Monday, January 30, 2012
Character Description: Aden, Age 10
His brow was always hardened and stern, betrayed by his large rosy-colored eyes and chronically disheveled hair. He was just a few inches taller than his sister, enough to glare down at her as it was needed, and enough to stand in front and shield her if it was necessary. He was pensive, serious, bossy, though he knew from his upbringing how to take orders, except for those that put his sister in jeopardy. He was fiercely protective of her, always holding onto her wrist or hand, and the only times his expression softened with something akin to contentment was when she was by his side, safe and well cared for. Of the two, he was most certainly the mutt, with pale skin and nearly translucent blonde-white hair, long, lanky limbs, and harsh angles in his face. He was a muddled-colored copy of his father, with both his father's solemnity and his mother's fire broiling just behind his eyes. This fierceness of features made him the favorite target of his masters and of others--he had no shortage of scars from various, colorful beatings. He didn't mind it, though, so long as his sister was spared; in fact, he often took the blame for her mistakes. There was no limit to the sacrifices he was willing to make for her, even if he did boss her. On more than one night, he went without food in order for her to be full, and kept vigil as she slept when strangers looked at her with hungry eyes. If he was any sort of improvement upon his father, it would be due to his passionate loyalty, to his courage to protect the ones he loved, even in the face of a master towering over him, whip in hand. That was what would have made his mother most proud.
An Excerpt of a Story Idea, Involving an Android, Inspired by Rubber Rain Boots
Interestingly enough, artificial skin is difficult to manufacture. Thus, while her internal mechanics were quickly repaired and replaced, she had no choice but to don a stiff rubber substitute, which now coated her legs from the calf down. The cumbersome new skin made it difficult for her to walk, keep her balance, and pull on skinny jeans, among other things. But, after the initial dismay over the fact that the material was fairly hideous, she became suddenly fascinated by it in a morbid, melancholy sort of way. She loped around the room on her toes, the shape that the cast-mold had been, trying to flex her ankles. Finally, she stood in front of her full-length mirror, and her mechanically bright eyes grew dim. "I really am just a Barbie doll, aren't I?"
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Pen Name? (Some Thoughts on the Matter)
I'm not sure why I prefer to write from the perspective of a protective male figure. My creative writing teacher has expressed concern for author Nicholas Sparks, who is essentially my opposite, but I don't see any problem with my point of view. It's just the persona I assume, the character behind the veneer of reality that occupies the same space of my mind. My biggest concern, actually, is the misinterpretation of my writing. Because I'm a girl, people assume that I write from a girl's perspective.
This isn't a problem, of course, for any of my novels, in which there is plenty of exposition with which to clarify the gender status. However, the anonymous style in which I write my short stories leaves it open to interpretation, and since I am a girl, most people assume that the perspective I write from is female. It always comes as a shock to me when someone refers to my protagonist as a "she," and I realize that the person has not read the same story that I have written.
Is that okay? We are reading short stories in English now, and I have realized that knowing gender, age, race, and more can change the entire context and tone of the story. No, it's not okay to let my readers assume the character's gender--that would be a misrepresentation of the other reality that I'm trying to share, and thus, as I said, it would not be the same story.
So how do I fix the problem? I like the anonymity of my short stories, and I do not want to have to make awkward arrangements at the beginning in order to accommodate for any gender questions. Should I use a male pen name? I like David Mark. Then how would I distinguish that the work is mine? What about leaving my name as ambiguous as my characters? H.E. Solomon. My last name would also suggest masculinity; people would assume. I like it. Problem solved?
This isn't a problem, of course, for any of my novels, in which there is plenty of exposition with which to clarify the gender status. However, the anonymous style in which I write my short stories leaves it open to interpretation, and since I am a girl, most people assume that the perspective I write from is female. It always comes as a shock to me when someone refers to my protagonist as a "she," and I realize that the person has not read the same story that I have written.
