Random Thoughts About Writing My 1st Novel (Part 2)

Skip this post unless you’re REALLY bored.  I’ve hit the wall and I’m using it to work my way through it.

This novel writing thing is hard.  I feel as if all of the progress that I made at the end of last year has come undone.  I am at a complete loss on how to proceed.  (Some of you are yelling at me to OUTLINE!!!  But I am drawing a blank even when I try to outline!)

I wanted the book to be funny, but there’s nothing funny coming out of me right now.  (Okay, that was unintentionally funny, because it can be taken the wrong way.)  It’s easy to be funny in person or make snarky comments on a website, but true satire is HARD for me.

How do you achieve Seinfeld-esque wit or Chandler Bing sarcasm when all that’s flowing on the paper is knock-knock jokes?  It’s horrible.

So, what’s funny?  What makes me laugh in stories?  Or more importantly, what kept me INTERESTED in stories, even when I wasn’t laughing?

STAR WARS:  The banter between Hans Solo and Princess Leia made the Star Wars movies for me.  I watched them over the holidays.  It had been years since I had seen them.  I know that I may get torpedoed for saying this, but the dialogue was, er, not so good.  And yes, Episodes 4-6 had far superior dialogue than Episodes 1-3 did, but seriously, Episodes 4-6 didn’t exactly have great dialogue either.

I really think George Lucas owes his Star Wars success to Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher.  They saved those movies.  Without their banter, I honestly think the entire Star Wars franchise wouldn’t exist.  Even Mark Hamil’s lines were cheesy to the point of punch-him-in-the-throat irritating.  I was this close (picture fingers pinched together) to hurling my remote control at the screen during Luke Skywalker’s scenes.  Whiny and annoying, he was.  (Channeling Yoda, I am.)

HARRY POTTER:  What did I like about Harry Potter?  The entire wizarding world?  That’s too broad.  Let me mull this over.  I liked the good vs. evil thing.  Again, too broad.  I liked the boarding school.  Yeah, that’s getting more specific.  Come to think of it, I’ve always liked boarding school stories.  I grew up reading Enid Blyton’s “Twins At St. Clare’s” stories.  What is it about boarding school that’s so appealing?  I guess throwing a bunch of unsupervised, young, hormonally-driven people together in a confined space is a recipe for entertainment.

I remember how thrilled I was when I finally left home for college.  I couldn’t wait for my parents to leave so that I could explore the university campus with my new friends.  Maybe part of this nostalgia is what made Harry Potter so appealing to me.  Interesting.

PERCY JACKSON:  The reasons I liked the Percy Jackson books are fairly basic.  Percy Jackson is funny and the story is based on Greek mythology, which I love.  Nothing beats a good prophecy-driven quest.

I recently picked up a copy of Rick Riordan’s Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard.  It’s pretty good, but I just can’t get into it the same way I got into Percy Jackson.  It feel as if it’s the same story, but with Norse gods, instead of Greek gods.  I’m only part way through the book, so I realize that I haven’t given it a chance.  I’ll finish the entire thing and perhaps include it as another “textbook” to study.  So, the most interesting thing about these books for me is the foundation in myth.

GREGOR THE OVERLANDER:  Gregor is very similar to other young adult fantasy heroes.  He has an unfortunate “current” circumstance, is thrown into a “magical” situation, and turns out to be the “chosen” one with “special abilities.”  Blah, blah, blah.

What made this book a little different for me was the whole “Alice in Wonderland” thing.  Gregor and his 2-year old little sister accidentally fall down a laundry room chute and land in another world.  They talk with animals and fight with swords.  Gregor is a warrior.  You see where I’m going with this?  😉

MY CONCLUSION:  I didn’t realize that this post would evolve into an abridged young adult fantasy book review, but that’s what happens when I follow my “stream of consciousness.”  So what have I learned?

I need banter, a boarding school and an “other world” tumble to make a story interesting for myself.  “Special” ability is good – perhaps some levitating or mind control.  Maybe a prophecy and a quest.

Add a touch of Indian mythology and this is my recipe.  Time to work that into my novel.

 

Random Thoughts On Writing My 1st Novel

I’m scared.  Seriously.  For the last few days, I’ve tried to write.  But I haven’t been able to because of this fear.  You see, I made a 2016 New Year’s Resolution to write a full manuscript by the end of the year and since then, I haven’t been able to write anything.

It sucks.

This may not be a big deal for some of you, but I’ve never finished writing a complete novel.  (Unless you count my jumbled NaNoWriMo mess from a few years ago, which I don’t.)  Writing an entire manuscript is a big deal for me.

You may wonder what I fear.  Cliches.  I’m so scared that my first book will be filled with cliches.  In 2015, I overcame many personal obstacles to writing, but one of them remains strong:  the idea that my story has to be “original.”

What does that even mean?  Has anyone ever written something “original?”  Both Harry Potter and The Hobbit were based on ideas from Norse mythology.  Star Wars was influenced by Akira Kurosawa‘s 1958 film The Hidden Fortress.  Hell, even Star Wars:  The Force Awakens cannibalized itself and based the story on Star Wars:  A New Hope.  (They both had a Death Star, but they were different sizes!)  So, if J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, and George Lucas can do it, then what’s MY problem?

