Why is it that I see nice, sweet prompts and turn them into something darky and angsty? And yet, when I see a dark, angsty prompt, I turn it into something sweet?
Yeah, I know I'm weird. You don't have to tell me.
We're jumping into Harper's Island for this week's exercise. Fair warning: this little vignette spoils the end. Do not click the jump if you haven't seen the whole thing and think you might want to someday.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Maybe ...
My write goal for this weekend was to spend at least one uninterrupted hour on The Witch of November. To ensure that I would have no distractions whatsoever, I unplugged the router. That's right, no Twitter or Facebook to capture my attention!
So I took the laptop into my room, put Vertical Horizon's Burning the Days album on the CD player, and started Chapter One over again. Yes, I've written and rewritten Chapter One about seven zillion times (give or take), but this time, I think I might actually be happy with it.
I don't quite know what the difference is except for that I think I loosened up a little. I wasn't as focused on making it all sound perfect; I just wrote. I kind of took an example from the writing exercises and just went with it.
And this is some of what I came up with:
Allie Sullivan knew the second the Frisbee left Charlie Davis’s hand that she was in for a very long day. With one hand shielding her eyes from the late-June sunshine, she watched the neon yellow disc slice through the humid sea air like a hot knife through butter.
It soared high above her head and finally disappeared from view after clearing the tall wrought-iron fence surrounding the property all the way across the barely-two-lane side street. Allie spun on her heels and fixed Charlie with an exasperated glare.
“Oops!” The boy’s best I’m-so-cute-and-innocent smile brightened his face.
Allie heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes heavenward. Charlie hadn’t even managed to last ten minutes before doing something obnoxious and aggravating. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though; Obnoxious and Aggravating should have been the kid’s middle name.
Charlie Obnoxious and Aggravating Davis, she thought. Had a nice ring to it.
A mischievous glint lit the boy’s bright blue eyes, and any doubt Allie had as to exactly why her friend had whipped the Frisbee so hard disappeared. “I am so not going over there to get that,” she informed him.
Charlie raised a single eyebrow at her. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, and Allie realized that he was simply waiting for to give in and head over to retrieve the Frisbee anyway. Well! Two could play the stubborn game, and she crossed her arms over her chest and returned his calm stare to prove it.
The two of them deadlocked, staring at each other, neither willing to let the other win. For quite possibly the first time in all of their eleven years, it was Charlie who relented, though he did so in typical Charlie fashion.
“You’re such a baby,” he snickered, playfully rolling his eyes at Allie. Then he brushed past her as he started across the street.
No, it's not perfect. But it's more "me" than what I had before, and I think I like it.
So I took the laptop into my room, put Vertical Horizon's Burning the Days album on the CD player, and started Chapter One over again. Yes, I've written and rewritten Chapter One about seven zillion times (give or take), but this time, I think I might actually be happy with it.
I don't quite know what the difference is except for that I think I loosened up a little. I wasn't as focused on making it all sound perfect; I just wrote. I kind of took an example from the writing exercises and just went with it.
And this is some of what I came up with:
Allie Sullivan knew the second the Frisbee left Charlie Davis’s hand that she was in for a very long day. With one hand shielding her eyes from the late-June sunshine, she watched the neon yellow disc slice through the humid sea air like a hot knife through butter.
It soared high above her head and finally disappeared from view after clearing the tall wrought-iron fence surrounding the property all the way across the barely-two-lane side street. Allie spun on her heels and fixed Charlie with an exasperated glare.
“Oops!” The boy’s best I’m-so-cute-and-innocent smile brightened his face.
Allie heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes heavenward. Charlie hadn’t even managed to last ten minutes before doing something obnoxious and aggravating. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though; Obnoxious and Aggravating should have been the kid’s middle name.
Charlie Obnoxious and Aggravating Davis, she thought. Had a nice ring to it.
A mischievous glint lit the boy’s bright blue eyes, and any doubt Allie had as to exactly why her friend had whipped the Frisbee so hard disappeared. “I am so not going over there to get that,” she informed him.
Charlie raised a single eyebrow at her. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, and Allie realized that he was simply waiting for to give in and head over to retrieve the Frisbee anyway. Well! Two could play the stubborn game, and she crossed her arms over her chest and returned his calm stare to prove it.
The two of them deadlocked, staring at each other, neither willing to let the other win. For quite possibly the first time in all of their eleven years, it was Charlie who relented, though he did so in typical Charlie fashion.
“You’re such a baby,” he snickered, playfully rolling his eyes at Allie. Then he brushed past her as he started across the street.
No, it's not perfect. But it's more "me" than what I had before, and I think I like it.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Writing Exercise #4
First exercise using original characters! This is a mentioned but never written vignette between Allie and Charlie from The Witch of November:
Prompt: shadows
Fandom: original characters (The Witch of November)
Character(s): Allie Sullivan, Charlie Davis
-----
“Do we really have to?” Allie Sullivan asked as Charlie Davis turned his bike down Lancaster Road. She knew she was whining, but she didn’t care.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Charlie returned over his shoulder, the implication of course being that she could always go home if she was just going to sulk.
