A Little More About Me.

So guys I know I haven't posted in a while, but my eighteenth birthday was a few days ago and I was celebrating. Plus I have midterms in a couple weeks, so I have been studying my brains out. Anyways, last night I saw an old friend of mine and it got me thinking about friendship and how certain people just define you, so let's take another walk through my crooked psyche and find what we can find. Shall we?

So there's this girl, let's call her... Tally. Now Tally and I have been friends for three years, but it feels more like 30. She's one year older than me. So she plays college basketball this year for a D1 school. She is the most wonderful person ever. I love her. She is my best friend. But her school is far away, well not that far away. She's about 4-6 hours away (depending on traffic). But that is just too far away. I miss her so much.  So this week I saw her.

I went to her basketball game, but here's the thing....she's been red-shirtted for the season. that basically means that she can't play this year, but that she still goes to every game and practice. My Dad and I were driving to the game and my Dad asks:
"So what position does she play?"
(first off: I couldn't tell you even if she was playing, I'm a writer, not a sports enthusiast).
So I say:
"Oh! She doesn't actually play. She's been red-shirtted."
"You mean we're paying 8 bucks a piece to watch her sit on a bench for two hours?"
"No... we're paying 8 bucks a piece to watch her sit in a chair for two hours."

P.S. There are no physical benches at the local college, the teams sit in chairs on the floor. My father didn't find this as funny as I did. And the game was only about an hour.

We went to the game and out of the roughly 60 fans in the events center about 20 of us were there for Tally...who was on the opposing team.... not even playing. So the end of the game came and Tally was able to break away from her team for a few minutes. I got to give her a hug and that was all I needed.

Let me explain something to you: I have very few friends. Tally is more than a friend, she is my sister (not biologically, but in that sense of we are so close that we might as well be). The friends that I have are, for the most part, nice. But I'm sure everyone out there on the internet knows what I'm talking about when I say Tally is my best friend. I could have a thousand friends, a million. And none of them would mean as much to me as Tally does.

I think that's important. to have at least one person that you really can trust. I will say that I have had one boyfriend my entire life. I mention this because I can honestly say that I did not love him. And any moment that i thought I might love him, it was puppy love. Nothing more than a feeling of meaning something to someone, that was my relationship. That is my relationship with pretty much everybody. But with Tally, i really love her. Not in the romantic way, more in the "if you get murdered I will seriously miss your funeral because I will be in jail for killing the bastard" kind of way. That is true friendship.

A Christmas Surprise

Clara wakes to the chime of the grandfather clock in the hall. Seven times the bell tolls, its four note song rings through the old home. Clara can faintly hear the horses whinny in the coach house. She sits up and looks out the window. A layer of frost coats the glass, but the white light of the sun reflecting off the snow still fills Clara’s room with a soft glow. She swings her legs around and slips her feet into her soft pink slippers.

Clara’s long white-blonde hair cascades towards the floor, she looks to her closet and sees her red Christmas dress waiting for her. Everything is set out. Her hair ribbons are draped over the back of a chair. Her wash table has a fresh basin of water on it. Any moment now…

A mousey voice calls through the door, as small firm fingers rap on the hard wood.

            “Miss Clara! Time to get up, poppet. It is Christmas Eve, my darling, and you have a big day ahead of you.”

            “I’m up, Madame!” Clara’s soft voice calls back, she grabs a robe just as a voluminous woman, dressed in servants’ clothes and with a wreath of holly on her graying head, backs in holding a tray with Clara’s medicine on it.

            “Oh, Miss Clara!” she sets the tray down on the side table by the door. “You haven’t even brushed your hair yet! Silly child, your family will be waiting at the table. Cook has made an excellent breakfast for Christmas Eve!”

            “I’m coming.” Clara wraps her robe around her thin frame, barely old enough to wear a corset, yet she already has such grace and carriage. Madame looks fondly on the young girl as Clara skips down the hall.

Clara runs excitedly into the dining hall. The large table is laid out with oatmeal and thick cream, fruit and bacon, and so many more delicious foods. Clara scurries to her seat, a set of silver dishes sit, clean and waiting for her to fill them. Then the door on the opposite end of the room opens.

            “Momma! Pappa!”