A few things are helping me manage my fear.  First, in my experience, to conquer a fear, a person should run TOWARDS it, instead of AWAY from it.  Well, with the exception of fire.  And cliffs.  And rabid animals.  Hmmm….  Maybe I should phrase this differently.

Let’s try again.  Last year, I started to get over my fear of rejection by embracing it.  Perhaps I should do the same thing with cliches?  Just write a book of cliches.  Maybe it should be called “Charlie Weaver and the Book of Cliches.”

Hey!  Is it a sign that it sounds like “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone?”

What’s that I hear?  I think my wheels are turning again……   😉

Six Lessons I’ve Learned About Writing In 2015

It’s hard to believe that today is December 31, 2015.  I wanted to jot down a few things that I’ve learned about writing this year.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS WASTED WRITING

I’m not sure why I had it in my head that I had to use everything I wrote down for something.  I viewed any discarded writing as a “waste” of time and effort.  But it isn’t.  I’ve used and improved every idea, phrase, character and technique that I’ve written down.  So, there is no such thing as “wasted” writing, because writing builds on itself.

PERFECTION IS BAD

I can’t say that I’ve mastered this lesson.  I still have “perfectionist” tendencies.  It pains me to post or submit anything that I view as less than perfect.  But honestly, I wouldn’t have published ANYTHING in 2015 if I had clung to this ideal.  I wouldn’t have this blog, and I definitely wouldn’t have been published on Scary Mommy or Nugget Tales.  Perfection squashes ideas, creativity and progress.  So next year, I will continue to submit and post less than perfect examples of my writing to the viewing public and hope that “good enough” is, well, good enough.

REJECTION IS GOOD

Fear of  failure is another big obstacle to progress.  I sat on my writing for DECADES.  That’s right – DECADES.  For such a long time, I was so afraid of being rejected that I never showed my writing to anyone or submitted things anywhere.  But like most things, the more rejections I faced, the better I became at not only dealing with them, but also learning from them.  So, I am learning to view rejection as GOOD.  It means that I tried and it’s an opportunity for me to learn.

WRITING BEGETS WRITING

I don’t know why I always had it in my head that to be a writer, I need to sit down in solitary confinement for hours and just write without disruption.  When I finally started doing these “write 15 minutes a day” self-imposed challenges, I actually accomplished more writing in a few months than I had in decades.  The ideas flowed faster and my writing improved.  Carving out small niches of time throughout the day works best in my hectic life.  I will continue to do this next year.

SOCIAL MEDIA MAY NOT BE AS HARD AS I THOUGHT

I admit that the thought of having to market myself and my work was intimidating.  This is especially ironic when you consider that I have an MBA and worked in Marketing.  But marketing a company’s product is easy.  Marketing myself and my work is NOT.  It’s incredibly uncomfortable for me to push myself and my stuff on my friends.  I don’t like it and I’d prefer not to do it.

So, I was incredibly relieved when I stumbled across Kristen Lamb’s blog and book, both of which I highly recommend.  Her information on how to create a marketing platform through social media reminded me of one of the tenets from Dale Carnegie’s How To Win Friends And Influence People:  Become genuinely interested in other people.  I’m fortunate, because this has always been an easy lesson for me.  I actually love hearing other people’s stories.  And this is really what social media is all about.  Making connections and showing a SINCERE interest in other people.

I’m good about this on Facebook, but not so good about it on WordPress. There are so many people on here that I’d like to get to know better.  I hope I do a better job of it next year.

WRITE AND PUBLISH, WRITE AND PUBLISH, WRITE AND PUBLISH

This lesson has come to me over the past month.  Hugh Howey and Amanda Hocking, two authors who transformed the self-publishing industry, have changed my mind about self-publishing.  I always wanted to follow the traditional publishing route, but I am incredibly inspired by their success stories.  Each of them wrote stories that they themselves wanted to read.  Each of them focused less on marketing and more on WRITING STORIES.  By the time people started taking notice of their work, each author had a LARGE VIRTUAL FOOTPRINT on the DIGITAL BOOKSHELF.

All of these years, I just wanted to write and publish ONE book.  BIG MISTAKE.  I need to WRITE AND PUBLISH, and WRITE AND PUBLISH, and WRITE AND PUBLISH.  So, that’s what I’m going to do……

TO ANYONE READING THIS:  Thank you so much for all of your views, likes and comments.  They have meant a lot to me.  I’m looking forward to getting to know more of your stories next year.  I promise to do a better job of reaching out on WordPress next year.

Have a wonderful New Year’s Eve!  May you achieve all of writing your goals in 2016!

Wishing you and your family much peace and love,

Taara

DAY #29: A Modified “NaNoWriMo” Challenge (Write 15 Minutes of Garbage Every Day)

It’s Day 29 of this self-imposed 30-day writing challenge.  I’m having so much fun writing this story (Working Title:  “Charlie Weaver and the Magical Object of Doom”), that I’m going to continue writing it as long as I can.  At least through the end of November.

I’m going to back off from Charlie Weaver and the telepathic “Yoda” cows to return to Shivani, Charlie and the dwarf attack.  I think this story needs a prophecy, so here goes (starting with a few lines from Day 26):

“Oh, my God,” Shivani said, clenching her hands into fists.  “What on Earth is the point of this committee?”

“This isn’t Earth, dear,” Professor Pedantic said gently.  “You’re in Bharat.  Poor thing.  Do you need Miss Prissy’s smelling salts?”

