the mirror of the exclusive little shop, and shook my head sadly. I was forced to face the fact that I was no longer a young woman. The telltale signs of middle age had come and gone, and left in place of the body I had called home for so long was a matriarch.
Sensing my hesitation the designer placed the solution in my hands.
"Bustier, madame?"
This week's word is: Bustier. Now then. This is not 'bustier' as in "Jenny is bustier than Golda". No. This is 'bustier' as in "Black Satin Bustier". As in, the French undergarment.
And now, my contribution.
"White Lace and Promises"
It was the dress of my dreams, a vision of white satin and lace with row upon row of tiny pearlescent beads, their myriad designs stitched with flawless creativity.
I admired myself in the mirror of the exclusive little shop, and shook my head sadly. I was forced to face the fact that I was no longer a young woman. The telltale signs of middle age had come and gone, and left in place of the body I had called home for so long was a matriarch.
Sensing my hesitation the designer placed the solution in my hands.
"Bustier, madame?"
Thursday, March 18, 2010
unspoken
Thanks to Popping Bubbles , I found a new challenge! I love writing drabbles. Containing my writing to exactly 100 words is a challenge and I've been writing them for years. I was delighted to find this link today. The word for today's challenge was "unspoken".
Eternity
Four months, three days, six hours and several hundred odd minutes. An eternity that had been filled with hurt and longing, aching to take back words that should never have been uttered in the first place. He had ached for every single second of every day. Fool! What had he done?
He had gone off to find himself, to discover exactly who he was, but all he had needed to do was ask her and she would have gladly told him. He was hers, her one and only love. All of the things he had said should have remained unspoken.
Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge is here. I'd love to see your response!
Eternity
Four months, three days, six hours and several hundred odd minutes. An eternity that had been filled with hurt and longing, aching to take back words that should never have been uttered in the first place. He had ached for every single second of every day. Fool! What had he done?
He had gone off to find himself, to discover exactly who he was, but all he had needed to do was ask her and she would have gladly told him. He was hers, her one and only love. All of the things he had said should have remained unspoken.
Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge is here. I'd love to see your response!
Friday, February 5, 2010
Plot, it's what's for dinner - {W}rite of Passage
Plot.
"The plot thickens."
"Plot? What plot?"
"A plot of ground where my forebears lie in peaceful rest."
A simple word, "plot." A simple, four letter word that should evoke an easy response and yet I struggle. As a recreational writer I adore plotting disasters for my characters. Angst? Oh my yes, in fact the more angst the better as far as I'm concerned. However, when it comes to real life I would just as soon the plot of my days and weeks be boring and non-eventful. It isn't that I don't like a little excitement from time to time, quite the opposite.
I simply like my excitement to be well-planned and not emergency or catastrophic in nature.
Unfortunately, plots in my real life existence tend to be as angsty as those I put my characters through. Thankfully my fictional plots are extreme in nature and always resolve themselves. But living with a budding teenager and questionable plumbing, I don't see an easy resolution in sight.
Yet.
But there's always tomorrow.
"The plot thickens."
"Plot? What plot?"
"A plot of ground where my forebears lie in peaceful rest."
A simple word, "plot." A simple, four letter word that should evoke an easy response and yet I struggle. As a recreational writer I adore plotting disasters for my characters. Angst? Oh my yes, in fact the more angst the better as far as I'm concerned. However, when it comes to real life I would just as soon the plot of my days and weeks be boring and non-eventful. It isn't that I don't like a little excitement from time to time, quite the opposite.
I simply like my excitement to be well-planned and not emergency or catastrophic in nature.
Unfortunately, plots in my real life existence tend to be as angsty as those I put my characters through. Thankfully my fictional plots are extreme in nature and always resolve themselves. But living with a budding teenager and questionable plumbing, I don't see an easy resolution in sight.
Yet.
But there's always tomorrow.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Emptiness
Well now, isn't this a cheery start? This is based on the current prompt at Quote Snack. The prompt is behind the "read more" link at the end so as not to spoil those who might wish to participate.
It haunts me most in the wee hours of the morning. It is that time of day when there are no ordinary sounds to drown out my thoughts; no distractions of motherhood or housewife, or even those of a day job. Never mind that the day job is no more, even so there is nothing to stop the thoughts from flooding my soul.
They come in waves of memories from a past life, a childhood that was left behind long ago. From a teenage birthday party comes memories of second grade, fifth grade, and then sometimes skips all the way backward to kindergarten. Faces are as vivid in my thoughts as they were in life and seven year old friends with spaces where their baby teeth used to be never seem to age. They will always be thus in my memories.
Inevitably my thoughts turn closer to home, to those I have lost. When I speak of them I smile and share happy memories, sometimes laughing at the past. But in the wee hours of the morning I weep. I weep as the darkness closes aorund me and I can't allow the sounds of my grief to be heard. No one understands the depth of my loss but me. Others have their own losses, but mine? It is my own and I cling to it silently.
It haunts me most in the wee hours of the morning. It is that time of day when there are no ordinary sounds to drown out my thoughts; no distractions of motherhood or housewife, or even those of a day job. Never mind that the day job is no more, even so there is nothing to stop the thoughts from flooding my soul.
They come in waves of memories from a past life, a childhood that was left behind long ago. From a teenage birthday party comes memories of second grade, fifth grade, and then sometimes skips all the way backward to kindergarten. Faces are as vivid in my thoughts as they were in life and seven year old friends with spaces where their baby teeth used to be never seem to age. They will always be thus in my memories.
Inevitably my thoughts turn closer to home, to those I have lost. When I speak of them I smile and share happy memories, sometimes laughing at the past. But in the wee hours of the morning I weep. I weep as the darkness closes aorund me and I can't allow the sounds of my grief to be heard. No one understands the depth of my loss but me. Others have their own losses, but mine? It is my own and I cling to it silently.
Oh the places we will go ...
To borrow a phrase.
Welcome to Dust Jacket! Pull up a chair, click on a link, and enjoy. I adore writing prompts. Prompts were made exclusively for me, I think. Ask any of my long-time friends who have held my hand and encouraged me through countless reams of fanfiction or four years of NaNoWriMo and they'll agree. I can stare at a blank page with the best of them, but offer me a dynamite prompt and I'm off and running.
I have linked to several writing prompt sites over on the right, and will be adding a list of writer blogs.
And off we go.
Welcome to Dust Jacket! Pull up a chair, click on a link, and enjoy. I adore writing prompts. Prompts were made exclusively for me, I think. Ask any of my long-time friends who have held my hand and encouraged me through countless reams of fanfiction or four years of NaNoWriMo and they'll agree. I can stare at a blank page with the best of them, but offer me a dynamite prompt and I'm off and running.
I have linked to several writing prompt sites over on the right, and will be adding a list of writer blogs.
And off we go.
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