New blog title and address

A few days ago, I moved my "wanna-be author" blog to this new link and title.  I think it reflects a more positive attitude about my future as a writer to say that "eventually I will be a published author" than to say "I sure wish I was a writer!"

So here we are.  I am trying to wrap my head around a new way of thinking that will open my mind and free my creative juices a bit.  I tend to get a little discouraged when I think about wanting to get something published.  Not because of the intimidation of submitting something to a publishing house (I'm not there, yet, you have to FINISH something before you can submit it, I'm fairly sure!) or because I don't feel like I am skilled enough.  I feel confident in my abilities, and I am a fast learner so if I got to learn from mistakes or bad writing decisions, that would be great.  It's because everywhere I go, constantly, I meet other people who consider themselves yet-to-be-published authors.  Some surprise me, some astound me and others, I'm not surprised, I just have one of those sarcastic voices in my head saying, "everyone's an author", the same way my photographer husband says, "everyone's a photographer...". 

I need to not worry about the sheer volume of manuscripts, books and authors there are out in the market.  I need to not feel competitive about this.  I need to just write for the love of writing and when something gets finished, clean it up, submit it and keep writing.  That's what I need to do.  I can't reduce the number of people (women, mostly, but men, too) who also think they are good enough writers to do it professionally.  I don't have control over when/where or even IF I ever get published, not directly, anyway. But "Failing to try is the same as trying to fail", right?  Right.

I'm trying to accept that there is a lot of competition.  A LOT.  But that's okay.  If what I write is good enough, it won't matter that there are 45 million others like me.  And the main thing is that I love writing.  I just love it.  I need to write for the joy and the mental release and the addiction of writing.  The rest is just gravy, anyway.

Just a little exercise...

I think what I'm good at is ambiance, at writing scenes.  I haven't yet figured out how to flesh out a full story from my scenes, though. They pop into my head and flow out my fingers, but then it ends and I'm stuck with about a dozen good story beginnings...

Here's one I wrote recently.  Comments are welcome, in fact, if you can think of a unique story to go along with this scene, share it and we'll collaborate!  I think that's what I need.  I'm good at writing it out, but the "big picture" seems to escape me...  Enjoy! 

It wasn’t raining.  It wasn’t overcast.  It wasn’t even dark.  But it felt like it should be.  I glared up at the cheerful blue sky, scowled at the clouds in their fluffy white perfection and pressed my heels a little deeper into the flawless green grass.  I imagined it whimpering in submission.

“Whump!” the first shovelful of dirt seemed to echo off the coffin.  “Whump!” Again.  Not quite rhythmic, the repeated sound bounced around my head.  It was an ugly sound.  The sound of good-bye.  The sound of emptiness: hollow and howling. 

Cursing the fluttering breeze in the maple leaves over my head, I walked away.  “Whump!” The sound faded slightly as I moved to the other side of the ancient church.  The path I was walking meandered into a grove of trees, where a hill sloped down to a trickling stream.  It couldn’t have been more picturesque.  I hated it.  I hated that the world just moved on, birds flew, rabbits jumped, trees dropped leaves and acorns, completely unfeeling. Their callous indifference surrounded me, suffocating me.  I walked into the glade and cursed, loudly.  I cursed the Earth beneath me, the trees, the sky, I cursed it all, falling to my knees, tears pouring down my cheeks to drip onto my dress.  I cried until I was numb, then lay on the soft Wildgrass and closed my eyes. 

When I awoke, it was dark. Not the oppressive dark that lurked in my chest, but a bright, star-filled summer darkness with a cheerful moon peeking at me between the tree branches.  Grimacing, I stretched, standing.  It was time to leave.  I muttered an apology to the trees, the glade, the glittery heavens for the cursing earlier.  My chest ached, but otherwise I felt better. 

Home was a short walk from the churchyard, and I resisted kicking the cat as I stepped over him lying on the wooden steps.  My father was standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the back window at the darkness.

Asleep at the wheel...

I have not done any writing all summer.  I am loathe to admit that, because I really love it and would even more really love to make a career of it, but (alas, alack!) the summer is nearly over and I haven't written anything but a few blog entries, grocery lists and chore assignments.