Shivani scowled at Professor Pedantic.  Before she could reply, we heard a loud cry.  “AAAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!!!”

Shivani and I whirled around.  We looked out the window just in time to see a dwarf flying through the air towards the castle.  Both of us gasped as he slammed into the wall.  Director Fussybottom quickly approached the window.  We watched the dwarf slide down the wall into the moat.

“Heavens,” exclaimed Mistress Prissy Pants, placing one pudgy hand on her ample bosom.  “What was that?”

“The dwarves have some sort of contraption,” Director Fussybottom muttered, as he stared out the window.  Swarms of dwarfs were pushing a large wooden platform with wheels on it.  A small dwarf scrambled into something that looked like a scoop.

Shivani expelled a snort of disgust.  “It’s a catapult.  Don’t you people know anything?”

“Catapult?”  I said, bracing myself for her reply.  Shivani always tossed out these strange terms from her realm.  Sometimes, I had a feeling that she thought we were stupid for not understanding them.

“That poor little dwarf,” Shivani muttered, leaning halfway out the window.  “I hope he’s okay.”

Three dwarves jumped into the moat and dragged the unconscious one onto land.  One large dwarf scowled up at us from the other side of the moat.  When he saw us watching him from the tower window, he shook his fist and yelled something at us.  But we couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“A dwarf hit the wall,” Professor Pedantic repeated.  His ruddy cheeks turned pale as exchanged glances with Director Fussybottom.  “You know what this means, right?”

“Oh, no,” Mistress Prissy Pants whispered.  Her eyes widened.  “The prophecy?”

“Prophecy?”  Shivani repeated, as she returned to the table.  She crossed her arms and snickered.  “Well, this should be good.”

“What prophecy?” I asked with trepidation.  My body tensed.  Prophecies always meant trouble for heroes like myself.

“No,” Director Fussybottom shook his head.  “It can’t be.”

“But it makes sense,” Professor Serenity replied.  Her face suddenly looked weary.  “I hate to admit it, but Pedantic may be right.”

The walls of the tower shook as another dwarf slammed into the castle wall.  Their aim was getting better.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Prissy wailed.  Her lower lip began to quiver again.  “Loud noises wreak havoc on my nerves.  I may have to lie down if this doesn’t stop soon.”

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?  What prophecy?”  Shivani demanded.

Director Fussybottom sighed and walked over to his large desk at the opposite end of the room.  He opened the top drawer and pulled out something before walking back to us at the table.  As we stood up and gathered around him, he unrolled a scroll.  A very old, faded, dusty scroll of yellow parchment paper.  He read the words out loud:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

This is a prophecy

So it must be true

There were murmurs of agreement.  This prophecy was filled with wisdom.  I didn’t want to miss a single word, so I focused all of my attention on the crumpled piece of paper as Fussybottom continued.

Beware of the dwarf

When it first hits the wall

It’s a sign of life changes

For one and for all

“Heavens,” Miss Prissy gasped, reaching for her smelling salts.  She opened her mouth to say something, but Director Fussybottom held up his hand.  She remained silent as he continued.

A Warrior, A Weaver

A Seer and More

Must follow the call

And walk out the door

Some will live

Some will die

Some will smile

Some will cry

What more can I say

To those in this room

Go on this quest

Or perish in doom

The Elders all stared at each other in horror as the words of the prophecy registered.  My mind whirled as I tried to make sense of it.

“Let me see this,” Shivani said, snatching up the parchment to study it closely.

“But what does this mean?”  Miss Prissy whimpered, reaching into her bag.  She pulled out a large handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.  “Are we all going to die?”

“Wait a second.  It mentioned something about a weaver,” I said, frowning.  My stomach started to churn as I realized something profound.  “My name is Charlie Weaver.  Am I the weaver in this prophecy?”

“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Shivani said, waving the prophecy at us.  “Have any of you really looked at this?  Whoever wrote it has really bad handwriting.”  She rolled her golden eyes.  “And it’s written in crayon.  How am I supposed to take this seriously?”

I could tell that Shivani wasn’t taking this prophecy very seriously.  “Shivani, this isn’t funny.  You’re a warrior and I’m a weaver.  We need to go on this quest.”

“Well done, Charlie,” Professor Pedantic nodded with approval.  I admit that I glowed under his compliment.  “I think you’ve interpreted one part of the prophecy.”

“What quest?”  Shivani started laughing.  Tears streamed out of her eyes.  “The whole thing is ridiculous.  Where are we supposed to go?  What are we looking for?  The whole thing is a complete joke.”  She plopped down on a chair, laughing hysterically.

The Elders all stared at Shivani, some with open disapproval.  Professor Pedantic shook his head.  “These are matters for the committee to evaluate,” he said, which sent Shivani into another fit of laughter.

“You may think this is a joke, Miss Roy, but we take our prophecies very seriously in Bharat,” Director Fussybottom said sternly.

DAY #28: A Modified “NaNoWriMo” Challenge (Write 15 Minutes of Garbage Every Day)

It’s Day 28 of this self-imposed 30-day writing challenge.  I may be the only one who finds this entertaining, but since I’m laughing my ass off as I write this, I’m going to continue the story of “Charlie Weaver and the Magical Object of Doom” from yesterday….  (a.k.a. A satire of Harry Potter/Percy Jackson/Gregor The Overlander)  I’ll start off with a few sentences from yesterday and continue to take this story to a whole new level of absurdity/stupidity:

The walk to the pasture was at least one mile.  I kept staring at the hole in the bucket as I munched on the biscuits.  There was no way I could carry all of that milk without losing it to the hole.  Aunt Bertha would beat the living daylights out of me if I came back with less than a pail of milk.  But what could I use to patch up the bucket?