As they pulled their bikes into the vacant lot where Charlie had decided they needed to play this summer, Allie glanced at the old, abandoned house across the street. She hated that house. Feared it, really, and for good reason: everyone in the town of November, Maine said that house was haunted.
Charlie thought all the stories about the house being haunted were lame, though, and constantly told Allie that she was being kind of a wimp. As a matter of fact, this sudden insistence of his that they needed to play across from the old house was his way of getting his best friend to face her fears.
The kids hopped off their bikes and unceremoniously dumped them in the sand. As Charlie looked for rocks he could use to mark the bases for their game of Wiffle ball, Allie fearfully raised her eyes to the house.
And then she saw it. A dark shadow filled the old master bedroom window. The shadow, though small, was person-shaped, and whoever it was appeared to be staring right down at her and Charlie. She tried to call out to Charlie but her voice came out in a small, uncertain whisper.
“Charlie!” she managed to croak a moment later. “Charlie, look at the window!”
“What window?” Charlie asked distractedly.
“The bedroom window.” She glanced over at Charlie to try to capture his attention. By the time she looked back at the house, the figure had vanished.
“I don’t see anything,” Charlie said, rolling his eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
Allie opened her mouth to argue that there was something there, but she knew it would have been pointless. Besides, it didn’t matter what Charlie thought anymore. She now had unequivocal proof that the old Blackstone house was haunted: she’d just seen the ghost.
Prompt: shadows
Fandom: original characters (The Witch of November)
Character(s): Allie Sullivan, Charlie Davis
-----
“Do we really have to?” Allie Sullivan asked as Charlie Davis turned his bike down Lancaster Road. She knew she was whining, but she didn’t care.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Charlie returned over his shoulder, the implication of course being that she could always go home if she was just going to sulk.
As they pulled their bikes into the vacant lot where Charlie had decided they needed to play this summer, Allie glanced at the old, abandoned house across the street. She hated that house. Feared it, really, and for good reason: everyone in the town of November, Maine said that house was haunted.
Charlie thought all the stories about the house being haunted were lame, though, and constantly told Allie that she was being kind of a wimp. As a matter of fact, this sudden insistence of his that they needed to play across from the old house was his way of getting his best friend to face her fears.
The kids hopped off their bikes and unceremoniously dumped them in the sand. As Charlie looked for rocks he could use to mark the bases for their game of Wiffle ball, Allie fearfully raised her eyes to the house.
And then she saw it. A dark shadow filled the old master bedroom window. The shadow, though small, was person-shaped, and whoever it was appeared to be staring right down at her and Charlie. She tried to call out to Charlie but her voice came out in a small, uncertain whisper.
“Charlie!” she managed to croak a moment later. “Charlie, look at the window!”
“What window?” Charlie asked distractedly.
“The bedroom window.” She glanced over at Charlie to try to capture his attention. By the time she looked back at the house, the figure had vanished.
“I don’t see anything,” Charlie said, rolling his eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
Allie opened her mouth to argue that there was something there, but she knew it would have been pointless. Besides, it didn’t matter what Charlie thought anymore. She now had unequivocal proof that the old Blackstone house was haunted: she’d just seen the ghost.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Writing Exercise #3
These exercises have been both helpful and minorly frustrating.
Helpful, because they do get the juices flowing. It's liberating to just write and not worry about it. Not agonize over "Does this sound good?" and "How can I punch this up?" and "Will I be able to sell this eventually?" They're what I like most about writing: the creation. Taking one word and creating a little vignette out of it.
But they've also been frustrating because they are just flowing. They're coming and they're coming easy, which makes the difficulties I'm still having with The Witch of November all the more aggravating. Don't get me wrong, I think it's getting better, but it's not 100% perfect, and for a perfectionist? Yeah, you can imagine the irritation, heh.
Anywho. Jumping into the SVU-verse for tonight's exercise:
Prompt: warmth
Fandom: Law & Order: SVU (set in the early part of season 5)
Character(s): Casey Novak, Olivia Benson
-----
A deep shiver ran down Casey Novak’s spine. She didn’t think she’d ever feel warm again.
It was all too much. She hadn’t asked for this, and she certainly didn’t want it. Didn’t want to spend her days in a living nightmare, down in the trenches, chasing after the depraved human beings that made up this new world in which she found herself.
She poured a generous amount of whiskey from a newly purchased bottle into her coffee mug. She didn’t like whiskey very much and certainly didn’t like to drink her hard liquor straight, but she needed something to calm her shivering limbs and the dull ache in her head.
“Forgive me if I’m being forward,” said a soft voice from her office door, “but you don’t seem like the drowning-your-sorrows type.”
Casey looked up to find Olivia Benson standing just outside the open door, a gentle and friendly smile on her face. “I’m not,” she admitted.
“That’s a very dangerous habit to start, Counselor.” The detective crossed the threshold and eased down onto the leather sofa underneath Casey’s office window. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
As a matter of fact, she didn’t. Baring her soul was not something that Casey did easily, and she and Olivia had barely been working together three weeks. Plus the detectives hadn’t exactly been the friendliest to her, and Olivia especially had had moments of downright hostility. But as she met the detective’s eyes, the words tumbled from her mouth, unbidden: “I can’t do this.”
