I’m still working through the major story lines— I like to just dive in and let the details set themselves up and work themselves out. Every few chapters or 5,000 words or so, I do some fact checking and make sure certain details stay true, then plan out a little further, then write some more and plan out a little further. It’s going well, so far. I feel like when I plan out the entire thing, I lose my zest for the story and I feel like I’ve written it already. That’s no fun.

So far? World building and story writing and writing something new in  a big damn hurry is a lot of fun. Everyday I post my word count over at the Nanowrimo site and I feel really proud of myself, and I’m so in love with the story. It’s been such a nice break from the story I’ve been writing for uhmmmmmm almost a year. Wow. Need that one to end, and soon.

But now, Mama is tired, and have already put away the piece for the night. I’m off to sleep, perchance to dream, while visions of plotlines and realistic, believable dialogue and story arcs and stylebooks and well rounded characters dance in my head!

6 weeks, 12 lessons, 8 assignments,  12 quizzes, one final exam and I am a graduate of Advanced Fiction Writing! \o/

This was my first class and I really enjoyed it. Started off kind of easy but then it got a little more difficult, which I didn’t mind at all. I picked up some great tips, and techniques, dos & don’ts and now I have all of the lesson plans saved for future reference– a really good starting point along with all of the writing books I have bought (and haven’t finished– I have an excuse, they’re all packed up!)

So now I am thinking I will take another, but not sure. Write Like a Pro starts July 15th, I may take that one, or some other selection. I’ll be traveling through some of that, so not sure but I’m tempted!

Anyway, YAY!

It just occurred to me tonight that I haven’t blogged since last week, but I set up this blog to be my writing blog and not a personal one (because my personal life is so boring even *I* am not interested in it, let alone enough to write about it. There’s nothing exciting about ‘got up, went to work, came home, wrote, went to sleep’. Meh) and I haven’t really had much ‘writey’ things to blog about. And, I find that I can either write, or I can blog about writing. I’d rather write, so I’ve been plugging toward completion on my WIP. Soon, these voices will stop talking to me (or each other) in my head, and I can move on to some other voices.

I recently finished a writing class and I’d like to take another one, so I’m on the hunt for something I can do online or via correspondence that doesn’t cost 17 million dollars. I got a lot out of the class I took, namely the correct terms for things I’ve been doing instinctively, and tried to break some bad habits (like adverbs). I picked up tips on effective story telling, drawing the audience in and even a great chapter on dialogue. I wrote a few pieces for the class as well, short snippets that are somewhere along the weekly posts I was doing.

I’d like to take another because, well frankly, I feel like I need to be pushed a bit harder. Of course, I’m scared of being pushed harder, but right now while I’m not being pushed, I think I need it. I review my twitter list several times a day and sometimes I’m just so jealous at the talent I see. People working hard on 2nd, 3rd, 5th, 12th books, plugging away at them and offering great advice. I feel so way behind everyone else and like I’m the kindergartner looking at the big kids playing from behind the gate on the playground. Wishing I was a big girl and could play, too. Why doesn’t anyone tell new authors that you can’t become Mark Twain in a year? That whole ‘this looks easy’, thing that famous authors do is very misleading and deceiving, inside my brain. I know it takes hard work and a lot of rejection, but the notion that I ‘can’ write makes me want to just pop out something and be world famous, simply because I write. It’s just way more than that, I’m learning. Like 1% talent and 98% skill and about another %1 good luck. Or voodoo, which ever you believe.

The funny thing is that when I started writing, I wasn’t writing to be read. I was writing to write. Because I saw other people do it, and thought ‘Well, I could do that!’ And so I did. And it was awful. But instead of giving up, I started something else and that wasn’t too bad. And then I wrote something else and I was kind of proud of that. And then I wrote something else, and someone noticed and now I have a (very) small group of people that will read what I write. And progressively, everything I write gets better, to the point where I look back at what I thought was awesome and cringe. I feel like the ‘practice’ has been really great, and it has even changed my mindset, to where I’m not longer ‘nowhere near thinking about being published’ to actually thinking of writing something and, hopefully with help from my author friends, seeing if it’ll float. And if it doesn’t, cool. But it doesn’t hurt to see.