            “Merry Christmas, darling!” her father scoops her up in his strong arms. The three of them hug each other tight for a moment, and when the Duke lets go of his daughter they all go to the table, ready to eat.

            “We have a surprise for you, Clara.” The Duchess says, wiping a little orange juice from the corner of her lip.

            “What is it?” Clara’s blue eyes grow wide, and she sits up straighter in her chair, hoping that if she acted really good her parents would give her the surprise.

            “You’ll see.” Her father tempts, looking at the clock. “Actually you can find out if you just wait one more minute.” He holds up one finger and eyes the clock, 7:29.

Clara twists in her chair to look at the door; she kneels on the seat and clutches the back of the chair with white knuckles. Her dainty fingers strain to hold on as the grandfather clock sings on the half hour. The large wooden door opens slowly, Clara sees the white gloves first, then the uniform, then…

            “Marius!” Clara runs to her brother. Now eight years her senior, he toward over his delicate sister. His hair id dusted with snow and her hugs her tightly. Not wanting to let go.

            “Marius.” Their mother glides over to them, and kneels on the floor to embrace her children. The Duke walks over and shakes his son’s hand, when the latter stands.

Clara clings to her brother’s legs; his polished boots are wet with snow.

            “Go get dressed, Clara. The coach is almost ready.” His eyes smile, and burn with a warmth the Clara has missed these last months. She runs back to her room, where Madame has the basin of water and a sponge ready.

            “Clean up, child. And we’ll be on our way.”

***

Clara twirls around and watches her reflection in the glided mirror. The other girls watch in awe as the red skirt of Clara’s dress spins and sways to a stop. Marie, whose father is the General’s son, scowls at Clara—jealous of the attention the former is receiving.

            “It’s my grandpappa’s house.” Marie whines, but the children disband as the music picks up to a livelier waltz. Clara rushes to her brother, he dances with her, and both laugh the whole time.

Then the song ends, and the pair go for refreshments. Clara tails behind her brother, her shoes and new corset slowing her down. She fidgets with the bodice of her dress, and Marius gently scolds her.

            “Be a lady.” He chides.

She smiles, he returns the smile, but as he turns away his smile fades, and Clara can swear that she sees a tear in her brother’s eyes.

            “Marius?” she gets cut off by a woman in an elaborate dress swooping over to talk to them.

            “My, my! Look At you! Marius, correct? The Duchess’ boy. And Clara, sweet thing, how are you two?”

Marius stiffens slightly when the woman mentions Clara, but he recovers and responds cordially.

            “I just got back. I ship out tomorrow night. But what of you, Lady Drosselmeyer?”

            “Oh, dear me, don’t call me that! That makes me sound so old. Call me Lady Adelaide”

            “Lady Adelaide, how have you been?”  Clara lets the adults talk for a while. She lets her eyes wander around the room until Lady Adelaide addresses her directly.

            “And you must be nearing maturity, correct Clara?”

            “Yes Ma’am. I am to start finishing school in the New Year!” Clara was very excited to finally be old enough to go to a real finishing school, and not just have a tutor.

            “You are exaggerating a little, Clara; you are starting a bit early.” Marius tries to get Lady Adelaide to focus on something else, a recent composer’s new work, but the white haired hostess is more interested in Clara.

            “Finishing School?” She asks, “You must be nearly ten years old then!”

            “I am ten. I got my first corset for my birthday, Pappa got it for me!”

            “You’re not quite ten yet, Clara.” Marius again tries to play down Clara’s excitement, “Clara, Mother wants to see you, over there.” He gently, but urgently, pushes Clara towards the other side of the ballroom, but Clara stays put.

            “I turned ten just after the harvest. I had fresh pumpkin soup as a special treat from Madame!”

Lady Adelaide was very interested in Clara’s story, but Marius was getting more and more urgent and panicky.

            “Come now, Clara, do not exaggerate. You don’t turn ten for another ten months. We really should go now. I’m sure Lady Adelaide has better things to do than to listen to your stories.”        

            “But it’s not a story! Marius, let go!”

            “Clara, we need to go.” Marius pulls on her wrist, and speaks through clenched teeth.

            “Nonsense. Marius, you must have forgotten how old Clara was, you have been off traveling for more than a year, correct?”