Olivia raised a single eyebrow, waiting for the young attorney to continue.
“I … I’m sure you heard, I came here from White Collar.”
The detective’s eyes reflected a sudden understanding. “Kind of a culture shock, huh?”
That? Was putting it mildly. “I mean, the worst quality in people I’m used to seeing is greed. The worst I saw in terms of crime scenes? Horrible, inefficient filing systems. This …” She indicated an open file folder on her desk, lurid photos from a rape kit done on a nine-year-old staring up at her. “This is a whole new level of … I don’t even know.”
For a long moment, Olivia didn’t say a word, seeming to consider her response, trying to decide what was best for the situation. In the end, she stood and grasped Casey’s jacket off the coat hook. “Come on,” she said, tossing the jacket to the ADA.
“Where are we going?” Casey asked, her brow furrowing in confusion and just a touch of apprehension.
“We’re going to get some coffee,” the detective answered, that gentle smile returning to her face, “and we’re going to talk. It’ll be a lot more productive than losing yourself in a bottle of whiskey alone in your office.”
Though Casey was unsure about opening up even more to the detective, she had to admit that Olivia had a reasonable point. So she shrugged on her jacket and followed Olivia out of her office.
As they walked down the hall, Olivia slipped her arm around Casey’s shoulders and squeezed, then let her go. In that moment, the shivering stopped, and in the next, Casey believed that the warmth she needed could come from something as simple as having a cup of coffee with a new friend
Helpful, because they do get the juices flowing. It's liberating to just write and not worry about it. Not agonize over "Does this sound good?" and "How can I punch this up?" and "Will I be able to sell this eventually?" They're what I like most about writing: the creation. Taking one word and creating a little vignette out of it.
But they've also been frustrating because they are just flowing. They're coming and they're coming easy, which makes the difficulties I'm still having with The Witch of November all the more aggravating. Don't get me wrong, I think it's getting better, but it's not 100% perfect, and for a perfectionist? Yeah, you can imagine the irritation, heh.
Anywho. Jumping into the SVU-verse for tonight's exercise:
Prompt: warmth
Fandom: Law & Order: SVU (set in the early part of season 5)
Character(s): Casey Novak, Olivia Benson
-----
A deep shiver ran down Casey Novak’s spine. She didn’t think she’d ever feel warm again.
It was all too much. She hadn’t asked for this, and she certainly didn’t want it. Didn’t want to spend her days in a living nightmare, down in the trenches, chasing after the depraved human beings that made up this new world in which she found herself.
She poured a generous amount of whiskey from a newly purchased bottle into her coffee mug. She didn’t like whiskey very much and certainly didn’t like to drink her hard liquor straight, but she needed something to calm her shivering limbs and the dull ache in her head.
“Forgive me if I’m being forward,” said a soft voice from her office door, “but you don’t seem like the drowning-your-sorrows type.”
Casey looked up to find Olivia Benson standing just outside the open door, a gentle and friendly smile on her face. “I’m not,” she admitted.
“That’s a very dangerous habit to start, Counselor.” The detective crossed the threshold and eased down onto the leather sofa underneath Casey’s office window. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
As a matter of fact, she didn’t. Baring her soul was not something that Casey did easily, and she and Olivia had barely been working together three weeks. Plus the detectives hadn’t exactly been the friendliest to her, and Olivia especially had had moments of downright hostility. But as she met the detective’s eyes, the words tumbled from her mouth, unbidden: “I can’t do this.”
Olivia raised a single eyebrow, waiting for the young attorney to continue.
“I … I’m sure you heard, I came here from White Collar.”
The detective’s eyes reflected a sudden understanding. “Kind of a culture shock, huh?”
That? Was putting it mildly. “I mean, the worst quality in people I’m used to seeing is greed. The worst I saw in terms of crime scenes? Horrible, inefficient filing systems. This …” She indicated an open file folder on her desk, lurid photos from a rape kit done on a nine-year-old staring up at her. “This is a whole new level of … I don’t even know.”
For a long moment, Olivia didn’t say a word, seeming to consider her response, trying to decide what was best for the situation. In the end, she stood and grasped Casey’s jacket off the coat hook. “Come on,” she said, tossing the jacket to the ADA.
“Where are we going?” Casey asked, her brow furrowing in confusion and just a touch of apprehension.
“We’re going to get some coffee,” the detective answered, that gentle smile returning to her face, “and we’re going to talk. It’ll be a lot more productive than losing yourself in a bottle of whiskey alone in your office.”
Though Casey was unsure about opening up even more to the detective, she had to admit that Olivia had a reasonable point. So she shrugged on her jacket and followed Olivia out of her office.
As they walked down the hall, Olivia slipped her arm around Casey’s shoulders and squeezed, then let her go. In that moment, the shivering stopped, and in the next, Casey believed that the warmth she needed could come from something as simple as having a cup of coffee with a new friend
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