I was so worried about the hole that I didn’t notice that I was being watched.

As I walked through our grazing pasture, I looked around for our milking cow, Clarabelle.  She was nowhere to be seen.  I had a sinking feeling that she may have wandered off again.  My fears were confirmed when I saw the broken boards in the fence surrounding my family’s small property.

“Clarabelle,” I called out, as I hopped over the fence.  This wasn’t good.  Our neighbor, Mr. O’Toole, had already threatened to shoot Clarabelle the next time he caught her eating any of his prize-winning squash.  I had to find her before he did.

“Here, girl,” I shouted, as I landed in a large, ankle-deep puddle.  Although I was wearing Paw Paw’s knee-high rubber boots, which offered some protection, my pants were already splattered with mud.  I made a mental note to hose myself off before going to school.  “Clarabelle, where are you, girl?”

Suddenly, I heard a voice in my head.  I’m over here, Charlie Weaver.  By the golden apple tree on the hill.

I don’t know why, but something mysterious prompted me to run towards the tree.  The voice was right.  Lo and behold, there was Clarabelle, calmly munching on some apples.  The large brown cow looked at me reproachfully.  What took you so long?  My udder is full.

I stopped and stared at her.  Did her lips just move?  As I scratched my head, thoroughly confused, I wondered what was wrong with me.  Was I hallucinating?  Why could I understand what Clarabelle was thinking?

Clarabelle made a sound like a moan.  Well, Charlie, don’t just stand there like a gawking at me like a ninny.  Milk me.  She swung her head towards the tree.  There’s a stool over there.  Hurry up.

Something propelled me to grab the stool from under the tree, set the pail down, and start milking her.  Clarabelle emitted a loud sigh of relief.  In the middle of milking, I heard a noise behind me.  It sounded like mooing.

Who be your friend, Clarabelle?

Your friend, who he be?

Two beautiful Jersey cows walked around me and stood on either side of Clarabelle.  The larger one was all black, while the other one had a shiny black coat with large white spots.  They both watched me with eyes that were surprisingly human in expression.

Clarabelle mooed her response.  That’s Charlie Weaver.  He’s my caretaker.

The cow with the spots watched me as I finished milking Clarabelle.  She turned to Clarabelle and tilted her head in my direction.  Milk me, can he?  Full udder I have.

And I also, Clarabelle.  Full udder I also have.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead before pulling the pail out from under Clarabelle.  The milk immediately started to leak from the hole in the bucket.  I quickly placed my thumb over it and wondered how I would make it all the way back to the house without losing any milk.

Thank you, Charlie Weaver.  Can you milk my friends as well?

A loud guttural sound emitted crossed my lips without effort.  It took me a few moments to realize that I was conversing with the cows in their native tongue.  In short, I was mooing my responses.

“I’m sorry, Clarabelle, but I can’t.  My bucket is full,” I held up the pail and tapped it with the side of my head.  “Although it won’t be full for long, because of this stupid hole.”

Clarabelle looked at me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again.  If I can fix your bucket, will you milk my friends?

I looked at the sun rising in the East.  Based on its position in the sky, I estimated that I had a few hours before school started.  So I shrugged.  “Sure, I can milk your friends too.  But how will I carry their milk in this bucket?  Should I dump yours out?”

No, no, Clarabelle shook her head and spat out an apple core.  You must keep all of the milk that you collect in your bucket.  You will need it later.

I had no idea what she was talking about.  “Well, whatever,” I shrugged again, swiping my sweaty forehead with my sleeve.  “I’ve got school, so let’s just get this done.  Which of you wants to go first?”

The cow with the white spots approached me after Clarabelle moved away from the stool.  First I will go.

The other cow nodded and stepped behind her.  Go you shall first.

I began milking the cow with the white spots.  I could feel a surge of adrenaline as I reached for her teat.  When the first drops of milk hit the pail, an eerie calm settled over me.  I just lowered my head and focused on the milk.

Even though I was consumed by the milk, a part of me could still feel the tremors of the earth as a herd of cattle descended on our group.  Voices echoed in my head.  Milk you he will.

And I did.  It felt as if time stood still.  I just kept on milking one cow after another until no more cows stood in front of the stool.  After the last cow walked off into the meadow, I collapsed onto the ground.  I felt utterly exhausted after milking what must have been over 100 cows.

Clarabelle nudged my foot with her nose.  You have our gratitude, Charlie Weaver.

Both of the Jersey cows nodded their agreement.  Our gratitude you have, Charlie Weaver.

A boon we will give you.

Give you a boon, we will.

As I lay in the cool, comforting mud, I stared up at the sky and whispered,  “What’s a boon?”

Clarabelle, to her credit, did not roll her large brown eyes at me.  “A gift for your services.”

DAY #27: A Modified “NaNoWriMo” Challenge (Write 15 Minutes of Garbage Every Day)

It’s Day 27 of the 30-day challenge.  I still feel like writing something absurd.  More specifically, I feel like making fun of all of the young adult fantasy novels that I’ve read over the years.  The heroes are all so incredibly likable and competent (Think Harry Potter, Percy Jackson and Gregor the Overlander).  They all come from some sort of pathetic situation.  Why not write about a likably INCOMPETENT hero who just stumbles ass-backwards into good fortune?  So, here goes…..