Is that okay? We are reading short stories in English now, and I have realized that knowing gender, age, race, and more can change the entire context and tone of the story. No, it's not okay to let my readers assume the character's gender--that would be a misrepresentation of the other reality that I'm trying to share, and thus, as I said, it would not be the same story.
So how do I fix the problem? I like the anonymity of my short stories, and I do not want to have to make awkward arrangements at the beginning in order to accommodate for any gender questions. Should I use a male pen name? I like David Mark. Then how would I distinguish that the work is mine? What about leaving my name as ambiguous as my characters? H.E. Solomon. My last name would also suggest masculinity; people would assume. I like it. Problem solved?
Voice
The king loved music. So much so that he gathered the most brilliant musicians from across the kingdom to serenade him day and night. To our despair, my sister had the misfortune of having the most beautiful voice our town has ever known.
Of course, it wasn't a misfortune at first. Neighbors and transients alike showered her with praise. She would beam whenever someone requested that she become the center of a wedding, or delight important travelers in the tavern (always accompanied by myself, of course). Soon, visitors to our small town came expecting to hear her, went out of their way on their journeys to come and hear her. By the age where she should have been refining her homemaking skills and thinking of marriage, she was so busy with requests to sing that she could hardly entertain just one of the many suitors that came knocking on our door.
I never minded escorting her to so many events; hearing her sing never grew dull to me. Her voice was crystalline and soothing, but never more so than in the confines of our modest home, for that was where her voice sounded the sweetest. After a long day of working, I would lie on the hearth as the sun set through our window, watching the light from the fire dance on my skin as I listened to song after song, ones that our grandmother had once taught her when she first recognized her granddaughter's gift. Often those old melodies would bring my mother to tears while she sewed in her rocker. Often they would lull me to sleep.
The summons was unexpected, barely two knocks at our door before the cottage began to rock at the seams from the flamboyant procession that invaded our home, carried on the blasts of trumpets. A man in a brilliant yellow suit and high collar demanded the presence of my sister. We were so stunned that he had to repeat himself before my mother came to her senses and told me to fetch her.
She had been tilling in her garden, and entered the house like a timid bird, face flushed as she tried to hide her dirt-stained hands behind her soiled apron-skirt. The envoy announced from a parchment carrying the king's seal that my sister was being summoned to perform.She was to leave immediately and her stay would be indefinite. There was no need to pack.
Before the words were out of the man's mouth, the soldiers that flanked his sides began to hustle my wide-eyed sister out the door. My mother and I started for her, but the burly men held us back. The envoy flippantly informed us that she would be sent to visit as soon as possible.
Just as quickly as the procession had come, it was gone, and a sensation like the emptiness following a storm descended on our heads. My mother cried. Neighbors came and offered their condolences, assuring my mother that her daughter would lead a grand life now, with fame and happiness that exceeded their imaginations. It surprised me how many of them shed tears of their own. It was as if my sister had died.
Yes, she sang for the king. She sang for him endlessly, entertaining at grand banquets by day, serenading him at night. The king gave her few breaks, few hours to sleep, few minutes to rest her voice. She was gone for three months.
Her return was not nearly so splendid. Neighbors from up the street came pounding at our door, telling us that a royal carriage was on its way. My mother scrambled to sort the house, and I ran out to the square to greet my sister.
The carriage was royally humble in comparison to the one that had taken her. No soldiers attended it, and thus it was unable to press through the fascinated crowd that gathered around and clogged the streets. Finally, the driver gave up and pulled the two horses to a stop. A much younger, less splendid messenger stepped out and entreated the crowd to make room.
Neighbors pushed me forward until I found this handsome, plain man staring down at me with a skeptical curiosity. The elegance in his simplicity made him all the more intimidating.
"That's-that's my sister," I stammered. Through the window in the carriage, I could see the back of her head gazing in the other direction.
The envoy rose his eyebrows, then stepped aside and opened the carriage door, "Collect her, then." He called her name as he pulled a sealed letter from the folds of his sleeve.