            “Yes Ma’am, but I remember that Clara was only…”

            “You silly boy, Clara is the same age as my granddaughter, Marie. You know Clara; we have a very special finishing school here.”

Clara’s eyes light up and she pulls free from Marius’ grasp.

            “You do?”

Clara takes a step towards Lady Adelaide, who grins wider as she stretches out a hand to Clara.

            “Yes. And we will be selecting one young lady tonight for the honor of coming and being taught by some of the greatest teachers the world can offer. In all areas of study, including reading and arithmetic.”

            “Arithmetic! Really?” Clara is bouncing on her toes, eager to learn all that she can about everything.  This sounds like a dream come true, so why does Marius seem so eager to get her away from Lady Adelaide?

            “That is wonderful,” he begins, again pulling on Clara, this time with more force, “but we really must be off. And Clara is only nine. Next year, next year she can be in the selection.”

            “But Marius…”

            “Not now, Clara. We need to go speak with Mother. Please excuse us, lady Adelaide.”

            “No. I insist that you stay. Clara, dinner will be served shortly, why don’t you take a seat next to me?”

            “Please, Clara really should sit with her family. And we…”

The music stops and the Crier announces dinner. Lady Adelaide sweeps Clara away with one graceful move, pulling the child closer to her red-clad bosom.

Marius stands where they left him; his face registers nothing but defeat. Clara looks back, but cannot see her brother, only the throngs of people, many of whom see her with Lady Adelaide, and look on her with a mixture of horror and pity. She has no idea why they would look at her that way, but she ignores them and sits next to Lady Adelaide at the table, right across from Marie.

***

After the feast, Clara and Marius reunite. Marius and their parents frantically run over to Clara after desert, all three have their traveling cloaks on, and the Duchess carries Clara’s.

            “We’re leaving.” The duke instructs, steering Clara towards the door.

            “But Pappa, Lady Adelaide says that I have all the things she is looking for in a candidate for her school. She has a finishing school here, Mother. Please, they will be handing out the gifts soon, and the general will announce which girl has been chosen for the honor of being in their school. Please, I want to stay!”

            “No Clara.” Her mother has never been cross with her before, but now her voice registers no happiness, no warmth.

            “But mother, please!”

            “No, Clara. We are leaving now.”

            “Pappa! No! I want to stay!”

            “For God’s sake, Clara, keep your voice down! We are leaving straight away. You are not going to that finishing school and that is final.”

            “Marius, I want to and Lady Adelaide has taken a particular liking to me. She wants me to stand right at the front when she makes the announcement! Please!”

           

“Enough!” her father spins around, they are in the side hall now. The stone walls are unyielding, and it makes Clara feel trapped. “Clara, darling, just know that we are doing this for your own good. You are not going to that finishing school. We are getting on a boat right now, and you will never again see this manor. You are to speak to no one. Do not say a single word. No matter what happens. Clara, I know you don’t understand this right now but it is for the better, and it is because of you that we are doing this.”

“No, Pappa.” She tries to break through, but her father holds fast to her arm.

“Clara, this is not a negotiation. You are coming.”

“There you are, Clara!” Marie and Lady Adelaide come down the hall from the ballroom, the Duke shoves his daughter behind him, and the duchess grabs Clara protectively. “We are about to hand out presents. And I know you want to be in there.”

“Come, Clara. I want you to see this!” Marie reaches for her friend, but her parents won’t let her go.

“We need to leave.”

“But Clara is ten years old, the selection must be made, and I think Clara will enjoy it. And there are so many presents for the children.”

“With all due respect, Lady Drosselmeyer, we really must be going.”

“I insist you stay.” Lady Adelaide’s eyes seem to flash red and the Duke and Duchess let go of Clara as if she’s on fire.

“Why her?” the Duchess sobs.

“Quiet. Clara is receiving a great honor. You know the rules. You should be happy for your daughter. She will receive the best education in the world.”

“But the price.” Marius snarls. His teeth once again clenched, and his nostrils flare in rage.

“There is no tuition for my institution. Clara will be given all new clothes, and books, and supplies, all free of charge. Of course she will be away from family for a time, but you did the same, Marius. We all have to grow up sometime.”

