Well, apparently in order to be popular, all you have to do is say that you’re going to buckle down and finish your novel. Why didn’t I know this when I was 16 and particularly upset that NO ONE from my high school ever called to hang out?

Not only did I actually have someone come over to the apartment briefly, but I got a phone call asking if I’d like to go on a bridal portrait shoot this afternoon. I realize that the serious writer is supposed to turn these things down, but this would be my Achilles heel. Naturally, I came home from that event sore, tired, mosquito bitten, and very unwilling to write.

Luckily,  just as I was about to resign myself for the night, a message popped up from my dear friend Olson, asking whether I was writing. I said no, that I was tired. He DENIED my excuse, and harassed me into writing! The nerve!

So, there you have it. 1,000 words that would not have otherwise been written. Thank  you, Olson.

p.s. I’m just saying, if for some reason you DO want to drop by and say hi, that’s really cool. But I prefer some advance notice, because I get really twitchy if people want to come over and I haven’t vacuumed.

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“I thought I told you — Roselyn. My, you have a way of sneaking up on me.”
The young man let go of her father’s hand, stood, and turned to face Roselyn.
“Perhaps it runs in the family.”
“Alexander?” Roselyn said in surprise. Alexander smiled and walked towards his younger sister. His rough, calloused hand took hold of her soft one and he raised it to his lips and kissed it.
“It has been too long, sister. You have grown much, and you look well.”
“I wish I could say the same for you, Alexander. You’re…a mess.”

Her description of Alexander was actually rather flattering, considering how he looked. It was quite possible that he had not slept in several. The dark underneath his eyes almost matched the darkness of his brown eyes. His dark brown hair, which had always been worn close to his scalp, touched the top of his shoulders. She never knew that he shared the same soft wave. It would be pretty, if it weren’t so greasy. Dirt was caked on his face, emphasizing every small crease in his face and causing him to look several years older than age. A recent gash marred his otherwise striking features, with his sharp cheekbones and chin.
He released Roselyn’s hand and, seemingly by habit, reached for the helm of his sword. His lips twitched to a smile.

Roselyn looked to her father, “Did you let him use the back door? I thought for sure you would insist on welcoming him with a parade.”
“It was your brother’s request. He has been away for so long and is exhausted from all he has been through. He needs some time to recover. Let’s not overwhelm him on the first day.”
“How is the front line, anyway, dear brother? Have you made any progress against Banya?”
Alexander raised his eyebrow and glanced back to the king.
“The front line has not been my duty since—”
“Roselyn!” her father said sharply, “Do not overwhelm your brother with your childish questions. You may be excused, now.”
Roselyn curtsied to both of the men.
“Alexander, good to see you. I trust that you will recover quickly.”
—-

I wonder how observant you guys are…hmm.

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I’m going to guess (though I really have no idea) that I have another 20k words left. Yeah, sure, piece of cake.

Harassment is welcomed.

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Stan told me that I’m not allowed to start a new novel until I finish the one I’m “working” on. It makes sense. After all, have you seen that pile of books on my bookshelf…desk…table…heh. I’m in the middle of reading no fewer than three books, and feel like I’m making progress on none of them. So the same should apply to writing – if I start writing three novels, the result may not be pretty. Problem is that I’m so very passionate about the ideas I’ve had this week. I want to run away into a dark room with them, and not come out until they’re full first drafts. But no, stay the course. eep breath:

Our little Aery (Destroyer) has been uuber cute lately. She had a run-in with some ants who wanted to share her food this week – I’m genuinely not sure whether she ate them or ate around them. Either way, her bowl has been re-located while we deal with the intruders. Also, she’s graduated to more-or-less sleeping with us and not in the crate at night. Not by our choice, mind you. Over the past few months, she has become more stealthy and harder to catch. We had to come up with a new scheme for catching her every single night. Not worth it. But the highlight of A:D’s week has been that she got to spend two hours locked in the crate with her beloved Koo. Long story short, I’m not sure WHY she was in the crate, I suspect she was plotting this all along, but I didn’t notice her, and mistook Koo’s reluctance to crate for her typical stubbornness. I’m not sure what transpired in the two hours they were together, other than no one came out with any blood. Somehow I imagine that Aery believes it was the best two hours of her life. Yes, she loves Koo THAT much.