Oh, and I know, summer lasts long into September, when the Pagan autumnal equinox rolls around, but my summer lasts from the final day of school to the first day of school, so it will be over in less than 3 weeks.  Gasp!  Not enough time... but... maybe I can start a daily habit of writing for just an hour a day, anything and everything, just writing.  I wonder if I have it in me... I think I do.  I'd like to think it's more than possible, that it's even probable.

21 days to a habit, right?  So for the next 21 days, I could get out of bed at 6:00, exercise, then eat breakfast and hit the laptop.  I could be all done by 8:00, when most of the family is just getting going.  Maybe... I'll have to weigh the benefits of extra sleep with the benefits of habitual writing time... hmm...

Revised Rumpelstiltskin

Rumpelstiltskin

A readers theater

Parts:

Narrator

Rumpel

Miller’s Daughter- Lulu/Queen

Miller

King

Narrator:  Once upon a time and very far away, there lived a Miller and his beautiful daughter.  One day on his way to town, the Miller happened to pass the King in his coach.  Wanting to impress the king, the Miller rode up and spoke to him.

Miller:  Good morning, your majesty!  Might I interest you in my fine corn flour? 

King:  My servants buy my food, Miller, I don’t have time for you.

Miller:  Of course, majesty.  Pardon me, but have you ever seen anyone as beautiful as my daughter?  There she is, standing in yonder field.

Narrator:  The king glanced over and smiled. 

King:  She is lovely, Miller.  Now we must be on our way.

Miller:  She is not only lovely, my King, but she has a secret talent. 

King:  What is that?

Miller:  She can spin straw… into gold!

King:  What?  She can spin straw into gold?  I don’t believe it.

Miller:  It’s true, your highness!  She spins the most beautiful golden thread.  I know your highness has been seeking a beautiful bride, and my daughter would be the most wonderful wife.  And with this talent of hers, she would also make you the richest king in all the land!

Narrator:  The Miller hadn’t really stopped to think about what he was saying.  He was very excited to be speaking to the King, and he really did have a beautiful daughter, but she did not have that magical talent. 

King:  If what you say is true, I will marry your daughter.

Miller:  gulp!

King:  Bring her to my castle this evening and we shall see if she can spin straw into gold.  If she can, she shall be my wife!

Miller: (BOWING) Of course, your majesty.  Of course.

Narrator:  The King rode away and the Miller turned back toward home to speak with his daughter. 

Lulu:  You told the King I could spin straw into gold?  Father, he’ll kill us both when he finds out you lied to him!  Oh what shall I do?

Narrator:  The daughter was frightened and the Miller was too, but they had no choice. She had to go to the castle.  She packed their bags and left home. 

Lulu:  Goodbye, Father. 

Narrator: When she arrived at the castle, she was shown to a little room, filled with straw from the floor to the ceiling.

King:  You have until morning to spin all of this straw into gold.  If you cannot do it, you will be put to death.  If you can do it, though, I will make you my Queen.

Narrator:  The King left Lulu in the room and she heard the door being locked from the outside.

Lulu:  Oh my! (CRYING) What shall I do?  I cannot spin straw into gold!  Boo hoo!  Boo hoo!

Narrator:  Next to the girl suddenly appeared a little old man wearing brightly colored clothes and little shoes that curled upward.  He was the strangest thing Lulu had ever seen.

Rumpelstiltskin:  Good lady tell why

you sob and you cry

The hour it is late

tell me,

what is your fate?

Lulu:  Gasp!  Where did you come from?  Who are you?

Rumpel:  Who I am does not matter

But you I will flatter

If you tell me your tale

I’ll help without fail

Lulu:  Well, you see, my father told the King I could spin straw into gold, and if I don’t do it, I’ll die in the morning and I just don’t know what to do! Boo hoo!

Rumpel:  Magic spinning indeed?

It is me that you need!

I will spin it to gold,

Pure and bright to behold.

What will you give

In order to live?

Lulu:  What about my ring?  It’s very pretty and would look nice on your long, thin fingers.

Rumpel:  Perfect!  We will trade,

A good deal we have made.

Narrator:  Rumpelstiltskin pulled a pile of straw over to the spinning wheel and sat down.  Lulu lay on her cloak and watched the wheel spin and spin, faster and faster, until she fell sound asleep.  In the morning, she woke to hear a rooster crowing and to her amazement, the room was filled, floor to ceiling with shiny golden thread.  The little man was gone.  A smile came to her face as she heard the door being unlocked.