“But…my baby.” Clara’s mother croaks.

“I said quiet. You may have weaseled your way out of it in your day, but now your daughter will have the education and refinement you never did.”

“Someone else was chosen. I was spared.”

“Because you and your mother left before the party was over. Now it is high time

I received payment for that night. I have waited twenty long years for this, and now I finally get what I should have that night. Come now, Clara, your future awaits.” Lady Adelaide’s voice goes from harsh with the Duchess to loving with Clara. The latter walks back to the ballroom in silence.

When they return to the ballroom, Clara is rushed to the top of the stairs where Lady Adelaide and General Drosselmeyer give her the gift of a nutcracker and announce that she will be attending the Drosselmeyer finishing school starting tonight.

            “Goodnight to you all! And have a very merry Christmas.” The General announces and guests begin to leave. Clara is whisked away up the stairs to a long wood paneled hall; at the end is a single door.

Clara walks in and a tall man about the same age as Marius greets her. The room is dark, but it is obvious that it is a dormitory. There is a bed and a desk. A large closet and attached bathroom, with a tub. And there is a cage with a large beige rat in it.

            “I get all of this?” Clara asks in awe.

            “Yes, the rat’s name is Whiskers, and she will be your companion. Most girls find it a comfort to have a friend like these around. Now if you could just sit here, Lady Adelaide has something she wishes me to talk to you about.”

Clara sits in the seat, as instructed. The tall man walks behind her, Clara turns, but he stops her with a gentle hand on her head.

            “No, Clara. Look out the window. Just focus on the lights of the carriages as the float off into the night.”

Clara again follows orders, she wants to ask questions, but her mind keeps telling her to just sit still and listen to this man. He bends over so that his face hovers next to hers, but she can’t see him in the reflection in the window. She can’t feel his breath on her face. She can’t even feel the warmth of his hand on her shoulder.

All she feels is the weight of his hand, then a stabbing pain in the side of her neck. She hears a slurping sound as the man drinks her blood; she falls to the floor, dizzy and confused. He hands her a golden goblet he seems to have pulled out of thin air. She drinks, but there is something warm and salty in the cup, it is thick and oozes down her throat. Soon she drops the nutcracker that she had been clinging to since she entered the room.

The wood is burning her skin and her silver necklace also burns. She grabs the jewelry and flings it across the room. She watches the faint lights of the fleeting coaches fade into nothingness; and Clara wishes that she had listened to her family when she had the chance.

            “Welcome to eternity.” The man says, stepping out the door, leaving her alone.

Coming soon....

Sorry that I have not posted that story yet. I am having some formatting errors, but I promise that I will have the story up later today. Let me just say that this is a heartwarming Christmas tale...NOT! It starts out seemingly innocent and happy, but quickly goes downhill. So, if you will find that offensive, I am giving you fair warning now. It will be the next thing I post. It is labeled: "A Christmas Surprise!"

Ciao!

Happy December!

Hello everyone! I would like to say MERRY CHRISTMAS! It is official now, because my school has the nativity scene out,we had our Yuletide Dance, and our Christmas concert, therefore, it is officially the Christmas Season.

So, now that we have that out of the way, let me ask you all a question: would you like to read some of my writing? Well you will, sometime in December I will be publishing, on this site, an original short story. Most likely I will write something Christmas-y so, if you find that offensive then do not bother to read it.
No spoilers, but let's just say it involves a lonely girl, a royal rodent, and a nutcracker. Plus a little sprinkling of magic, of course!

That's all for now!

Ciao!

More on Writing: Audience

This is my last piece of writing advise for now. So here it goes...

As a writer this is probably the hardest thing to think about, but one day your work will be read by other people. Now you should not write for your audience. But do keep your audience in mind when you are writing your story.

There is a diffrence between the ending that you, the writer, want and the ending that the reader wants. Sometimes, as the writer, you can choose to piss of your audience. However, most of the time you want to cater to the sudience. Not necesarily change the story to fit what the sudience wants, becasue you can never please everyone. However when faced with the option of pissing off your entire following (the ones that indirectly pay you to be good), and choosing to please them (so they buy more of your books). Then the second option is better.