My sister stepped onto the street, and I knew something was wrong. She saw me right away and ran straight into my arms. Her tears dampened my shoulder. As we embraced, the man read the letter stating that my sister had fulfilled her usefulness to the king, and that her services were no longer required. Without so much as a farewell, he stepped back into the carriage, and the driver began the tedious task of turning around.
Everyone pressed in on us, shouting their questions at us and finally giving room for the messenger to get away. I nudged my sister to acknowledge them, but she shook her head against my shoulder and continued to hide her face. I could feel her shoulders begin to heave, though I couldn't hear her sobs over the crowd. Finally, I took her around the shoulders and pushed our way back to our home.
Our mother ran to us and pulled my sister to her bosom as we hurried through the door. "What's wrong?" she asked when she saw my sister's tears. "What happened? Speak to me, dear." My mother pulled away to look at her.
After more weeping and our mother's anxious coaxing, my sister finally opened her mouth. She let out a strangled noise, then broke into a fit of coughing unlike anything I had ever heard, her hands clasped over her mouth. After several terrifying moments, the fit subsided. My mother and I let out a gasp as she pulled her palms away from her mouth. Ruby drops of blood spattered her hands, her lips, her chin. She continued to cry.
The king had forced her to sing until her voice had died. She had been made presentable in his service, of course--her hair was still neat and groomed when she returned to us, and her skin was like polished porcelain, with faint stains of rouge still on her lips and cheeks. But no one had taken proper care of her. Over the next several days, we realized just how dire the situation was. She became bedridden from fatigue, unable to eat or drink. My mother could only give her little spoonfuls of broth or tea that dissolved in her mouth. My sister slept and cried and filled up so many cloths with blood form her pained coughing.
Her return was a strange mixture of birth and death. Neighbors once again visited our home, bringing food and gifts and condolences and quiet questions about whether she'd ever be able to speak again. We didn't know.
Slowly, my sister began to recover. The coughing fits grew less frequent, and she was able to swallow soft foods and get out of bed for short periods of time. Still, her voice did not return, and the pain remained. Often she became frustrated to tears when she failed to communicate through desperate pointing and hand gestures. At night my mother would try to soothe her with her own voice. It only gave my sister more nightmares.
It didn't take long for the town to learn that the little mute girl clinging to her brother's sleeve could not be comforted.
Of course, it wasn't a misfortune at first. Neighbors and transients alike showered her with praise. She would beam whenever someone requested that she become the center of a wedding, or delight important travelers in the tavern (always accompanied by myself, of course). Soon, visitors to our small town came expecting to hear her, went out of their way on their journeys to come and hear her. By the age where she should have been refining her homemaking skills and thinking of marriage, she was so busy with requests to sing that she could hardly entertain just one of the many suitors that came knocking on our door.
I never minded escorting her to so many events; hearing her sing never grew dull to me. Her voice was crystalline and soothing, but never more so than in the confines of our modest home, for that was where her voice sounded the sweetest. After a long day of working, I would lie on the hearth as the sun set through our window, watching the light from the fire dance on my skin as I listened to song after song, ones that our grandmother had once taught her when she first recognized her granddaughter's gift. Often those old melodies would bring my mother to tears while she sewed in her rocker. Often they would lull me to sleep.
The summons was unexpected, barely two knocks at our door before the cottage began to rock at the seams from the flamboyant procession that invaded our home, carried on the blasts of trumpets. A man in a brilliant yellow suit and high collar demanded the presence of my sister. We were so stunned that he had to repeat himself before my mother came to her senses and told me to fetch her.
She had been tilling in her garden, and entered the house like a timid bird, face flushed as she tried to hide her dirt-stained hands behind her soiled apron-skirt. The envoy announced from a parchment carrying the king's seal that my sister was being summoned to perform.She was to leave immediately and her stay would be indefinite. There was no need to pack.