So, I was going to write tonight, but I feel like if I’m not ‘at it’ by 8, it’s not going to happen. I’ve been coming home and getting lost in the internet and twitter, trying to keep up with this great big world of information and articles and advice and tweets and hash chats and such and I’m just overwhelmed. I need to simplify. Maybe unplug. And just write. I remember when I would come home from work and LUNGE for the laptop and pound out a few thousand words. Now it’s like pulling teeth to get 500 words some days. I wonder what does that?

It’s been a rough week at Chez M. I’m not a crazy fan or anything (right, the mark of a crazy fan is someone that says they’re not a crazy fan) but Michael Jackson’s sudden death was very jarring for me. Kind of surreal at first, but then seeing Janet Jackson brought a swell of emotion for me. We lost one of my brothers very suddenly just a little over a year ago. It’s very VERY hard to get back to what you think ‘normal’ is… I’m kind of still not there yet. I was looking forward to going home and spending some time with the family, the nephews, and sit around and say the things I was too distraught to say over a year ago. There’s just… such a fog and you don’t realize what you’re doing or saying and a month later you won’t remember much. It’s just foggy and I remember wishing I could reverse time, and undo it and bring him back. He was young, 22 and thought he was invincible. I can’t say I understand what it’s like to lose someone like Michael but I know what it’s like to lose a cherished, loved family member, a brother, someone who ‘got’ you and you were close to. I feel for her, and for the entire family. I really don’t know how they’re making it day to day– my parents were simply devastated, and continue to be.

Just when I thought I had things under control, Billy Mays died. Which, you know. It’s Billy Mays, but I liked him, and his son”s tweets are so sad and stoic. It just tore at my heart. And then my mom called yesterday to tell me that my aunt died. And now I’m thinking that I just can’t take anymore. I really just can’t, so I need everyone to get healthy and stay healthy and be here, because really. I just can’t.

You know how when you look up the best ‘writer’s block’ busters, they suggest that you kill someone in the story, because that always creates drama and conflict? The people who give that kind of advice should try living it. Should try being the ones living after someone dies suddenly. I don’t find much, right now, to add to my literary achievements. Grief isn’t really propelling me toward anything moving. Despair and exhaustion isn’t giving me the scene of my dreams.

I think that’s bad advice.

And that’s all I have to say about that. Till next time,

I mean, I don’t have to go anywhere. But I have ‘things’ to do:

1. I am two lessons behind on my Advanced Fiction Writing. Don’t want to let Mr Alcorn, my professor, down. Now that he knows where my blog is, I’ll just assume he’s reading it. :\ I’m also in the class with Becky and I sure can’t fall behind her. We’re in this together!

2. Chapter 19 is a hurking two parter to “All I Wanna Do” the longest story in the history of stories. Not really. It’s just long. I need to edit part one and post it for the “grabbyhands” at the Fiction Archive to read and enjoy and tell me how much they love me and adore my writing. *shrug* A girl can dream.

3. I already wrote my review for The Chosen One. I finished it last night, and didn’t want to take weeks to review it like I did with Dark Places. By the time I reviewed it I almost had to read it again. I couldn’t remember important things like NAMES. So that’s done. Score one for ME!

4. I have to write more of The Nanny, my ode to the Lifetime Movie. Hopefully will get to that later today.

5. Woven between my literary achievements will be the conquer of Mt St Laundry. Because, OMG. Okay it’s not bad, just… I hate laundry.

I think five is a good round number of tasks. And considering I only average finishing about 3 of 5 tasks, that’s a good place to stop.

On with the day!