So you need to keep your integrity as a writer, but also please your audience. It is an interesting balancing act. Just remember that if you are writing a Young Adult novel, make sure it is appropriate for high-schoolers. If you are writing a book for adults, don't use childish language and descriptions.

My biggest tip for writing effectively? Just make sure that, above all else, you remember that it will be YOUR name on the cover. So just keep thaqt in mind when you write and you should be golden.

CIAO!

More On Writing: Genre

How to pick your genre.

So, I could not think of what to write about. But after asking a young "pupil" of mine what to write about she exclaimed "Write about how bad Nicholas Sparks is! And tell peole never to write like him!"
Well, I'm not one for bashing other genres, but I personally do not like Nicholas Sparks or the sappy romance genre. So this is how you should pick your genre.

After you determine length of story, novel or short story, then you have to go about finding what to write about. Now, you may have thought that we already covered this in determining the length, but sometimes it is a totally separate issue. For example: I am writing a novel that is about a vampire. Then I had to categorize it. I chose that instead of writing a really horror-stricken or gory or even action-filled book, I would write a paranormal romance.

Now, that is not to say that any one genre is better than another. But you need to write in a genre that you feel comfortable in. I like writing romance, mostly paranormal romances, tho I have dabbled in other areas of romance. That is a genre that I feel like I can write effectively in.

So, basically choosing a genre is probably the easiest part of writing. It is just the subject that you feel the most comfortable writing about. Usually when people say "genre fiction" they are refferring to horror, fantacy, and sci-fi. But those are not the only genres that people can write, there are probably hundreds of genres and sub-genres that people write in.

Sorry that this wasn't more helpful, but genre is really not something you can teach. You can choose to dabble in many diffrent genres, or you could choose to stay in one genre. Whatever you choose, just remmeber to stay true to the story.

Ciao!

More On Writing: Length

Happy November, All!

So, last time I started telling you about the writing process, now I'm going to make that a little more refined. I will tell you how to write a short story versus a novel, and how to write certain genres.

Now, I don't always sit down and say "this story will definitely be a novel," Likewise, I rarely sit down and say "this is a short story." Sometimes I do, like when I'm writing for my school's literary journal. However, most of the time I sit down with the story and just let the characters take it from there.

One thing that I have learned about writing length is that, sometimes, you are restricted. So, in the case of short stories here is my advise: plan ahead. I started writing a story that was meant to be under 12,000 words. Currently said story is closer to 20,000, and still going strong. This has taught me an important lesson about what I can, and Cannot, include in short stories.

 I have just finished the first draft of a "real" short story. It is a vignette, and it is 3,000 words. I will be submitting that to literary magazines soon, I just need to edit it a few times. What I have learned from my first attempt at writing short stories is that some things are just better left unsaid. For example: a short story is not the place for subplots. You get one plot, no more.

My first story, about a vampire, has about three or four subplots built in. It just did not make it as a short story. i had to change the ending, because it just didn't end the way it should have. I killed off characters before my audience could even know them. That was a big mistake. Fantasy does not make a good short story genre. Why? Because you have to spend so much time establishing the world and the dynamics, that your word count is used up before you even get to the embellishment.

Some genres, in my opinion, are just better as short stories. For example: romance, certain kinds of horror, "realistic" fiction, and historical fiction. All of these genres have a world pretty much built up around them. You don't need to spend great amounts of time explaining the normal world to your reader, because they already know it and live it. Plus, you know the setting. Now you just need to put some characters in there with a little conflict. Nothing major. You shouldn't do a dystopian as a short story (unless it is 'The Firefighter' by Ray Bradbury, then do it) because, like fantasy, you need to spend time introducing your audience to the "normal" world that you have created for them to inhabit.

Pretty much: learn as you go, but short stories are meant for little pieces of life that people can relate to. Make a little conflict (to drive the story) but nothing too epic. Learn how to sacrifice detail where it is not needed. But don't get discouraged if you can't write short stories. I have successfully written all of two in the last five years that I have been writing.

Novels and books are needed, so write those as well. But writing short stories can be more of a fun exercise. Because, let's face it, all writers need a little outlet. Something that we can write just for our eyes alone, and to keep our sanity.

On that happy note, I leave you.

Ciao!