Hi.  My name is Charlie Weaver.  I am a hero and this is my journey.

First, I was born, which goes without saying.  I have no memories of my parents, because what good hero does?  My Aunt Bertha told me that a stranger dropped me off on her doorstep when I was a baby.  I’m not sure if she’s telling me the truth.  It wouldn’t be the first time that she’s lied.  But I do know that I’ve been living with her for as long as I can remember.

My story begins on a typical Tuesday morning.  I woke up to the shrill voice of Aunt Bertha.

“Charlie Weaver, you better get your butt out of bed right now, or I’m gonna skin you alive!  Them cows ain’t gonna milk themselves!”

“Coming, Aunt Bertha,” I called out, as I scrambled to find my milking clothes in the toolbox that I used as a makeshift dresser.  I dressed quickly, pulling out the stray pieces of straw from my hair.  I raced down the loft ladder.

Aunt Bertha stood in the barn door, glaring at me.  She was carrying Baby Susie in her left arm, and had my little cousin Tobey by the scruff of his neck with her right hand.

“Boy, what are you thinking?  Sleepin’ in this late on a school day,” she grumbled, adjusting Cousin Susie’s position in her arms.  Susie emitted on ear-shattering shriek, before starting to wail.  “Now look what you done.”

Whap!  I felt the blow on the back of my head.  “You made the baby cry.  She’s hungry.  I coulda been feedin’ her right now, if I didn’t have to come out here and haul your lazy ass out of bed.  Now go get the pail and get the milk.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, as I followed her and the kids into into the kitchen.  I rubbed the back of my head, which still stung a little.

“Now, Martha, go easy on the boy,” Paw Paw Joe chided mildly from the breakfast table.  His spectacles slid down his nose as he flipped through the obituary section of the newspaper.

“You shut yer yap, old man,” Aunt Bertha snarled.  “I ain’t Martha.  I’m Bertha.  Martha’s been dead for a long time.”  She strapped the wailing Susie into the high chair at the table.  Tobey climbed up onto the chair next to Paw Paw and helped himself to a handful of Paw Paw’s crackers.  Aunt Bertha saw him and removed the bowl from the table.  Tobey responded by throwing himself onto the floor and howling.

“Aw, hell,” Aunt Bertha muttered, while she tried to pick Tobey up from the floor.

I quickly pocketed two biscuits while Aunt Bertha’s back was turned.  Paw Paw saw me, winked, and slipped me an apple.  I smiled gratefully and added it to my stash before reaching for the pail.  A glance inside made me groan inwardly.  There was a hole in the bucket.  My stomach tightened, as I braced myself for another smack upside the head.  “Um, Aunt Bertha, is there another bucket?”

She scowled at me, as Tobey continued to shriek.  “Do I look like I have money to buy another bucket?  Use that one.”

“But,” I began timidly.

“Boy, I thought you were supposed to be smart,” Aunt Bertha rolled her eyes at me.  “Use your thumb to cover the hole.”

Her sarcasm stung.  I didn’t want get hit again, so I just nodded and left.  School started in a few hours.  My history class was going on a field trip to the World History Museum.  I loved field trips.  This was the one day that I didn’t want to be late for school.

The walk to the pasture was at least one mile.  I kept staring at the hole in the bucket as I munched on the biscuits.  There was no way I could carry all of that milk without losing it to the hole.  Aunt Bertha would beat the living daylights out of me if I came back with less than a pail of milk.  But what could I use to patch up the bucket?

I was so worried about the hole that I didn’t notice that I was being watched.

DAY #26: A Modified “NaNoWriMo” Challenge (Write 15 Minutes of Garbage Every Day)

It’s Day 26 of this 30-day writing challenge, and I’m feeling more pumped up about writing today.  I feel like being completely absurd, so here goes…..

When I looked around the large table, I saw the stunned faces of the Elders Council.  They stared at each other as the news registered.  After a few moments, I broke the silence.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Charlie,” Professor Pedantic nodded.  His bushy white eyebrows knit together.  “My sources have confirmed that the dwarfs are en route to the castle.”

“En route?” Shivani Roy repeated.  Despite the gravity of the situation, I tried not to grin.  Conversations were always entertaining when Shivani was annoyed.

The school’s head mistress, Professor Serenity looked at Pedantic.  Her tone was mildly disapproving.  “Really, Robert? They aren’t dwarves. They are Small-Statured Bharatians.”

“I don’t care what they are,” Director Fussybottom replied grimly.  He stood up and began pacing.  Also grimly.  “If they’re trying to enter the castle without a permit, then it’s a problem.”

“They need a permit to enter the castle?” Shivani asked.  She looked at me.  “Why don’t I have a permit?”

Professor Pedantic shot a withering glance in Shivani’s direction, before turning his attention to the director.  His head bobbed up and down like a doll.  “I agree with you, Director,” he nodded.  “We need to think of the children.”

“Heavens!  You’re right, Peddy.  What about the children?” Mistress Prissy Pants clucked before waving her hands to fan herself.  “I’m feeling a little faint.”  She rifled around the large bag on her lap and pulled out her smelling salts.