Our assignment for this lesson was to take a story or a scene and identify the elements of scene and sequel– are they included? Were they used welll?  Could the scene or sequel be beefed with dialogue or action? Does this scene move the plot along?  After identifying the elements, does the scene read better? Like professional writing?

I decided to use one of the prompts that I wrote for a writing exercise last month, and was thinking of developing it into a full fledged story . This scene has two levels, so to speak, so I’ll sketch them both out.

The scene begins with characters Daniel and Sherry having a cigarette outside a bar, in the middle of a tense conversation.

GOAL: Daniel is asking Sherry about the murder of their father, if she was the one who shot him.

CONFLICT: Sherry won’t answer the question, stalls, makes Daniel ask again

DISASTER: Sherry answers, but it appears to have destroyed her emotionally to answer the question.

EMOTION: Daniel begins to feel sorry for Sherry because he’s dredged up a painful memory.

THOUGHT: Daniel realizes that her actions saved his life.

DECISION: The subtext is a quiet undertsanding that no one need to know that it was her that killed him.

ACTION: They leave the bar and get in Daniel’s car.

Level 2:

GOAL: Daniel is trying to get Sherry to admit she shot their father, and not [unnamed character ] who is serving a prison sentence for the murder.

CONFLICT: Sherry won’t answer the question directly or she stalls, making Daniel ask again, more pointedly.

DISASTER: Sherry answers, but the supporting explanation could be grounds for self defense, or even defense of him. .

EMOTION: Daniel begins to feel sorry for Sherry because he’s dragged her into a trap that he can’t get her out of.

THOUGHT: Daniel realizes that her actions saved his life and for a brief moment, shows pity and brotherly understanding.

DECISION: The subtext is that Daniel must move forward with his plan to trap her.

ACTION: Daniel drives Sherry to her house, where the rest of the plan falls into place.

The resulting scene:
[
[GOAL] Daniel watched Sherry light a second cigarette, the tip a glowing red ember against the pitch black of the alley. The sounds of the bar were muffled by the sounds of the busy street, feet away. She was avoiding his concentrated stare, and though he was patient, he wasn’t going to wait all night for an answer.

CONFLICT] “Why you askin’?” She handed him the cigarette and Daniel took it, sucked a long drag on it and handed it back.

“Maybe I just want to know. So Did you?”

DISASTER] “So. Yeah. I shot him, okay?” Sherry turned her head, so he couldn’t see her, couldn’t see the shine of tears coating her eyes or the pallor of pain and hurt and memories erase her vibrant glow. “Anything else you wanna know?”

Daniel stopped himself from asking the question he most wanted to ask, the question on the tip of his tongue and the front of his mind, that possessed his every waking moment. He really wanted to know why. And how. HOW she could have done it. But mostly why, but for some reason he couldn’t ask. The word stopped just short of flying out of his mouth and no matter how he tried to force it out, he looked more constipated than inquisitive, so he’d long since stopped trying to make himself ask.

There was something he did want to know, that would come out, and so he asked it. “Would you do it again?”

At first he thought she didn’t hear him and he was about to repeat himself but then she moved, ever so slightly. Her shoulders, they jerked and her stomach, it lurched and before he realized what was happening he had his arms around her and she sobbed into his neck, soaking the collar of his dress shirt.

“I didn’t want to do it in the first place,” he thought she said, through tears and fierce, violent sobs. “I told him, I told him to stop. He wouldn’t stop. I told him.”

Sherry pulled away, working her way out of Daniel’s grip and faced the wall. He didn’t know if he should reach out and comfort her or leave her be. He opted to leave her be, with one hand on her hip and the other covering her face, residual hiccups riding through her.

[EMOTION] “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.

“What?”

“It wasn’t your fault. He was on you, beatin’ you for something you didn’t do. You were so young; you didn’t even know what was happening. And I don’t know why or when I decided to do it, I just… I just grabbed his gun and pointed. Got him on the first shot.” A dry, raspy chuckle bounced off of the wall and hit Daniel’s ear. “I should be some kind of hit man, or something.”