Before the words were out of the man's mouth, the soldiers that flanked his sides began to hustle my wide-eyed sister out the door. My mother and I started for her, but the burly men held us back. The envoy flippantly informed us that she would be sent to visit as soon as possible.
Just as quickly as the procession had come, it was gone, and a sensation like the emptiness following a storm descended on our heads. My mother cried. Neighbors came and offered their condolences, assuring my mother that her daughter would lead a grand life now, with fame and happiness that exceeded their imaginations. It surprised me how many of them shed tears of their own. It was as if my sister had died.
Yes, she sang for the king. She sang for him endlessly, entertaining at grand banquets by day, serenading him at night. The king gave her few breaks, few hours to sleep, few minutes to rest her voice. She was gone for three months.
Her return was not nearly so splendid. Neighbors from up the street came pounding at our door, telling us that a royal carriage was on its way. My mother scrambled to sort the house, and I ran out to the square to greet my sister.
The carriage was royally humble in comparison to the one that had taken her. No soldiers attended it, and thus it was unable to press through the fascinated crowd that gathered around and clogged the streets. Finally, the driver gave up and pulled the two horses to a stop. A much younger, less splendid messenger stepped out and entreated the crowd to make room.
Neighbors pushed me forward until I found this handsome, plain man staring down at me with a skeptical curiosity. The elegance in his simplicity made him all the more intimidating.
"That's-that's my sister," I stammered. Through the window in the carriage, I could see the back of her head gazing in the other direction.
The envoy rose his eyebrows, then stepped aside and opened the carriage door, "Collect her, then." He called her name as he pulled a sealed letter from the folds of his sleeve.
My sister stepped onto the street, and I knew something was wrong. She saw me right away and ran straight into my arms. Her tears dampened my shoulder. As we embraced, the man read the letter stating that my sister had fulfilled her usefulness to the king, and that her services were no longer required. Without so much as a farewell, he stepped back into the carriage, and the driver began the tedious task of turning around.
Everyone pressed in on us, shouting their questions at us and finally giving room for the messenger to get away. I nudged my sister to acknowledge them, but she shook her head against my shoulder and continued to hide her face. I could feel her shoulders begin to heave, though I couldn't hear her sobs over the crowd. Finally, I took her around the shoulders and pushed our way back to our home.
Our mother ran to us and pulled my sister to her bosom as we hurried through the door. "What's wrong?" she asked when she saw my sister's tears. "What happened? Speak to me, dear." My mother pulled away to look at her.
After more weeping and our mother's anxious coaxing, my sister finally opened her mouth. She let out a strangled noise, then broke into a fit of coughing unlike anything I had ever heard, her hands clasped over her mouth. After several terrifying moments, the fit subsided. My mother and I let out a gasp as she pulled her palms away from her mouth. Ruby drops of blood spattered her hands, her lips, her chin. She continued to cry.
The king had forced her to sing until her voice had died. She had been made presentable in his service, of course--her hair was still neat and groomed when she returned to us, and her skin was like polished porcelain, with faint stains of rouge still on her lips and cheeks. But no one had taken proper care of her. Over the next several days, we realized just how dire the situation was. She became bedridden from fatigue, unable to eat or drink. My mother could only give her little spoonfuls of broth or tea that dissolved in her mouth. My sister slept and cried and filled up so many cloths with blood form her pained coughing.
Her return was a strange mixture of birth and death. Neighbors once again visited our home, bringing food and gifts and condolences and quiet questions about whether she'd ever be able to speak again. We didn't know.
Slowly, my sister began to recover. The coughing fits grew less frequent, and she was able to swallow soft foods and get out of bed for short periods of time. Still, her voice did not return, and the pain remained. Often she became frustrated to tears when she failed to communicate through desperate pointing and hand gestures. At night my mother would try to soothe her with her own voice. It only gave my sister more nightmares.