“There, there, Prissy,” Director Fussybottom replied in a baritone voice that echoed through the room.  “We’ll take care of the situation.”

Professor Pedantic pushed his chair back from the table and slowly stretched out to his full height.  He waited for everyone’s eyes to fall on him.  “I propose that we form a committee.”

“A committee?,” Shivani sputtered, as she stomped back to the table.  Her golden eyes flashed, as she gestured towards the window.  “Yes, that makes perfect sense.  Let’s form a committee while the dwarves storm the castle.”  She threw up her hands in disgust.  “We need to do something about this, not just sit around talking.”

General Hawkthorn stared at Shivani in surprise.  He nodded slowly.  “I agree with the girl.  We need to dispose of dwarves immediately.”  He turned to a Warrior named Samuel.  “How quickly can you assemble your men?”

Shivani shook her head.  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

I glanced out of the window.  The dwarfs still had to cross the moat and scale the castle wall to get into the school.  Before Shivani called Professor Pedantic or General Hawkthorn a moron or some other Earth insult, I interjected.  “What type of committee?”

Shivani snapped her head at me and snarled.  “Charlie, are you freaking kidding me?”

I flushed, rattled by her tone.  I still didn’t understand all of her Earth words, but it was obvious that she didn’t agree with me.

“Now, Miss Roy,” Director Fussybottom chided her.  “Being under attack is no excuse for bypassing protocol.  If you have a proposal, you must submit it to the committee.”

Shivani rolled her eyes and threw up her hands in disgust.  “But there is no committee!”

“That’s why I proposed that we form one,” Professor Pedantic smirked at her and pointed to the stack of papers in front of him.  “It’s in the handout.  Would you like one?”

Shivani and I heard the shrieks at the same time.  Both of us rushed to the window.  There was a dwarf trying to swim across the moat.  “This is ridiculous,” Shivani muttered.  “The dwarfs will be here any minute.”

“That’s why I’ve been asking you to build a bigger wall,” Miss Prissy’s lower lip quivered.    “But none of you listened to me.  And now we’re going to be overrun with dwarves.”  Her large brown eyes welled with tears.

“All the more reason to form the committee as soon as possible,” Director Fussybottom said mildly, as he handed her a tissue.  “Please raise your hands if you support Pedantic’s proposal.  All those in favor?”

Everyone except for Shivani raised a hand and said, “I.”  I winced when she looked at my traitorous hand with disgust.

“Excellent,” Fussybottom said, bringing down his gavel with relish.  “And who should lead this committee?”

“Oh, my God,” Shivani said, clenching her hands into fists.  “What on Earth is the point of this committee?”

“This isn’t Earth, dear,” Professor Pedantic said gently.  “You’re in Bharat.  Poor thing.  Do you need Miss Prissy’s smelling salts?”

DAY #24: A Modified “NaNoWriMo” Challenge (Write 15 Minutes of Garbage Every Day)

So, it’s Day 24 of this 30-day writing challenge.  I am sitting here at my kitchen table writing before my family wakes up.  My mind is swirling from the events of yesterday and I’m brooding because I should be happy.  But I’m not.

For those of you who haven’t missed what is essentially a neon sign on the front page of this blog, my article was published on Scary Mommy yesterday morning.  You can check it out here, if you haven’t already read it:

http://www.scarymommy.com/i-am-the-daughter-of-foreigners/

It was the first time that I’ve had anything published on such a huge web site.  I mean, this parenting website has over 1.3 million followers.  So when my husband announced in the wee hours of the morning that my article was live, I FREAKED OUT.

OMG, OMG, OMG, OMG.  My stomach churned.  I felt like hurling, even though I hadn’t eaten anything.  You’d think that I would have been happy, and a part of me was, but the overwhelming emotion was Panic.  With a capital P.  Nothing but panic.

I raced downstairs to my laptop, flipped it open and stared at the screen.  OMG.  The title is wrong.  They have the wrong title.  It’s reading “Being The Daughter of Foreigners” instead of “I Am The Daughter of Foreigners.”  OH MY GOD, THE ARTICLE IS MESSED UP!!!!  IT’S A SIGN.  IT’S A VERY BAD SIGN THAT I SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE THIS.  THE UNIVERSE IS TELLING ME TO PUT THE KIBASH ON THIS RIGHT NOW.

As I frantically typed an e-mail to Scary Mommy to point out this disaster, I thought, I don’t want to do this anymore.  This is horrible.  Even though this has been my goal for the past year, I don’t want this anymore.  What if no one reads it?  What if I only get 20 views and they’re from my friends?  Or worse, what if people read it and they hate it?  What if I get 1,000 views and only 20 LIKES?  That’s WORSE.  MUCH, MUCH WORSE.

Oh, MY GOD.  Someone made a comment.  My first comment on my first published work.  AND IT’S NEGATIVE.  This person told me that I should have used the word “bigot” instead of the word “racist.”  I’m a writer.  I should have known that.  And it’s the first comment.  Now anyone who goes to post a comment will see that comment first.  It clearly points out my error.

I seriously just wanted to cry.  I don’t want to do this anymore.  It’s too hard.  I can’t deal with it anymore.  Let me go back to just writing for myself and to hell with putting anything I write out for people to view.  I’m done with this.  It hurts too much.