“Or something.” A few more seconds of silence, and then a quiet, “thank you. Really. You saved my life.”

Sherry turned, then. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks stained with mascara, more of her lipstick on her now discarded cigarette than on her thin lips. “Well then, you owe me,” she said. “Uhm. So, Can I get a lift?”

[THOUGHT] “I suppose,” Daniel answered, nodding toward the street where his car was parked. They walked in silence, a quiet understanding between them. No one had to know what was said there, in the dark alley behind the bar, while sharing a Marlboro Light.

[ACTION] Daniel unlocked the passenger door and tucked her inside the matchbox sized compact car. She wasn’t a large woman, but she barely fit, and had to push the seat back in order to be comfortable. He jogged around to the driver’s side, got in and started the car, the rickety jalopy shuddering to life.

“You’re not gonna say nothin’, right?”

“Naw, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t even know how to explain it.”

“Good. I got a good life now. Don’t want him messing it up from the grave, you know? He deserved that bullet.”

“I guess he did,” said Daniel, taking the on-ramp to the freeway, in the direction of Sherry’s house.

He squirmed in his seat, against the bulge pressing into his back– the battery pack. It was uncomfortable. The tape along his chest was itchy and he couldn’t wait to rip the microphone off.

Just a few more minutes. A few more exits, a few miles of leafy Evergreen trees planted along the lonely two lane highway. A few bland, flickering streetlights on tall, rusty steel poles, and they would arrive at her small, understated suburb on the north end of town. And then a few blocks until she would fall right into the trap. He almost felt sorry for leading her to it, and slowed the car down. Gave her a few more minutes of freedom, before he would selfishly trade her life for his own. ]

I hope I did this correctly! Or in the general neighborhood of correct. :\

As far as improvements, it has helped me to see where the scene was weak, and I beefed it up a little. I think the dialog helps the story along as well. it would be really sparse and boring without it, plus I sort of read them with harsh New York, maybe Brooklyn accents so there’s a lot of gesturing and shrugging, etc. I think it reads pretty well!

Tonight’s lesson was relatively easy, in a way. Generally about setting and how it sets the mood and helps the theme along. And what helps the setting along is use of detail and doing your research. I have declared myself to be the Queen of Research. Not really. I just alwys need a realistic standpoint to come from, so I’ll look something up in a hot second.

So back to setting and detail– it’s something I think I am pretty good at, but not offhand and not all the time.  And sometimes some well known authors irk their readers with overuse of descriptionary (is that a word? Is now) terms. I was just talking with a classmate about this and said that my mom cannot STAND to read Toni Morrison. She says she doesn’t want to read about all the hues of the flowers in bloom— get to the darn story!! I think a well written story, novel, memoir, is one that tells you just enough to paint the picture, and no more. I personally like to leave a little mystery.

The exercice in the lesson was to take a briefly described setting and keep adding to it and keep adding to it until you have a well fleshed out scene, for example (courtesy Steve Alcorn, Advanced Fiction Writing):

There was a path through the trees and into some bushes.

Now more specific:

There was a path through the trees and into a clump of bracken and spruce.

Let’s create action, even in the inanimate:

A path wound among the trees and into a clump of bracken and spruce.

We’ll add adjectives that convey mood:

A path of matted pine needles wound among the trees and into a shadowy clump of bracken and snow-laden spruce.

Let’s explore the other senses:

A path of matted pine needles wound among the trees and into a shadowy clump of bracken and snow-laden spruce. An icy wind carried the sharp tang of pine and the damp decay of the forest floor.

Add the potential for change over time:

A path of matted pine needles wound among the trees and into a shadowy clump of bracken and snow-laden spruce. An icy wind carried the sharp tang of pine and the damp decay of the forest floor. The swaying of the tallest pines indicated a change in the weather and more snow to come.