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Because of her small stature, she often found it necessary to ally herself with other, stronger folks to get from town to town. Sometimes they had interesting stories to tell. Dragons and evil mages, faraway places and locations that Maya could barely imagine. Maya was drawn to these tales like the dwarves are drawn to ale. Every ounce of her stature longed to accompany a band of adventurers, to experience these wonderful things for herself and chronicle them. Sometimes, they merely laughed at her when she asked if she might tag along, but usually their refusal was more harsh. “You have nothing to offer us, little gnome.” or worse yet, “Your presence would endanger us all.” Once, a Tiefling ranger by the name of Endarmo told her that she would have been better off had she been born a pack mule. “For at least then you could carry your own weight!”

Indeed they must not be worthy adventurers if they could not see the value of someone to write down their tale – that is how legends are born, after all. At least, that is what Maya would tell herself as she sat alone with her mandolin. True, perhaps she wasn’t as capable in combat as others, but her songs carried magical properties. She could inspire her allies to fight with more courage and strength, and fascinate her enemies so that perhaps the numbers may be thinned. Once, she had enchanted a kobold so thoroughly that he was persuaded to drop his dagger and leave her in peace. Of course, this meant nothing to the adventurers, who valued only one’s ability to handle the sword or the greater arcane magic.

Her fingers plucked at the stings of her mandolin. It has been two years of saving for the intricate instrument. She played a sad, slow melody. Someday, she would prove herself worthy of the names given to her. Maybe her mother had been right, maybe she should have been a sorcerer. No one appreciates a bard.

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Be proud of me!

One of stanman’s chief irritations with me is that I never write down my ideas. I can see the pain in his eyes when I tell him about my ideas, he asks if I wrote them down, and I reply with laughter and no. He writhes in agony while I shrug my shoulders and ask why I should bother. This causes another jolt of pain down his nervous system as I’m sure he imagines these good ideas slipping off into the universe like bubbles from a child’s wand.

He at least convinced me that I should keep word files of my ideas. I do that – sometimes – but it feels foreign and cold. When the idea is inside me, it’s alive, and part of my brain must fight to keep it, or risk losing it. Therefore, it’s like a yeast to my ideas, and they slowly keep growing until it’s their time to be poured out into a word document of their own and brought to life. But the idea of a document with the idea feels like I’m killing it. It’s out in the world, but no emotion has been put into it, no life. So in an odd way, asking me to write down my ideas feels like I’m killing them.

But! For some odd reason, paper, I can handle. So, I have dedicated a small notebook to writing down story ideas. Whether it’ll be all the ideas about this one story, or ideas for multiple stories, I don’t know. But the point is, ideas made it to paper tonight. Stan can breathe easy, knowing that I won’t forget “that one idea I had about three months ago” now. Maybe that story will be my next NaNo novel.

Anyway…Stan’s got his voice recorder and endorses the use of word documents. I’m a strictly paper and pen sort of gal. How do you keep track of your ideas?

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Is this common, and if so, is it something that ever wears off? (Not that I’ve got Stephen King reading this, but I know there are some of you who have been writing for years.)

I’m not sure where I fall. I do have my moments where I think my writing is pitiful, but they’ve gotten fewer and further between in the past year. I DO believe that I’ve got decent potential. I’m not cocky about it, but I’m not falsely self-bashing either. I do thrive on compliments, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not quite as neurotic as some folks. Of course, this sometimes makes me afraid that my writing IS actually very bad, in a twilight-zone-twist sort of way.

Alright. So, this post is brief today. Long story short, I badly injured my wrist over a year ago, and from time-to-time it hurts for no apparent reason. So I’m going to not anger it further by rambling. But trust me, chances are, your writing probably isn’t nearly as bad as you think it is. I encourage you to get over your fears and give your writing to someone who will give you a genuine opinion. Then listen to it…and then go to writing excuses, because they do a great podcast.