Fortunately, or maybe not so fortunately, a pesky little thing called parenting intervened.  I had to tear myself away from the train wreck that started in the comments section to get my kids ready before dropping off my son at school.  I was dying to look at my phone, but was forced to actually get things done the entire morning.

Hours later, when I returned to the computer, I was relieved to discover that there were more positive comments.  In fact, as I scrolled through the comments section, I would have to say that over 95% of the comments were positive.  By the end of the evening, I had received more than 1,100 “Likes” on FB.  Since I was hoping to get into the 100’s, I should have been happy about it.

But I wasn’t.  And I’m still not.  I’m consumed by a malaise that I’m struggling to understand.  There were 3-4 negative comments, two of which were ultimately deleted.  If I was still in school, I should still receive an “A” for this post.

So why are the handful of negative comments bothering me?  I fully expected that I would get verbally torpedoes.  This piece talks about immigrants, so OF COURSE, there will be negative comments.  I even planned my approach for dealing with trolls.

I think what got to me is the hatred that fairly oozed from one comment.  It just makes me sad that such ugliness exists in this world.  Especially when I have two small children.  I want them to have a beautiful life, and how can they when such people exist?

But I’m hoping that in this world, the compassionate people outnumber the cruel people.  Like on this article.  Over 1,100 Likes vs. 3-4 Mean Comments.  Kindness won in this chapter of my story.  Hopefully, over time, kindness will win in the world’s story.

DAY #22 : A Modified “NaNoWriMo” Challenge (Write 15 Minutes of Garbage Every Day)

Earlier today, I read a post on Ana Spoke’s blog called “The Best Way To Predict Your Future.”  It gave me chills, because although she doesn’t outright say it, Ana’s discussion alludes to a concept called “The Law Of Attraction.”

In plain terms, the law of attraction is simply “like attracts like.”  A person’s thoughts influences his or her reality.  If you have positive thoughts, you will attract positive experiences.  I first heard about this concept from a borrowed copy of “The Secret,” but the book was so hokey, that I couldn’t bring myself to actually spend money on it.  However, on some level, I agree with the premise.

Now, before you roll your eyes at me and call me a new age hippie (or worse), you should know that I’m a trained engineer.  I have a bachelor’s degree in chemical engineering and a master’s degree in mechanical engineering.  I worked in the automotive industry for over twelve years.  I love data and often clung to it like a lifeline.

But the universe is filled with mysteries.  Things exist that we can’t measure or explain yet.

The first law of thermodynamics is that energy can’t be created or destroyed, only transformed.  I grew up in a Hindu/Buddhist household.  My father taught me one fundamental thing:  thoughts are a form of energy.  So if energy can’t be created or destroyed, then where do our thoughts go once we have them?  Personally, I believe that they are transformed into our reality.

Now, I’m not claiming that I’m a genie who can just think, blink, and make things materialize out of thin air.  (But let me try….  I just won a million dollars.  Wait for it…. Wait for it….  Nothing.  Damn.)  But I do think that our thoughts influence what we experience in life.

Words are powerful.  When we write something down on paper (or computer screen), we are sending our thoughts and feelings out into the universe, which responds accordingly.  I’ve actually experienced this myself quite often during my career.  Just this past weekend, I changed my LinkedIn profile to say “Freelance Writer.”  Two days later, the e-mail from Scary Mommy arrived saying that they wanted to publish my essay.  Coincidence?  Maybe.  But what if it isn’t?

So, just for the hell of it, I’m going to write down my goals in bold writing.  I know these may seem lofty, but I’m of the mindset that if I’m going to do this, I should GO BIG OR GO HOME!!!!

• I will write an award-winning young adult fantasy series based on Indian mythology.  (Replace Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief with Shivani Roy and the Demon King of Lanka)
• I will sell over 1 million copies of my books.
• I will generate enough income from writing alone to support my family and to start a foundation to help inner city kids get access to a good education.  
• I will be a New York Times best-selling author before the age of 50 years old.  (I’m 41 years old as I write this note.)  

Okay, Universe.  There’s my request.  I promise to work my ass off to achieve these goals and to have faith that everything I need will fall into place as I need it.

We shall see…..

The Demon and The Deva (Prologue)

Once upon a time, in a world very similar to our own, there was an ancient land called Bharat.  Within Bharat was a small kingdom called Videha.  This is where our story begins.

The ruler of Videha was King Janaka.  Under his long reign, Videha was prosperous.  The people were happy, and life was peaceful.  There was just one problem.  King Janaka was aging and he didn’t have an heir.  For many years, Janaka and his beautiful queen, Sunayana, prayed to the gods for a child.  But the gods remained silent.  No child was born.

One day, a senior advisor in Janaka’s court, named Vyasa, approached the king in the throne room.  “Sire,” Vyasa beseeched him.  “You have heard me talk of the Seers for years.  The time has finally come.  You need their help.”

Janaka’s brow furrowed.  Everyone in Bharat had heard of the Seers.  They were a group of golden-eyed mystics who lived in the kingdom of Mahishūru.  They followed the teachings of an Asura called Mahishasura.  “Demons,” Janaka sputtered at the thought of an Asura setting foot in his kingdom.  “You want me to ask those demon Asuras for help?”

“Janaka, I am your friend,” Vyasa looked him in the eye.  Few others would dare do the same thing.  “We have known each other since childhood.  I will not just sit beside you and feed you idle words in this time of need.”