Use active verbs:

A path of matted pine needles wound among the trees. Fifty feet into the forest it disappeared into a shadowy clump of bracken and snow-laden spruce. An icy wind carried the sharp tang of pine and the damp decay of the forest floor. The tops of the tallest pines whispered of a change in the weather and more snow to come.

Finally, place your protagonist in the scene, and show it through his or her senses:

From her vantage at the edge of the forest, she could see the path of matted pine needles winding among the trees. Fifty feet in, it disappeared into a shadowy clump of bracken and snow-laden spruce. The icy wind reddened her cheeks, carrying the sharp tang of pine and something earthy, maybe the damp decay of the forest floor. High above, the wind swayed the tops of the tallest pines, whispering of a change in the weather and more snow to come.

The resulting paragraph is a little wordier than I would write, but a marked improvement. I don’t think I really struggle with detail and setting when writing, though I like to be aware of techniques in case I get stuck.

So the assignment was to write a few sentences describing something and then add to it to create a fully fleshed out description. I used the opening scene from my LifeTime Movie Drama Challenge piece, The Nanny, so anyone who reads this blog who is part of that challenge should STOP READING! :) because this story isn’t due till August.

Here we gooooo…

Eastside Hospital for the Mentally Unstable loomed more like a prison than a hospital. Drab, grey walls. Long, forlorn hallways were dotted with doors that always remained shut. But she could hear the moans and screams and guttural cursing and, if she listened closely, the bargains with God or the devil. Or both. Dim bulbs flickered inside bug encrusted light fixtures. The linoleum floor was mopped everyday but was still dull and caked with layers of wax, the dirt ground deep into the tiles, so deep that no matter how often the floors were mopped, they still looked dirty.

Amber thought it was kind of a metaphor. No matter how you dressed her up, or how many pills the nurses and doctors shoved down her throat, she was still dirty—ill, crazy, off her rocker, not all there. Whatever the popular term was, these days, for mentally ill. The windows had bars. She thought it was cliché, before being admitted to an actual mental hospital, but there they were. Thick, black, iron bars on every window, and sometimes the beds had bars, along the side. And if someone couldn’t maintain control, or threatened to kill themselves, they tied them up and strapped them in bed, leaving them to pull and twist in vain. That was torture.

Amber didn’t like that.

Amber McBride didn’t like much of anything, namely to be back in this place, and thankfully, it was not to stay. The five years since she’d last been a patient had been tumultuous and dramatic and a personal struggle. Sometimes she felt every second and sometimes the time seemed to float by. No matter, five years had passed since her involuntary stay. Since she had to be secured to a bed, flailing and gnashing at the worn leather straps. Since she had been held prisoner in one of those cold, grey, unsympathetic boxes along a long hallway, with bars on the windows and a steel door with an opening only large enough for a smudged plate of square glass as her only connection to the outside world.

Amber shivered, but wasn’t cold. “Let’s get this over with,” she mumbled to herself.

It’s sung by *Nsync’s Chris Kirkpatrick and since I’m a HUGE fan, I actually have his songs from FOP on my iPod. It’s rather fun to go from Ludacris “Slap” to Chip Skylark “Find Your Voice”  to Madonna “Holiday”. I love shuffle.

There is a point to my rambles about iPods and cartoon songs. Lesson #4 in my Advanced Fiction Writing Class  is about Viewpoint, Voice, And Tense.

Viewpoint- or uh. Point of View, or the intentions of the narrator. Who’s telling the story and from what vantage point?  We learned about three viewpoints:

(cont;d)

Third person Omniscient- Sees from every point of view. The story may flip back and and forth between characters, which can be dangerous for new writers because the transition between viewpoints can be hard without effective action and dialogue.

Third Person Limited- Most stories are from this point of view. It focuses on the protagonist (or the antagonist) vantage point, but it’s still third person.