King:  Good morning, Miller’s daughter.  I see you have completed the task!  Come with me, I have another, larger room filled with straw.  If you spin it to gold tonight, I shall let you live to become my Queen!

Narrator:  That night, the King locked Lulu in large room filled floor to ceiling with straw.  Again, Lulu sat down and cried.

Lulu:  Oh, poor me, poor me!  What shall I do?

Rumpel:  More straw to be spun?

I’m here for some fun!

I will spin it to gold,

Pure and bright to behold.

What will you give

In order to live?

Lulu:  What about my necklace?  It came from a land far away across the sea.

Rumpel:  Perfect!  We will trade,

A good deal we have made.

Narrator:  Rumpelstiltskin again spun and spun and Lulu fell asleep.  In the morning, the King came into the room

King:  I see you have spun this straw into gold, even finer than the first!  I will take you to one last room, the biggest room in the castle.  If you can spin all the straw in the room to gold, in the morning, I shall marry you and you will be Queen.  If you cannot, then you will die.

Narrator:  That night, when the King locked Lulu in the room, the little man was waiting for her. 

Lulu:  Oh, little man, will you help me one last time?  If the straw becomes gold tonight, tomorrow I will become Queen!

Rumpel:  More straw to be spun?

I’m here for some fun!

I will spin it to gold,

Pure and bright to behold.

What will you give

In order to live?

Lulu:  Oh, me.  Oh my.  I have nothing left.  I have given you my ring.  I have given you my necklace.  I have no other treasures.  But tomorrow, I will be Queen and I will give you anything you desire.

Rumpel: You have nothing to trade,

No deal can be made.

Unless…

Your first child you will give

In return, you will live.

Lulu:  Hmm… (TO HERSELF)  Who knows if I will ever have a child? If I don’t promise him, he won’t help me and I will die.  If I help him, I will live and marry a King.  I will worry about the trade when the time comes.  (TO RUMPEL) I agree to your price.  If you will spin for me tonight, I will give you my first child.

Narrator:  That night, Lulu slept again as Rumpel spun, and in the morning, the King kept his promise. Lulu’s father barely had time to get to the castle in time for the wedding.  Years passed and one day, Lulu had a baby.  A beautiful baby.  A baby that she loved very much.  She had forgotten all about the little man.  But he had not forgotten.  One night as she tucked her new baby into his cradle, she heard a little voice behind her.

Rumpel:  Today is the day!

I’ll take him away!

I spun gold so fine,

Now the child will be mine!

Lulu: (CRYING) Oh, dear, oh dear!  I remember you now!  Oh, you mustn’t take my child, for I love him so!  I am Queen and I can give you anything in the kingdom, won’t you take something else? Sob!

Rumpel: 

Oh how the tears of the lady fair

Touch my heart and make me care.

By and by a game we’ll play,

‘Ere I take the child away.

If my name you can guess

In three days or less,

Your child will stay

And I’ll go away.

Lulu:  Oh, I agree, I agree!  We’ll start right now.  But you must give me three guess each night.

Narrator:  The little man nodded his head and the Queen wiped her eyes and began to think of all the names she had ever known.

Lulu:  Is it Charles? 

Rumpel:  no!

Lulu:  Is it Mortimer?

Rumpel:  no!

Lulu:  Is it Bartholomew?

Rumpel:  (GIGGLING) no!

Once and twice and three times more

My name you’ll try to guess before

At last the game will ended be

And the child will belong to me.

Narrator:  And the little man disappeared.  The Queen immediately sent three of her most trusted servants on horses to the far corners of the land to search out names for her to guess.  The next night, she tried again:

Lulu:  Is it Frederick?

Rumpel:  no!

Lulu:  Is it Alexander?

Rumpel:  no!

Lulu:  Is it Antonio?

Rumpel:  (GIGGLING) no!

Once and twice and three times more

My name you’ll try to guess before

At last the game will ended be

And the child will belong to me.

Narrator: On the third day of searching for names, one of the Queen’s servants came upon a little clearing deep in the darkest forest outside the castle walls.  Quietly, he crept up and discovered a tiny little man, dancing around his campfire, and singing:

Rumpel: 

Oh la-dee-dah and lucky me

The Queen’s own son I soon will claim.

For no one knows on land or sea

That Rumpelstiltskin is my name!