“I still have time,” Janaka protested, flushing angrily.  He was older, but still one of the most powerful kings in Bharat.

Vyasa raised an eyebrow.  He was accustomed to Janaka’s ego, but the time for soothing injured pride had ended.  “Sire, please allow me to speak honestly,” When Janaka nodded, Vyasa continued.  “Your enemies are mobilizing against you.  They are waiting for the first sign of weakness to pounce on Videha.  You must have an heir and time to train him.  Without one, Videha is in danger.”

“But to ask an Asura for help is outrageous,” Janaka scowled.  His distaste for Asuras was deep-rooted.  Devas and Asuras had been fighting each other for centuries.  It was only in the last two decades that a tentative peace agreement had been forged between the two groups.  But the distrust still lingered.  “There must be another way.”

“My brother, there is no other way,” Vyasa said softly.  It pained him to admit it.  He didn’t want to approach the Asuras for help either.  “I’ve seen it.  This is the only path to an heir.”

“So, who do you propose we call?”  When Vyasa raised an eyebrow, Janaka shook his head.  “He won’t come,” Janaka crossed his arms.  “Even if I ask him to.  There is too much bad blood between our kingdoms.”

“Yes, he will.”  Vyasa smiled.  When his visions were clear, they were never wrong.  “Ask him and he will come.”

One week later, Vyasa’s statement was proven correct.  He rushed into the throne room and found King Janaka conducting his daily meeting with his ministers.  Conversation halted as Vyasa approached the king.

“Sire, he’s here,” Vyasa whispered into the Janaka’s ear.

The king waved his hands, dismissing the ministers.  Once they scurried out of the room, Janaka nodded to two of his guardsmen.

The heavy doors at the opposite end of the room swung open.  An Asura named Mahishasura entered.  He surveyed the room with one sweeping glance as he strode across the marble floor.  Despite his towering height, Mahishasura looked up at the throne from the bottom of the steps.  “Janaka.”

“So, we finally meet,” King Janaka nodded back, and remained seated.  He pointedly lowered his head to look down at the Asura.  It was customary for two royals of equal status to greet each other on level ground.  “I’m told that you are the legendary Mahishasura.”

Mahishasura’s golden eyes eyes narrowed.  He recognized the insult.  “I am.”

“You look more human than I expected,” Janaka remarked casually.  He scanned the Asura from head to toe.  “I’ve heard that you are part water buffalo.  If the stories are true, where are your horns?”

Mahishasura smiled, baring even white teeth.  “Stories don’t always contain truth.”

Vyasa fluttered around Janaka nervously.  He said softly, “Sire, I must remind you that we invited him here.  We need his help.”

“Yes, yes,” Janaka lifted one hand and waved Vyasa away.  The internal struggle was apparent on his face.  After a few moments of silence, he stood up and walked down the steps.  “My advisor has reminded me that you have done us a great favor by appearing in our court.”  He extended his hand.  “Please forgive me.  You have shown us a great honor with your visit.”

Mahishasura raised an eyebrow.  After pausing, he took Janaka’s hand and clasped it in greeting.  “You are forgiven.  Now, what is the purpose of my visit?”

“I have been told that your people have special,” Janaka hesitated.  He searched for the word.  “Abilities.”  When Mahishasura remained silent, Janaka continued.  “I have need of such abilities.”

“Is that so?”  The expression on Mahishasura’s face was mild interest.  “And why is that?”

Janaka grimaced, as if he spotted something distasteful.  He squared his shoulders.  “My advisors tell me that I will never have an heir without your help.”

“I see,” Mahishasura replied evenly.  He didn’t appear surprised by the revelation.  “And if this is true, why should I help you?”

The Asura was trying to bargain with him.  Well, this was something that Janaka could understand.  “What do you want from us in exchange for your help?”  He extended his hand to point out the splendors of the room.  “Gold?  Jewels?  I will pay your fee.”

Mahishasura snorted.  “I am the rightful King of Mahishuru.  It is one of the wealthiest kingdoms in Bharat.  Do you think I could be bought so easily?”

“But you’re not,” Vyasa interjected.  When Mahishasura turned his gaze to Vyasa, the old advisor stammered.  “Your Highness, I mean no disrespect.  But I have been told that you gave up your right to the throne to follow the teachings of the Seers.”

Mahishasura nodded.  “You speak the truth.  I am no longer the King of Mahishuru. But my people still follow my words as law.”

“Then why are you here?” King Janaka demanded.  He didn’t have time to banter with an Asura.  “If not for gold or wealth, why are you here?”

Mahishasura’s brow furrowed.  Why indeed?  “I will help you.  But for a price.”

King Janaka threw up his hands in exasperation.  “What price?  I just offered you all of the gold you could ever want.”

“My price isn’t wealth,” Mahishsura replied.  He glanced over his shoulder and nodded at someone waiting outside the throne room.  “I need your protection.  For him.”

A woman holding the hand of a boy walked up to the group.  The boy was young and handsome.  While the woman kept her eyes cast downward, the boy boldly met the penetrating gaze of Vyasa.  He grinned, showing a flash of even white teeth, before turning his golden eyes to King Janaka.

“Who is this child?”  King Janaka demanded.  There was something about the boy that made him uneasy.

Mahishasura smiled.  He rested his hand on the boy’s thick black hair.  “He is the younger son of the Sage Vishrava.  His name is Ravana.”