First Person- Stories are the most intimate, personal account from this viewpoint. New writers should take care to not use “I” too many times (something I am totally conscious of and had to make myself change until it came naturally to me to not use it so often). I don’t often like this viewpoint, but it does give a little mystery because You the Reader don’t discover things until the Main Character discovers them. I kind of like having the story unfold that way.

The other elements of the class were on Voice and tense. Voice is baiscally who your narrator is, and changing up the dialogue and story details depending on the Voice. In a scene with a mom, a doctor and a child, the story will vary depending on the voice.

Tense is sort of a thorn in my side. I positively dislike stories written in present tense. A LOT of fan fiction is written in present tense and it drives me up a wall… “He opens the door and peers out. Seeing nothing, he figures it’s just a kid playing a prank and shuts the door, again. As soon as he closes the door, the bell rings again.”

Drives me insane. The argument for the use of this tense is that it makes the story seem very immediate. *shrugs* I don’t prefer it.

Most people (fiction writers) use past tense and though it’s technically in the past, that fact  sort of becomes invisible and it feels like real time…. “He opened the door and peered out. He saw nothing, so he figured it was just a kid playing a prank and shut the door, again. As soon as he shut the door, the bell rings again.”

Reads better to me. I guess I’m just used to it.

I got a 100% on my quiz for this lesson (*cabbage patch*) and our assignment was to write a scene from each of the three viewpoints, remembering voice and tense.  And away we go…

Third person omniscient

The bus rumbled slowly down the city block, carting its passengers to their destination with all of the urgency of a turtle. A woman and a small child, perhaps her son, sat in the front two seats, staring ahead at the road before them, chatting amiably with the driver. The woman was on her way to work, her white maid’s uniform pristine and white. The child seemed bored, swinging a leg back and forth, randomly bumping it against the hard plastic of the barrier in front of him. The woman kept checking her watch and then glancing out of the window. The driver was oblivious—his mind was on his schedule and keeping the bus rolling forward through stop after stop until he reached the end of his route. He would then turn around and come back the same way. It was the same routine, everyday. It was a habit. It was comforting to them all.

Third person limited

The bus rumbled slowly down the city block, too slowly for Alma. She had to get to work, and she couldn’t be late again. It wasn’t his fault, though, the driver. These behemoth mass transit. vehicles just didn’t go very fast. She chatted and joked with him, trying to lighten the mood, all the while willing him to drive faster, make that yellow light. Just a few minutes would make a big difference. Jeffrey sat next to her, kicking the barrier in front of him as he swung a leg back and forth. He’d have to sit in the office again, today. Alma couldn’t afford to take him to day care anymore. She shifted nervously in her seat, sneaking in a glance at her watch now and then. At this pace, she would just barely make it to work on time.

First person

The bus rumbled slowly down the city block. Too slowly. Ms Edwards’ last warning rang in my ear, about being late. I shuddered to think what would happen if I dared disobey—I already couldn’t afford daycare. Jeffrey was going to have to sit in the office again today, where the receptionist would look after him. It was a long, boring day for him, but I couldn’t afford daycare for him anymore. I was so ready for him to go to school full time. The bus seemed to slow down, and I checked my watch again and again. I shifted, and then rocked back and forth, trying to sooth my nerves, joking with the driver to take my mind off of the fact that if I was late again I’d be fired. He wasn’t paying attention though—his eyes were on the road and the stops at every block where he picked up and dropped off. He would drive and drive until he reached the end of his route, and then turn around and drive back the other way. There must be so much comfort in his routine.

Et voila!

Lesson #3 is on character sketches– pyramids and notebooks and protagonist and antagonist. Creating sympathy and antipathy. Naming your characters— I hate bad character names. I just….I do. Don’t make them up.

One thing that I found interesting was that our instructor advised that you ‘write who you know’, or develop your characters from people you know in your life. Dice them up and put them back together again, change names and features and characteristics.