This week, I am to get back on the horse and do some real writing. The last few weeks have been crazy, which is a poor excuse, but I’m using it nonetheless. So, see you Wednesday.

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So without further adeu, with no grammatical corrections, is a snippet from that story (because I couldn’t bear to torture you with all 6 pages.

Vivianne walked quickly back to the house holding mail in her hand. Her long blond hair flowed freely behind her. She opened the door in a rush, hustled over to the couch and sat down. It was a letter from Mother. She opened it and read its contents…

Dearest Vivanne, I am sending word to you for I am returning from America with Caledon. Weather permitting, we shall be at pier 11 on May 13. Be a dear and meet us there, Vivi.
- Mother

Vivi looked at the letter again, almost like looking at it would change the content. She was fully aware that her sister Rose, had died just a few short weeks ago, aboard the Titanic. She sighed. She had to get things in order for Mother and Cal. Rose had first been introduced to Cal when Vivi was only 10, a few months after her father had died. She remembered how Mother had thrown a fit over getting everything in tiptop shape. She remembered first meeting Cal, and how nice he was to her, even though she was the little sister. Rose herself had been only 12, near thirteen then, but she was treated just like an adult. To Vivi’s amazement Cal kept coming back. When Cal wasn’t with Rose he would take Vivi on a walk around the house and they would talk. At those times she wasn’t little sister Vivi, but confidant and trustworthy friend. Wow, thinking back on that, Vivi had changed since then.
Cal and Rose had gotten engaged shortly after Vivi’s thirteenth birthday, and Vivi had known about it ahead of time, Cal had told her. Not too long after that, the four of them had moved out to England, where they practically dumped Vivi and said, “We’ll be back.” Sheesh, that was nearly two years ago. Vivi shook her head and proceeded to look at the other mail when she noticed a strange looking letter. It was postmarked N.Y.C. just like Mother’s, but it wasn’t in her, or Cal’s handwriting, in fact it looked like…Rose’s handwriting. She opened the letter, eager to see who it was from. It COULDN’T be Rose, she was dead. The letter read…

Dear Vivi, I know by now you have heard about Titanic and that it sank. And I’m sure, by now Mother has told you about my supposed death. But Vivi, I’m not really dead. Here’s what really happened.

The letter went on to basically tell about Jack, how she had tried to jump off the back of the ship…Then the letter continued…

- Hope you had a good laugh, and have a wonderful weekend! -

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The husband got a half day off of work today, so we went and bought miss Aery Destroyer some cat food and then took ourselves to see a movie. (Dragonball: Evolution) I’m not even going to pretend that I wrote anything today, or that I have any intentions to this weekend.

Sunday we have brunch at the grandparent in-laws where most of the courses feature sausage. We dislikes the sausages. (and ham…I know, I know.)

Anyway, have a good weekend. Regular posting will resume Monday.

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Alright, so, I mentioned Friday that I’ve got a title for my novel. Originally it was called “Heart of Ice”, and that’s what I’ve been working with since. At the time (2003) I thought it was a fantastic title. It was partially inspired by my love for “Frost” from Mortal Kombat: Deadly Alliance. I liked the idea of making my main character emotionless and tactical by the end, since she was so passionate at the start. Over the  years, brought on by my love of the play “Hedda Gabler”, I decided to make her a cold character from the start. I like(d) the idea of the anti-heroine.

By this time around, “Heart of Ice” just didn’t fit. It felt cheesy, much like the original story, and like I had outgrown it. It’s like when you look back on those pictures of yourself from a decade or two (or more?) ago and cringe. But I just couldn’t find the right thing to replace it. I wish I could tell you that there was some magical formula for coming up with a title – hey, if you find one, let me know.

But it’s with lots of excitement that I tell you that the title is now “Roselyn’s Legacy” … and it fits. Like a glove. Hopefully, a timeless glove. While I would love to explain it, I’m holding out on details with the hope that when I finish said novel, I’ll have enough people baited that they’ll want to read it.

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