It didn't take long for the town to learn that the little mute girl clinging to her brother's sleeve could not be comforted.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Boots
It was my first time wearing rubber rain boots, and it felt like both of my feet were asleep--clunky, immobile, and numb. You can imagine the difficulty of driving, or in walking up the three flights of stairs to get to my locker. It was still a little bit wet, and my classmates knew our teacher was taking us outside, but no one else was in boots, at least, not the practical kind. I saw people glancing at my feet, or maybe at the way my khakis were hideously stuffed into the tops. I had tried to fold the pant legs in the way I had seen Meagan do it, but it hadn't quite worked. I just hoped that my over-preparedness would pay off.
I'm feeling a little bit inspired...
...because I got some new notebooks for writing. A few years ago, an author said that writers should carry paper around with them everywhere so that they can write any inspiration that hits them. In the past, I've had a hard time doing that, but now I want to start collecting my thoughts, as I am realizing how easily they can slip away.
I'm telling you this because from here on out, I will try to post everything I write throughout the day here, thus killing two birds with one stone--I keep both my blog and my writing active.
As I become a more mature writing, I am realizing that another frequent piece of advice from authors, "Write every day!" does not mean that I must always be working on a novel. It means I just...write. Write whatever comes into mind, whenever I start to play with my words, whenever the inspiration hits me. So, I'm going to try to do that.
This might last a week. :)
I'm telling you this because from here on out, I will try to post everything I write throughout the day here, thus killing two birds with one stone--I keep both my blog and my writing active.
As I become a more mature writing, I am realizing that another frequent piece of advice from authors, "Write every day!" does not mean that I must always be working on a novel. It means I just...write. Write whatever comes into mind, whenever I start to play with my words, whenever the inspiration hits me. So, I'm going to try to do that.
This might last a week. :)
Monday, January 9, 2012
Reread (General Angst Post)
It's so frustrating being stuck in limbo. I feel as if I'm rereading the last sentence of a chapter over and over, but I can't move on to the next. I know the line is important, and that I can't continue until I master it, but no matter how many times I read it, its meaning continues to escape me.
Thus, I'm repeating the same tedious tasks over and over. Going to a school where I've ceased learning, a church where I've ceased growing, a home that I wish I could be watching from the outside-in.
Is it bad to say that I feel my parents have nothing left to say to me? They call my name over and over, pull me out of whatever I'm doing, just to say hi. Again and again. That, or it's the same old lectures, the same old listing of their ever-growing fears for me. On the brink of my freedom, I feel more afraid of them than ever. I'm always on edge, because I don't want them to hurt me again. As much as I love them, I can't deny that they have both hurt me, and I'm still terrified that they could sweep in and snatch everything away from me again, that they'll rip the rest of the pages out of the book and keep me reading that same sentence over and over and over and over...
Or maybe I'm just mad because they told me to go upstairs and do my homework, and by blogging my exaggerated emotions, I continue to procrastinate.
...I'm not very good at these angst posts.
But, as ridiculous as my mind tells me that my feelings are, I can't deny that they are there, and the fact that they might be silly doesn't make them any less real or valid.
...Right?
Thus, I'm repeating the same tedious tasks over and over. Going to a school where I've ceased learning, a church where I've ceased growing, a home that I wish I could be watching from the outside-in.
Is it bad to say that I feel my parents have nothing left to say to me? They call my name over and over, pull me out of whatever I'm doing, just to say hi. Again and again. That, or it's the same old lectures, the same old listing of their ever-growing fears for me. On the brink of my freedom, I feel more afraid of them than ever. I'm always on edge, because I don't want them to hurt me again. As much as I love them, I can't deny that they have both hurt me, and I'm still terrified that they could sweep in and snatch everything away from me again, that they'll rip the rest of the pages out of the book and keep me reading that same sentence over and over and over and over...
Or maybe I'm just mad because they told me to go upstairs and do my homework, and by blogging my exaggerated emotions, I continue to procrastinate.
...I'm not very good at these angst posts.
But, as ridiculous as my mind tells me that my feelings are, I can't deny that they are there, and the fact that they might be silly doesn't make them any less real or valid.
...Right?
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