(cont’d)

I prefer to make them up, completely. The problem with writing people I know is that I feel really limited by that, and stuck within the boundaries of who that person is. It’s hard for me to make them considerably different and unrecognizable– I just make the characters up.

I also have a hard time spewing everything a person needs to know about a character in the beginning– which is recommended. I’d rather find things out as I go along, adding to my knowledge of the character and using it all to discern this ‘person’. I think I’ll go through a few book and try to note where an author does this– I don’t think I’ve seen it often. The fun in reading is getting to know the chracters. At least I think.

So the assignment for this week is to write a character sketch, eithe protagonist or antagonist, in 100 words or less. The goal is to focus on the FLAW and not the BEHAVIOR. That’s hard. It’s easy to talk about what they do. It’s not easy to talk about WHY they do it.

I decided to sketch the antagonist for my sTori_Telling Lifetime Movie Drama Train’s a Comin’ Story of DOOOOM.

Antagonist- Amanda McBride

Amanda McBride is a recent college graduate who happens to be looking for employment as a Nanny. Her parents divorced when she was a child and soon after, her father disappeared. She seeks attention from men in inappropriate ways in an attempt to make up for the lack of her father in her life. Amanda is a perfectionist, used to getting her way, and generally doesn’t take no for an answer, often forcing her way. She is unstable, conceited, and obsessive, yet highly intelligent, driven and committed to the achievement of every goal.

Et voila. *shrug*

Today’s lesson was on plot templates, what’s required to have a good, effective plot and a vehicle to move the emotion of your story along: setup, struggle, climax, tension, conflict, sacrifice, purpose-filled action. Whether the story is an action adventure or a love story, these elements are important.

It strikes me that, when encountering a writer’s block, if I just haven’t developed my plot enough… what theme am I following, what am I trying to say, how am I trying to say it? What’s my plan for getting my character out of whatever mess I’ve got them in— all plot. Interesting.

Our assigment is to think of several movies and note what plot theme is used— so I’ll take a few of my favorites and plot them out:

The Shawshenk Redemption:  Change

Inmate Andy Dufresne has been sent to Shawshenk Prison for a crime he says he did not commit. While in Shawshenk, he makes a friend and some enemies and surreptitiously plans an escape.  Andy has to put away his ideas of getting out of Shawshenk based on his innocence. He becomes more of a crook than he ever was, in order to get out.

Backdraft: Mystery

Someone is setting fires, violent, overblown fires, and killing firefighters. Arson Investigator Brian McCafferty must find out who before more firefighters die. A subplot could be Change, because he has been in a long standing feud with his brother since the death of his father.

Beaches: Change

C.C. and Hilary are childhood friends that remain friends as they grow up. After they become adults, they find that they dont get along as well as they used to. They have to find a way to relearn each other and get along… what pushes this plot is that Hilary falls terminally ill and childless, selfish, brash, C.C. is going to have to take over as ‘mother’ to Hilary’s daughter.

By George, I think I’ve got it!

I took the quiz, got 100% *does the cabbage patch.

And so, Advanced Fiction Writing began last night, but I didn’t actually get the materials till today. Turns out I was waiting for a username and password that wasn’t going to come, so I just logged in. The first class was pretty basic, going over structure, plot, dramatic elements, and the three act structure:

I guess it helped to learn what I’ve been doing without knowing what I’m really doing– to put terms and theory and method to my clinking around the keyboard, playing ‘Author’. It’s certainly awakened me to things in stories I’ve written in the past, and even if I write snippets or drabbles, where to place the story vs the plot so that it drives people crazy wanting to hear the end– or the beginning.

Interesting and informative first course- of course I took the quiz right after and I got 100%! o/ My assignment for Lesson 1 is to introduce myself, a task I kind of hate. I have a hard time making myself sound interesting. *SIGH*