Narrator:  The servant raced back to the castle to share the good news with the Queen.  The next evening, when the little man appeared, the Queen was ready.

Lulu:  Is your name Boris?

Rumpel:  No!

Lulu:  Is it Humphrey?

Rumpel:  No!

Lulu:  Is it… Rumpelstiltskin?

Rumpel:  (SCREAMS) Aaagh!  How did you know?  Who told you? AAAHHH!!

Narrator:  And the little man turned bright red with rage, stamped and stamped and stamped his feet until the very Earth beneath him opened up and swallowed him whole.  The Queen and King and their little baby lived happily ever after.

The White Rabbit

I am living like the white rabbit in "Alice in Wonderland".  Well, sort of.  I don't always feel late, but I do feel like I just have no time...

I'm rushing around from one activity to the next, eyes on my watch.  I wish I could bustle like Mr. Rabbit does.  If I could move that quickly, maybe I create more time in which to write... or read...

Ack. I'm stuck

I have the next set of exercises saved in my bookmarks because I can't bring myself to just work on them.  They are much more involved.  Something about creating a new character and filling out a long questionnaire about them, etc.  I don't wanna.  I want to just use the characters I've created already.  Which I should just do, but I'm resistant to doing what the instructions say to do.  There is no instructor, no grading system, so I don't know why I'm so hesitant to just do it the way I want to.  Oy vey. 
I need to get a move on and type.  I'm not entirely sure why I'm procrastinating this lesson.  It's bound to be a very good lesson for me.  I don't know what I will discover, and maybe I'm afraid I will waste time or not like the finished product or something... hmm... okay, okay.  I'll just do it.  Here we go...

Writing exercise #2

These are the instructions for the next exercise.  Please leave me feedback if you think I'm not getting it.  This is a completely random scene I wrote spontaneously for this activity, which they suggested doing about a character very opposite to yourself.  I think a 55-year old hispanic male who sell cigarettes is pretty different from me. :)

Now write a brief character sketch in which you reveal the character's appearance, their feelings about it, and their current circumstances. Use a third-person narrator (‘he’ or ‘she’).

 

His graying hair hung limply in front of face.  Sweat dripped onto the tip of his rounded nose and his lips pursed in frustration.  If he had been able to move, he would have dabbed it away.  It was 110 degrees and his hands were tied.  Literally.  The bastards had tied them behind his back and taken the money from the register.  Louis shifted uncomfortably on the filthy linoleum floor, trying to see out beneath the counter, but it was no use.  If only he’d stayed in shape.  He’d been a national championship wrestler at Lincoln High.  His bronze skin and dark eyes marked him as different from the other boys, but he’d proven himself.  Now, at 55, he was overweight, cramming himself into his 40-inch waist jeans, muscles gone flaccid on his arms and legs beneath the extra fat.

The robbers left the shop without untying him, of course, laughing and joking with each other.  They’d been young, maybe not more than 20, he was sure, though they’d covered their faces.  He had noticed their solid, muscular arms, the confidence with which they had walked, heard the promise of youth in their voices.  His hands ached.  He slid backwards against the corner of the office doorway behind him and started rubbing the ropes on his wrists against it.  Maybe if he did this long enough he would die of exhaustion.

The air conditioning had given out three days before, and the little cigarette shop in San Luis, New Mexico was sweltering.  If he didn’t get free soon, he would surely pass out from dehydration.  Panting, he pushed harder against the doorframe, sobbing slightly with the effort, as his bulky arms throbbed. 

Suddenly the door opened again with a pathetic, little tinkle from the bell attached to it.  He froze, hope and fear competing for his full attention.  “Hello?” He said, hesitantly.

“Salvador?” The man looking over the counter at him was the last man he wanted to see.  Even the robbers returning to kill him would have been better. 

“Aye, brother.  Do you think you could help me, or were you planning to stand and watch until I faint from the heat?”

Estefan smiled slightly, his little pinched mouth widening beneath the worm of a mustache on his lip.  “Feeling warm, Brother?  You look a little damp.”

He sauntered behind the counter, grinning wider and bending over Sal.  He drew out a shining silver pocketknife, flipped it open, the blade catching the light menacingly, and slid it slowly behind Sal’s back.  Sal closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow.  When he opened them, Estefan was turned around, looking into the open register, tsking and shaking his head.